Gamble King Chapter 25. The Guardian

The spider had been bouncing since they entered the room.

Tredor stood in the doorway, one hand resting on his sword hilt, watching the small white creature vibrate with what could only be described as excitement. It hadn't stopped moving since it spotted them. Up and down, up and down, like a child who'd been told they were getting summer sweets.

This was not what he'd expected.

Gerth had described a monster. A creature of fire and wings that had somehow bonded with his son. Tredor had come prepared for violence.

Instead, he was watching what appeared to be the world's most enthusiastic spider.

"Show him what you showed me," Harek said softly.

The spider immediately spread translucent wings and gave a little hop into the air. It landed on the windowsill and folded the wings neatly, then looked directly at Tredor with what could only be interpreted as... pride?

Tredor had spent thirty years learning to read intentions. Not through any mystical gift, but through necessity. A good lord, as his sire always said, needed to develop certain skills when thousands of lives depended on his judgment.

You watched how creatures moved. You noted when their attention shifted. You learned to distinguish between predatory focus and genuine aggression.

He'd started young, following his lord father on hunts through the northern forests. House Vanheim had always maintained close relationships with the wilds around Frosthold. They traded with trappers, maintained safe passage for merchant caravans, and dealt with the various beasts that occasionally wandered too close to settlements.

Tredor had learned that most creatures telegraphed their intentions if you knew what to look for. A wolf considering attack would lower its head and bunch its shoulders. A bear protecting cubs would make itself appear larger and issue warning sounds. Even dragons, in the few encounters recorded by his predecessors, followed predictable patterns of dominance and territorial display.

This spider was doing none of those things.

"Can you breathe fire?" Harek asked.

A small jet of flame shot toward the ceiling. Perfectly controlled. The spider aimed precisely and stopped exactly when it chose to.

"Jump to the desk."

The spider leaped across the room, landing on the wooden surface.

"Come here."

It scurried back and climbed onto Harek's extended finger without hesitation.

Tredor frowned.

If this truly was a dragon in diminished form, the pattern was all wrong. Dragons commanded. They didn't perform tricks on request like trained animals. Yet this creature was clearly obeying his son's every word.

The old texts mentioned that dragons could survive the destruction of their physical forms as long as their hearts remained intact. Some spoke of dragons slowly rebuilding power while inhabiting lesser bodies. But those accounts described creatures biding their time, manipulating their hosts toward greater ambitions.

This looked like simple obedience.

He watched the spider settle on Harek's finger, tiny abdomen glowing with contentment. The uncertainty troubled him more than outright hostility would have. In thirty years, he'd rarely encountered a situation where the threat level was this unclear.

Either his son had gained the loyalty of something that might once have been one of the most dangerous creatures in the world, or they were all being expertly deceived.

The question was which possibility worried him more.

Tredor's hand tightened on his sword hilt.

The Fanga responded immediately, heat spreading through his chest and down his arms. The familiar warmth that came before violence, before decisive action. His body knew what his mind was considering.

The logic was simple enough. If this was a dragon, it was dangerous. Today it might seem harmless, but dragons thought in centuries, not seasons. What appeared docile now could become a catastrophe later. Better to end the threat while it was small and manageable.

If it wasn't a dragon, well, that might actually be worse. An unknown creature with fire and wings that understood human speech perfectly? That could be useful if Harek truly managed to control it. But the risk...

What if it was cunning? What if this obedience was performance?

Tredor studied the creature again. It sat contentedly on his son's finger, occasionally glowing brighter when Harek spoke to it. The intelligence in those tiny eyes was unmistakable. This wasn't some mindless beast following instinct.

Then he looked at Harek.

His son was smiling. Actually smiling, the way he used to when he was small and had found some interesting bug in the garden. There was genuine affection in his expression as he watched the spider, the kind of warmth Tredor hadn't seen from the boy in years.

The heat from the Fanga began to fade.

Tredor sighed deeply and released his sword hilt.

"Harek."

His son looked up, the smile fading slightly. "Yes, father?"

"What do you plan to do with this creature?"

Gerth shifted beside him, clearly wanting to speak. Tredor held up a hand without looking away from his son.

Harek was quiet for a moment, thinking. The spider on his finger turned to look at him, as if it understood the weight of the question.

"I want to keep him," Harek said finally.

The spider immediately began bouncing again, tiny wings fluttering with excitement.

"And have you considered what that means?" Tredor asked. "The responsibility? The risks?"

"He's not dangerous."

The casual certainty in Harek's voice was oddly reassuring. His son wasn't naive about dangerous things. He'd grown up around weapons, around men who'd seen real battle. If he believed the creature was safe, that judgment wasn't made lightly.

"All creatures are dangerous under the right circumstances," Tredor said. "But I'm willing to consider this. Under conditions."

Harek straightened. "What conditions?"

"You will be responsible for training it. Whatever it is, it will learn proper behavior or it will be removed. You will be discreet about its existence until we understand what we're dealing with. And you will be held accountable for everything it does. Every action, every consequence. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord."

Harek hesitated, clearly wanting to say something else.

"What is it?" Tredor asked.

"Well, the spider, you know..." Harek trailed off.

Tredor frowned. "What about the spider?"

"He prefers being called 'he,' not 'it.'"

"You... understand the creature?"

"No," Harek said quickly. "But when Gerth called him 'it,' he shot warning fire at the ceiling."

"Aye," Gerth confirmed grimly. "This is a dangerous creature, my lord."

Oh?

Tredor was quiet for a moment. Ego? The creature had preferences about how it was addressed?

That made him think it might indeed be a dragon after all. But if Harek could maintain control...

"Very well. He." Tredor met his son's eyes. "This is a test of your judgment, Harek. And your responsibility. If you can truly manage this creature, train him properly, keep him from becoming a threat to our people, then perhaps you'll have proven something valuable about yourself."

Harek nodded solemnly. "I understand."

"I hope you do." Tredor looked at the spider again. Still sitting peacefully, still glowing with what appeared to be contentment. "Honor and responsibility, son. Everything we do reflects on our House. Everything he does reflects on you."

"Yes, father."

"Then we'll see what kind of man you're becoming."

***

A few moments later...

The Master was alone with him now.

The other two had left—the older one who smelled of iron, and the ancient one who reeked of dusty scrolls and fear. But Master remained, standing by the window where the light caught the dark strands of his hair.

The spider—for he knew that's what his small form was, even if the memories of vastness and flame suggested he had once been something far greater—settled more comfortably on the wooden desk. His eight legs found purchase easily on the smooth surface, though part of him expected to feel the weight of massive claws instead.

Master was staring at him with those curious eyes. Not the fearful gaze of the scroll-smeller, nor the calculating assessment of the iron-scented one. This was different. Thoughtful. Almost... kind?

The spider's memories were a confusing tangle. He remembered soaring through clouds, breathing torrents of flame that could melt mountains. He remembered commanding lesser beings with a voice that shook the earth itself. But he also remembered being small, being nearly crushed by a crude hammer in steaming chambers, being saved by gentle fingers that had lifted him to safety.

Both sets of memories felt real. Both felt like him.

Master had saved him. That much was certain. In the steaming place where the brutal human had raised his weapon, Master had intervened. Had chosen mercy when destruction would have been easier.

"Well," Master said suddenly, breaking the silence. "That went better than I expected."

The spider straightened. Master was pleased with the outcome. The demonstration had been successful then—his fire, his obedience, his willingness to follow commands. Master's wisdom in allowing the others to witness his abilities had proven sound.

Master walked over to the chair and sat down, bringing himself closer to eye level. "My father's giving you a chance. Giving me a chance, really."

A chance. An opportunity to prove worthiness. The spider understood the weight of such gifts.

"Honor and responsibility, he says. Everything you do reflects on me."

The spider went very still. Master was explaining the true nature of their bond. Every action, every choice—they were connected. His behavior would determine not just his own fate, but Master's standing as well. The responsibility was profound.

"I mean, I get it," Master continued. "You're... well, you're not exactly what anyone would call normal. Fire-breathing, intelligent, probably dangerous if you wanted to be."

Master understood his potential for destruction. Good. Honesty about capability was important.

"But you don't seem to want to be dangerous, do you?"

The spider tilted his small head. Master was probing his intentions, testing his character. A wise precaution.

"The way you acted with my father... you were trying to be impressive, weren't you? Like you wanted his approval."

Perceptive. Master saw through surface actions to underlying motivations.

"Or maybe you were trying to impress me through him."

Even more perceptive. Master understood the layers of meaning in social interaction.

The spider's glow brightened slightly. Master's insight was remarkable.

"This is going to be interesting," Master said, leaning forward slightly. "My father thinks this is some kind of test of my character. Prove I can handle responsibility, keep you out of trouble, make sure you don't become a threat to anyone."

So that was the deeper game. Master's own worthiness was being evaluated through his ability to guide and control his companion. The spider felt the weight of that responsibility settle on him.

Master was quiet for a moment, then shook his head with a rueful laugh.

"Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing here, bro."

The spider went completely still.

That word. It felt different from everything else Master had said. Not an observation or explanation, but something more personal. More direct.

Master seemed to notice his reaction. "What? You okay?"

The spider began vibrating with sudden excitement. That sound—bro—it had been directed at him specifically, hadn't it? Not as part of Master's analysis or teaching, but as... recognition?

Master's eyes widened in surprise. "Wait... bro? You think that's... is that your name now?"

A name. Master had given him a name.

Not "creature" or "beast" or "it." Not even "spider." A name that was his alone. Bro.

The spider—Bro—began bouncing uncontrollably, his small form vibrating with pure happiness. Wings fluttered without his conscious control. He felt as if he might burst from the sheer magnitude of the gift he'd just received.

To have a name was to exist. To be recognized not as a thing, but as someone. Master had pulled him from the nameless void and declared that he was worthy of identity, of individual recognition.

He was Bro.

Master stared at him for a long moment, then started laughing. "Bro," he said again, more deliberately this time.

Yes!

"Well, I guess that settles it then. Bro it is."

Bro settled into attentive stillness, practically radiating contentment. He had a name, a purpose, and a Master whose wisdom he was only beginning to comprehend.

He was no longer caught between fragmentary memories and uncertain identity. He was Bro, and that was enough.

***

The air was sharp enough to cut glass.

Max pulled his cloak tighter as he stepped through the gates that separated the castle proper from Frosthold itself. Bro was tucked safely into the warm fur lining of his cape, invisible to anyone who might be watching.

Cold enough to freeze spit before it hit the ground, according to the castle's weather-reader--a grizzled old man whose only job was to stick his head outside every morning and declare how miserable everyone was going to be that day.

Today, he'd announced, was what he called "moderately unpleasant." Max was beginning to understand northern humor.

Steam rose from his breath in steady puffs as he walked down the main thoroughfare. The cobblestones were slick with ice that had been worn smooth by thousands of feet, and every step required the kind of attention that kept you from ending up flat on your ass in front of half the fortress.

Frosthold wasn't just a castle. It was a city that happened to have walls around it.

Max had never really explored it before--not properly. Since arriving, he'd spent most of his time moving between his chambers, the training yard, and various official locations within the castle itself.

Before, when he'd ventured out alone, it was only when he had specific business to conduct--avoiding the stares, the whispered comments, the general atmosphere of people who'd rather he stayed inside.

It wasn't that people had been particularly cruel to him, but he'd preferred to avoid too much social interaction. No point in discovering which shopkeeper Harek owed money to, or which family he'd wronged, or what other unpleasant surprises might be waiting in casual conversation.

But Frosthold proper sprawled beyond those inner walls, housing maybe three or four thousand people who kept the entire operation running.

Blacksmiths, bakers, brewers, seamstresses, carpenters, merchants, stable hands, servants, guards' families, and dozens of other trades that Max was only beginning to understand. All of them living their lives in the shadow of the great keep, connected to it but separate from it, essential but invisible.

The buildings were built for function rather than beauty. Stone and timber structures that squatted low against the wind, with steep roofs designed to shed snow and thick walls that held heat. Smoke rose from every chimney, and the air carried the mingled scents of wood fires, cooking food, and the general smell of people living in close quarters during a northern winter.

"Morning, my lord."

Max turned to see a woman carrying a basket of what looked like fresh bread. She offered a nod.

"Morning," Max replied. "Smells good."

She smiled before continuing on her way.

Max kept walking, noticing things.

A blacksmith who looked up from his forge and touched his cap in greeting. A group of children building snow fortifications who paused their work to wave. A merchant haggling over the price of winter vegetables who caught Max's eye and offered a brief, genuine smile.

No one dropped to their knees. No one scrambled out of his path. No one looked at him like he might start a fight or demand tribute or generally make their day worse just by existing.

It was... nice.

"Lord Vanheim!"

Max turned to see a young man jogging toward him--one of the castle guards, by his uniform. He looked slightly out of breath.

"Yes?"

"Sir Gregory sends word. Training's been moved to this afternoon. He's needed for some business with your father and the Prince this morning."

"Got it. Thanks for letting me know."

The guard nodded and jogged back the way he'd came. With the morning training cancelled, Max found himself with time to actually explore.

He turned down a side street that led toward what looked like a market square. The buildings here were even more practical--workshops with large windows to let in light, storage buildings with reinforced doors, stables that housed the horses and oxen that kept supplies moving.

A group of older men sat outside what appeared to be a tavern, despite the early hour and brutal cold. They were sharing something from a flask and engaged in what sounded like a heated discussion about the relative merits of different wood types for construction.

One of them caught sight of Max and raised the flask in a casual greeting. "Morning, my lord. Cold enough for you?"

"Just barely," Max replied, which earned him a chuckle from the group.

He was beginning to understand something about northern culture. The cold was the great equalizer. Everyone suffered through it together, everyone had opinions about it, everyone could bond over shared misery. Lords and peasants alike had to deal with frozen pipes and drafty chambers and the constant battle to stay warm.

Max rounded another corner and found himself in what was clearly the heart of Frosthold's commercial district. Shops lined both sides of a wide street, their signs swaying in the wind. He could see a fletcher's shop, a leatherworker, someone who appeared to specialize in winter clothing, and what looked like a general goods store that probably sold everything from candles to boot laces.

People moved with purpose here, bundled in heavy cloaks and walking quickly to minimize their exposure to the cold. But there was still life to it--conversations shouted across the street, children darting between the adults, the general energy of a community going about its business.

The snow crunched under his boots as he walked. His fingers were starting to go numb despite his gloves, and he was seriously considering ducking into one of the shops just to warm up when--

THWACK.

Something cold and wet exploded against the back of his head, sending ice crystals down his neck and soaking through his hair. Max stumbled forward, more from surprise than impact, snow sliding down inside his cloak.

He turned around, blinking away the moisture in his eyes.

A group of children stood about twenty feet away, ranging in age from maybe six to twelve. They were all staring at him with the particular mixture of defiance and terror that suggested they'd just realized exactly who they'd hit with their snowball.

The oldest boy stepped forward, his face pale. "My lord, I'm sorry, we didn't mean to--we were aiming for my brother and you just--"

Max wiped snow from the back of his neck, considering his response.

He suddenly felt Bro's small body get hotter in his cloak. Was he... angry?

The thought made Max laugh so much he sent steam billowing from his mouth. The oldest boy's terrified expression only made it funnier.

The children exchanged confused glances. A girl with blonde braids peeking out from under her woolen cap frowned. "Why are you laughing?"

Max bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, packing it between his gloves. "Just thinking to myself. Bad habit." He held up the snowball, testing its weight. "You know, this was a decent shot. Good distance, solid impact. But your form could use some work."

The boy who'd apologized blinked. "My lord?"

"Snowball fighting is an art." Max packed another handful of snow, demonstrating the motion. "Most people just grab whatever snow they can find and fling it. That's amateur hour. You want to pack it tight, but not too tight. Too loose and it falls apart in the air. Too tight and it's basically an ice ball, which is just mean."

The children gathered closer, fascination overriding their fear. A smaller boy with red hair asked, "You know about snowball fighting?"

"Kid, back in the day, I was a legend."

Which was true enough--Max had dominated every neighborhood snowball fight from age eight to sixteen, earning the nickname 'Mad Max' after he'd single-handedly taken down twelve kids during the Great Snowball War of 2009.

He formed another snowball, rolling it between his palms to smooth the surface. "Perfect weight distribution, optimal aerodynamics, deadly accuracy." He paused, grinning. "Course, that was a long time ago."

"Show us," the blonde girl said. She did not seem to understand a thing he said, but her eyes were bright with interest.

Max looked around the street.

A few adults had stopped to watch, probably wondering why the High Lord's son was giving snowball tutorials to a pack of children. "Alright. But if I'm going to demonstrate proper technique, I need targets."

The children looked at each other. The oldest boy swallowed hard. "Targets, my lord?"

"You." Max pointed at each of them in turn. "All of you. Fair warning though--you might want to start running."

That archer's focus settled over him like a familiar cloak. The world sharpened. His breathing steadied. The children's movements became clearer, more predictable. He could see the exact moment they understood what he meant, the way their eyes widened, the subtle shift in their postures as they prepared to scatter.

Time didn't slow, exactly. But everything became manageable. Calculable.

The red-haired boy broke first, diving toward a stack of wooden crates. Max's first snowball caught him center mass before he'd made it three steps. Perfect lead, accounting for momentum and trajectory.

The blonde girl tried to use the older boy as cover, ducking behind him as she reached for her own ammunition. Max's second throw curved around the boy's shoulder and caught her in the side of the head.

A smaller girl made a break for the corner of a building. Max's third snowball intercepted her exactly where he'd calculated she'd be, hitting her square in the back.

The remaining three children realized they were hopelessly outmatched and tried to surrender, but Max was already in motion. Three more throws in rapid succession. One caught a boy trying to hide behind a cart wheel. Another found its target just as a girl thought she'd reached safety behind a barrel. The last took down the original apologetic boy who'd tried to sprint across the open street.

Six targets. Six hits. Maybe three seconds total.

Max straightened, brushing snow from his gloves. The children lay scattered across the street in various states of snowy defeat, all staring at him with expressions that suggested they'd just witnessed something impossible.

The red-haired boy sat up slowly, wiping snow from his face. "How did you--that was--"

"Told you he killed that giant at Eastwatch!" the blonde girl shouted.

Max chuckled.

The adults who'd gathered to watch were shaking their heads and smiling.

The children were already scrambling to their feet, snow still clinging to their clothes, all talking at once.

"How did you move so fast?"

"My father says you can't hit a moving target with snow!"

"Do it again!"

"Teach us how to throw like that!"

The red-haired boy brushed snow from his hair, grinning despite himself. "That was incredible! I couldn't even see where the snowballs were coming from!"

"Practice," Max said simply, though he was fighting back a smile at their enthusiasm. "Lots and lots of practice."

The children eventually scattered back to their games, leaving Max standing with snow melting in his hair. No training with Gregory meant a free morning, but his body had other ideas. The restless energy that came from weeks of consistent exercise was already building in his chest.

He turned toward the hill that rose near the outer wall of Frosthold.

It had been three days since Bro had entered Max's life. The small white spider had claimed residence somewhere in his clothing--usually tucked against his collar or nestled in a sleeve. He went everywhere Max went, a constant presence that was still taking some getting used to.

Over the three days they had spent together, Max had tried to understand why exactly Bro was... well, Bro.

He had spent hours in the castle's library, searching through every scroll and tome he could find about dragons. Most of it was folklore and speculation, but some texts contained more scholarly observations. One particular scroll, written by a scholar who had supposedly examined dragon remains, mentioned that a dragon's soul resided in their heart.

That much Max knew to be true--after consuming the dragon heart, he'd had to endure hell itself to get the creature's soul out of his body.

His current theory, and the most solid one he could come up with, was that the soul had somehow followed him. Lingered around him.

The dragon had mentioned it would go and search for another body if it couldn't have Max's. What if Bro had just been a normal spider, and somehow, the dragon had entered his body after Max had been in contact with him?

It was the only draconic encounter Max had after all, so it had to be that one dragon.

This theory was reinforced by another realization that had taken him some time to make.

The small cute spider that Max had saved from the hammerman--he hadn't made the connection before, but Bro could very well have been that same spider.

They were both white, and the other differences were more Bro's draconic attributes and the distinctive pattern he now bore on his back. When Max really looked at Bro's eight red eyes, they had the same quality as that spider from weeks ago.

Soe he'd asked Bro about it directly--told him to bounce once if he was that same little spider, and twice if he wasn't.

Bro had bounced once.

This led to a question: What if the dragon's soul had possessed that spider?

According to the scrolls he'd read, once a dragon took over a body, they would alter it over the span of years, gradually transforming until becoming a full dragon again. But the fact that Bro showed no hostility--not after everything that had happened with the original dragon--suggested this really was a merger between the spider's consciousness and the dragon's soul.

The result was Bro: a new being entirely.

Another theory Max had was that Bro might be able to loop with him.

He wasn't certain, but the dragon had remained in his body even after a previous loop, and he'd had to expel it. That suggested there might be some sort of connection or link between them that transcended normal reality, which would also explain why Bro seemed so inexplicably attached to him.

Still, these were all just theories.

What struck him most was how clearly intelligent Bro was.

Not just smart like a well-trained dog, but genuinely intelligent. The spider understood human speech perfectly--not just simple commands, but complex conversations, emotional nuances, even jokes. Max had watched him react to sarcasm, grow excited at compliments, and bristle at perceived slights with an awareness that went far beyond animal instinct.

He had tried getting Bro to write--dipping his tiny legs in ink and guiding him across parchment--but the spider couldn't manage it.

His legs were too small, the coordination too difficult. So Max had started teaching him letters instead, drawing them out and watching Bro study each one with intense focus. It was slow going, but Max was convinced that once Bro could communicate in writing, they'd be able to understand each other much better.

The little spider had the enthusiasm of a child discovering the world for the first time, but also showed an intense protective concern for Max that he couldn't quite explain.

Everything was either fascinating or personally offensive on Max's behalf.

A servant arriving late with dinner would make Bro's tiny form tense with what Max had learned to recognize as indignation--as if the delay was somehow wrong. A guard's casual salute would cause a pleased glow, which Max interpreted as approval.

They'd found common ground in their shared irritation with Baldwin.

The mage had a particular way of speaking--technically respectful but with an undercurrent that suggested he was humoring a child. Max had always found it grating, but Bro's reaction confirmed he wasn't imagining things. The spider would go completely still whenever Baldwin spoke, a tension that Max had come to recognize as barely contained hostility. It was oddly validating to have his instincts about people confirmed by someone that seemed to read human behavior with uncanny accuracy.

Twenty-one days to form a habit, according to conventional wisdom. Max had hit that mark for his training routine and kept going. What had started as necessity had become routine, then something closer to compulsion.

He was still overweight, but the changes were real. He recently had to change his whole wardrobe. The mage tower's stairs didn't leave him winded. His muscles were more defined. His knees no longer ached when he rose in the morning.

And most importantly, he could hold Fanga far longer now, and even train under its strain without burning out.

Max counted steps as he climbed the direct stone-cut path up the hill. His breathing stayed steady despite the incline.

10,321. 10,322. 10,323.

His legs burned, but it was the good kind of burn. Progress, not damage.

10,374. 10,375. 10,376.

The crest came into view.

10,382. 10,383.

He reached the top.

"Whoo!" Max exhaled, catching his breath, “that’s the recommended 10,000 steps sorted. And then some.”

The summit was broad, maybe a hundred feet across, and it commanded a view that made the climb worth every burning step.

The outer walls formed a rough circle maybe two miles across, thick enough that people had built shops and storage rooms into them. Beyond the walls, the landscape rolled away in white hills and dark forest that stretched to the horizon.

The mage towers rose like skeletal fingers on the eastern side, still draped in scaffolding where workers continued adding new sections. Even from up here, Max could see people moving around the construction, tiny figures that looked like they were performing some incredibly complicated dance.

He'd never made it all the way up here before. But after a conversation with Bubbles about Frosthold's history...

Max turned toward what he'd really come to see.

There was a tree, exactly as massive as he'd expected.

An ancient oak that had to be forty feet tall and twice as wide, its trunk so thick that a dozen people holding hands couldn't have encircled it. The bark was bone-white streaked with deep red, like dried blood on bleached wood. Its leaves—what few remained in winter—were the color of fresh blood, stark against the snow-covered branches.

And in the center of the trunk, eight feet off the ground, was a face.

Not carved, not grown to resemble features, but an actual face with closed eyes the size of dinner plates, a nose that protruded from the bark like living flesh, and a mouth that was clearly a mouth even though the lips were formed from wood.

According to Bubbles, this was the Guardian of Frosthold. A treant.

Older than this stronghold, older than House Vanheim itself. It was said that when enemies come in numbers too great for the walls to hold, he wakes. Rises from this hill until he stands as tall as the keep itself, roots tearing free from the earth.

At that moment, Max had only one question for bubbles: Why does he sleep so deeply?

"Because he's not here by choice." Bubbles said. "Long ago, before men ruled these lands, the Aspects held dominion. Growth, Winter, Stone, Storm—they were the true powers. This one transgressed against them somehow. The histories don't say what he did, only that his punishment was exile among humans."

It was a sort of exile. As service.

"Bound to protect what he likely despised. Commanded to serve House Vanheim until the end of days, or until we release him." Bubbles explained. "All it takes is speaking his name. Any Vanheim can wake him with a word."

And Max knew his name.

A silence. Then...

"Oi, who are you talking to?"

Max nearly jumped out of his skin. For a wild moment he thought the Guardian had spoken, but the voice was too human, too casual. And it was coming from above.

He looked up into the red canopy and spotted a face peering down at him through a gap in the leaves. The man looked like he'd just woken up, blinking with the confused expression of someone trying to remember where they were and how they'd gotten there.

Jormund the Raven-Eyed.

Once his father's most brilliant military strategist, now Frosthold's madman.

"Winter's blessing, Jormund," Max called up.

"Yes, yes, and to you as well, young lord." Jormund shifted on whatever branch he'd been sleeping on, causing a small shower of snow to fall.

He squinted down at Max. "Though I confess myself curious—what is that small white thing upon your shoulder?"

Before Max could even answer, a deep horn sounded across Frosthold.

The note was low and resonant, the kind that carried for miles and made your bones vibrate. It echoed off the stronghold's walls and rolled across the settlement like thunder, causing every person in sight to stop what they were doing and look toward the main gates.

Max turned, following the sound.

From his vantage point on the hill, he had a perfect view of the fortress spread out below. The massive iron gates were grinding open, their ancient mechanisms protesting with groans that carried even up here. People were emerging from buildings, shops, and side streets, all moving toward the entrance.

A group of people emerged through the gates.

Even from this distance, Max could see they were young--around his age, maybe a bit older.

But something was wrong.

Some slumped in their saddles like they could barely stay upright. Others had visible bandages wrapped around arms or heads, dark stains that suggested recent bleeding. One rider's horse was being led by another because the man himself appeared too exhausted to hold the reins.

And for some reason, the crowd that had gathered had started cheering and applauding.

"Ah," Jormund said from above. "The first batch of youngsters seems to have returned from their Proving Year."

"Huh?"

He chuckled. "My, my, they do look properly awful, don't they? Like they've been chewed up by something large and disagreeable, then spat back out for good measure."

Max could see his father now, standing near the gates alongside Sir Gregory and several other knights.

There was a rustling of branches as Jormund shifted to get a better view. "It'll be like this for the next two months, I'd wager. Groups trickling back in ones and twos, assuming they trickle back at all. Tell me, young lord, you're Gregory's squire now, are you not?"

"Yes."

Max watched as the battered riders dismounted, some requiring assistance just to get off their horses. Families pushed through the crowd--mothers reaching for sons, fathers clapping shoulders with visible relief. The young men were presenting something to Tredor, holding up objects that Max couldn't make out from this distance, but which clearly carried significance.

"What exactly happens during a Proving Year?" Max asked, not taking his eyes off the scene below.

"A lot of things. These appear to be the lucky ones," Jormund continued conversationally. "The ones who succeeded at their trials in the deep north. Which means in about two months, assuming you survive Gregory's tender mercies, you'll be heading out there yourself to face whatever turned these promising young knights into walking advertisements for the virtues of staying home by the fire."

"Oh."

Jormund laughed. "Oh, indeed! I do hope you're ready, my boy. You certainly seem to be preparing for it with admirable dedication--all that climbing and training and general self-improvement. Very wise, considering that otherwise, you're going to be spectacularly fucked. And not in the enjoyable way that leads to bastards and awkward conversations with your lord father."