Gamble King Chapter 19. A Vanheim Keeps His Word

Max woke up in his bed.

Gregory's training was now yesterday. And it had been thorough in all the worst ways.

Max sat up slowly, testing various body parts to see which ones still functioned. Arms: functional but angry. Legs: present and accounted for, though they seemed to be holding a grudge. Core muscles: what core muscles?

The morning light filtering through his chamber window looked exactly the same as it had yesterday. Same angle, same quality, same promise of another day in medieval hell.

Max dressed quickly, pulling on clothes that felt increasingly familiar. The routine was becoming automatic—boots, belt, cloak. Simple preparations for what should be a simple day.

He made his way through the castle corridors toward the great hall, where breakfast would be served. The servants he passed offered respectful nods, their faces showing the same expressions he remembered from yesterday. Or today. Whatever.

Time travel was confusing.

The great hall was modest in its morning arrangements. No grand feast, no elaborate ceremony. Just practical food for people who had work to do. Tredor sat at the head table with a few other early risers, working through what appeared to be correspondence while eating.

Max approached and took his usual seat.

"Father," he said by way of greeting.

Tredor looked up from a letter, his expression brightening slightly. "Harek. You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep much. Sir Gregory's training is... thorough."

"Good. That's what you need." Tredor set the letter aside and reached for his cup. "What are your plans for today?"

"I was thinking of visiting the farming valley. Garrett offered to show me his family's operation." Max kept his tone casual. "Might be useful to understand how our food actually gets produced."

Tredor nodded approvingly. "Practical thinking. Too many lords never bother to learn where their grain comes from."

"There's one thing, though." Max reached for bread, keeping his movements unhurried. "I heard from one of the castle boys yesterday that there might be some issues out there. Something about missing guards."

Tredor paused with his cup halfway to his lips. "Missing guards?"

"That's what I heard. Probably nothing, but..." Max shrugged. "Might be worth checking while I'm out there anyway."

"I have a full rotation assigned to valley protection." Tredor's voice carried the confidence of someone stating an obvious fact. "Six men, rotating every two weeks. Lord Peyter handles the scheduling personally."

Max nodded. "I'm sure it's fine. But if I'm riding out there anyway, I could verify everything's in order. Make sure the farmers feel secure."

Tredor considered this, drumming his fingers on the table. "It would be good for you to see how security operations work in practice. And the farmers appreciate when family takes personal interest in their welfare."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Take a few men with you. Make it official." Tredor was already thinking ahead. "Garrett can guide you, obviously. Add Roderick and Jorik from the household guard."

Max felt a surge of satisfaction. This was going perfectly.

"How do you know about the guard situation?" Tredor asked.

Max had anticipated this question. "Edmund Thorne sent someone to the castle yesterday. Kid mentioned that they were concerned about not seeing any patrols lately." The lie came easily. "Probably just timing, but Edmund's been farming that valley longer than anyone. If he's worried, it might be worth a look."

"Edmund Thorne." Tredor smiled. "Cantankerous old bastard. If he's concerned about security, there's probably something to it. He doesn't worry about things without reason."

"Exactly."

Tredor nodded decisively. "Go. Take the men I mentioned. Report back on what you find." He paused. "And if there are problems, address them immediately. The valley feeds this entire region. We can't afford to lose farmland to predators or raiders."

"Understood."

Max stood, meal barely touched. He had what he needed.

"One more thing," Tredor called as Max reached the door. "If you do find issues with the guard rotation, document everything. Names, dates, who was supposed to be where. I'll want a full accounting."

"Of course."

Max left the great hall with purposeful steps. Everything was falling into place exactly as he'd planned. By this time tomorrow, Henrik Miller would still have both legs, and Max would have one less thing keeping him awake at night.

Time to go save a kid.

***

The ride to the farming valley took the same two hours as before, but everything felt different with Roderick and Jorik flanking them. The household guards were checking their weapons periodically, scanning the treeline, maintaining the kind of alert professionalism that made Max feel safer just being near them.

Garrett seemed more relaxed too, chatting easily with the guards about castle gossip and recent training exercises. Max mostly listened, filing away information about people and politics he was still learning to navigate.

When they crested the final rise and the Thorne farm came into view, Max felt a strange sense of déjà vu watching the same scene unfold. Smoke rising from chimneys. The sounds of children playing behind the barn. The cluster of sturdy buildings arranged around the central courtyard.

But this time, instead of just him and Garrett approaching alone, they rode up as an official party. Four mounted men in Vanheim colors, clearly on castle business.

The difference in reception was immediate.

Willem and Marcus came running around the barn as before, but they stopped short when they saw the guards. Their eyes went wide, darting between the armed men and the familiar face of their older brother.

"Garrett!" Willem called, though with less enthusiasm than Max remembered from yesterday. Or last time. Whatever.

Meredith emerged from the house, wiping her hands on her apron, but her expression was more concerned than welcoming when she spotted the guards.

"Garrett? Is everything alright?"

Before Garrett could answer, Edmund appeared from the direction of the barn, tool in hand. He took one look at the mounted party and his face shifted through several expressions—surprise, confusion, then something that might have been cautious hope.

"Well," Edmund said, approaching them carefully. "This is unexpected."

Max dismounted, as did the others. Roderick and Jorik took positions that were relaxed but alert, hands near their weapons but not threatening.

"Good day. You must be Edmund," Max said. "This is Roderick and Jorik from the household guard."

The two guards inclined their heads respectfully.

"Roderick," the older guard said.

"Jorik," added the younger one.

Edmund nodded back, sizing them up. "Edmund Thorne. This is my family's farm."

Erik Thorne emerged from behind the barn, carrying what looked like a broken harness. He stopped short when he saw the mounted party, his expression shifting to concern.

"Garrett? What's all this about?"

The old man's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the group. "Lord Vanheim. And household guards." He looked back at Max. "Thought you were coming to work the fields, boy. What's all this about?"

"I am here to work," Max said. "But I'm also here on other business."

"What kind of business requires armed men?"

Max had prepared for this moment. "I heard there might be issues with the guard rotation protecting the valley. Wanted to verify the situation personally."

Edmund's expression changed completely. The wariness melted away.

"Finally," Edmund said. "Finally someone up at that castle decides to listen."

Roderick stepped forward slightly. "Are you confirming there are problems with the protective detail?"

"Problems?" Edmund barked a laugh with no humor in it. "Son, there haven't been any guards in this valley for three moons. Not a damn one."

Jorik pulled out a small leather journal and began making notes. "Three moons, you said?"

"Give or take. Last patrol I saw was sometime before the harvest festival. Six men, rotating every two weeks, just like always. Then one day they just stopped coming." Edmund's voice grew bitter. "We figured it was temporary at first. Maybe they were needed elsewhere. But weeks turned into months, and nothing."

Max felt the familiar surge of anger, even though he'd known exactly what Edmund would say. "Have you sent word to the castle?"

"Sent word?" Edmund's laugh was sharper this time. "Boy, I've sent a dozen messages. Letters, riders, even asked passing merchants to carry word. Nothing. Not a single reply."

Roderick and Jorik exchanged a glance. This was clearly news to them.

"You documented these requests?" Roderick asked.

"Course I documented them. What do you take me for?" Edmund gestured toward the house. "Got copies of every letter, dates of every rider sent. Been keeping track since the beginning."

Jorik's pen moved across his journal. "We'll need to see those records."

"Be happy to show them." Edmund's tone had shifted from bitter to grimly satisfied. "Sounds like someone's about to be in very deep shit."

Max couldn't help but smile. "Very deep."

Edmund studied Max's expression, then grinned. "Good. About time."

Meredith had approached during this exchange, her earlier concern replaced by something like relief. "Does this mean the guards will be coming back?"

"It means we're going to find out why they left in the first place," Roderick said diplomatically. "And correct whatever problems we discover."

Willem and Marcus had crept closer, fascinated by the proceedings. Marcus tugged at his mother's skirt.

"Are we in trouble?" he whispered, though not quietly enough.

"No, love," Meredith said, smoothing his hair. "The opposite, I think."

Edmund looked back at Max, his expression shifting. "But that still doesn't answer my original question, boy. You here to work the fields too, or just for this official business?"

"Both," Max said. "I could use the training, and you could use the help."

"Ha!" Edmund's grin widened. "Now that's more like it. Roderick, Jorik—you boys mind if Lord Vanheim here gets his hands dirty while you're taking statements and such?"

Roderick looked at Max, clearly uncertain about the protocol of letting the High Lord's son engage in manual labor while on official business.

"It's fine," Max said. "Actually, it's perfect. I'll work while you gather the information we need."

Jorik closed his journal. "Should we start with those records you mentioned?"

"Absolutely." Edmund gestured toward the house. "Meredith, get these men some warm food while we sort through the paperwork. Going to be a long conversation."

As the group began moving toward the house, Edmund looked Max up and down.

"Well I'll be damned," Edmund said. "Look at you, boy. Standing straighter. Got some muscle on those shoulders." He squinted. "You're not the same soft little shit who used to sneak into my fields to steal turnips, are you?"

Max couldn't help but grin. "Still the same person who got beaten in your front yard for it."

"Ha! Your father tanned your hide good that day. You couldn't sit down for a week." The old man's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Though I notice you're not denying the turnip theft."

"Your turnips were worth the risk."

"Damn right they were." Edmund gestured toward Erik, who was still holding the broken harness and looking confused by the entire exchange. "Erik, you remember when this one tried to convince me he was 'inspecting our crops for quality on behalf of House Vanheim'?"

Erik smiled despite the tension. "I remember you chasing him halfway to the road with a pitchfork."

"Good times," Max said dryly.

Edmund's expression shifted, studying Max. "You ever actually worked a farm before, boy?"

"No," Max replied.

"Well then." Edmund grinned. "You're in for a treat. Farm work's not like whatever they have you doing up at the castle. It's heavy lifting, long hours, and everything hurts by the end of the day. Most folk last about an hour before they're crying for their mothers."

He gestured toward the root cellar. "We'll start you with something simple. Moving grain sacks and barrels from storage. See if those soft hands of yours can handle real work."

Max looked at the cellar entrance, then back at Edmund. "Shall we begin then?"

***

Max descended into the root cellar with purpose this time. No hesitation at the ladder, no wasted movements testing barrels he already knew were too heavy. He went straight for the grain sacks, selected one that was manageable but not embarrassingly small, and hauled it up in a single efficient motion.

"Well," Edmund said, watching from above. "That was decisive."

The next hour unfolded in steady, deliberate rhythm. Max worked through the cellar's contents just like last time. He started with grain sacks, moved to the smaller barrels, and tackled the larger ones only after his muscles had warmed up properly.

When Garrett offered to demonstrate lifting techniques, Max waved him off. "I think I've got it."

And he did. The work still hurt like hell—his back still screamed, his hands still developed blisters, his legs still trembled from exhaustion—but there was no wasted effort. No dropped sacks. No near-misses with rolling barrels.

Edmund watched this display with growing suspicion.

"You sure you've never done farmwork before?" the old man asked after Max efficiently maneuvered a particularly vindictive barrel up the ladder without incident.

"Pretty sure I'd remember," Max replied, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"It's just..." Garrett paused in his own work. "You're moving like someone who knows exactly what they're doing. But also like someone whose body isn't used to doing it."

"Heh," Max kept working. "I'm a fast learner."

"Maybe," Edmund said, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced.

By the time they finished, Max was exhausted but satisfied. He'd accomplished in about two hours what had taken him most of a day the first time around. The difference between knowing what worked and having to figure it out through painful trial and error.

"Not bad," Edmund admitted, surveying the cleared cellar. "For someone who claims he's never touched a grain sack before today."

Before Max could respond, Roderick appeared around the corner of the barn, walking fast, eyes fixed straight ahead, arms held close to his sides.

"Lord Vanheim," the guard called. "We've finished documenting the situation here. Ready to inspect the rest of the valley when you are."

Max nodded, already moving toward where Flash waited. "Perfect timing."

Edmund looked between Max and the guards. "You're leaving? Thought you were here to work."

"I am. But I also need to verify the security situation across all seventeen farms." Max secured his bow to Flash's saddle, checking that his quiver was full. He'd brought twice as many arrows this time. "Can't properly assess the problem from just one location."

"Practical thinking," Garrett agreed, though he looked slightly disappointed. "Mind if I come along? I know the valley better than anyone."

"I was hoping you'd offer." Max mounted Flash, settling into the saddle. "Edmund, we'll be back before evening. Still plenty of daylight left for more work."

Edmund squinted up at him. "You seem awfully prepared for someone who's supposedly just checking on farm security."

Max smiled. "Like I said. I'm a planner."

"Hmm." The old man's expression suggested he was filing that information away for later consideration. "Well, go on then."

The others mounted their horses and fell into formation as Max and Garrett led the way toward the valley's main trail.

"So," Garrett said as they rode, "where exactly are we headed first?"

Max's eyes were already scanning the treeline, calculating distances and approach routes. "The Miller farm. It's the closest, and if there are predator problems, that's where we'll find them."

"How do you know that?"

"Logic." Max adjusted his grip on Flash's reins. "Isolated farms always get hit first. The wolves will test defenses where they think resistance will be weakest."

Garrett studied Max's profile. "You know, for someone who's never dealt with wolf problems before, you sound remarkably confident about their behavior patterns."

Max kept his eyes on the trail ahead. "I read a lot."

"Must be some very specific books."

"You'd be surprised what you can learn if you pay attention."

The Miller farm sprawled across a natural clearing between two wooded hills. Smoke rose from the main house chimney, and Max could hear the sound of an axe biting wood somewhere behind the barn. A woman's voice carried on the cold air, calling instructions to someone about feed for the animals.

As their party crested the final rise, Max spotted a small figure near the sheep pen—a boy, maybe four or five years old, tossing handfuls of hay to the animals through the wooden slats.

"That'll be Henrik," Garrett said, following Max's gaze. "The Millers' youngest."

The boy looked up at the sound of approaching horses, his eyes going wide when he spotted the mounted party. He dropped his armload of hay and ran toward the house, shouting.

"Mother! Mother! Riders coming!"

A woman emerged from behind the barn, wiping her hands on a rough apron. When she spotted the Vanheim colors, her expression shifted from wariness to confusion.

"Henrik, get behind me," she called, though the boy was already clutching at her skirts.

Max dismounted first, followed by the others. Flash snorted and pawed at the frozen ground, steam rising from his flanks in the cold air.

"Good day," Max said, approaching with his hands visible and empty. "I'm Harek Vanheim. These are Roderick and Jorik from the household guard."

The woman's eyes widened slightly. She'd clearly heard the name but wasn't sure what to make of finding the High Lord's son at her farm.

"My lord," she managed, attempting something that might have been a curtsy. "I'm Sarah Miller. My husband Thomas is... Thomas!"

Her voice carried across the farmyard, and within moments a man appeared from the direction of the woodpile, axe still in hand. He was broad-shouldered and practical-looking, with the calloused hands of someone who'd spent his life working with tools.

"Lord Vanheim," he said, setting down the axe and wiping his hands before offering a respectful nod. "Thomas Miller. We're... well, we're honored by your visit, my lord. Though I have to say we weren't expecting..."

"Official business," Roderick explained. "We're investigating reports about the guard rotation protecting the valley."

Thomas and Sarah exchanged glances, and Max caught the flicker of relief that passed between them.

"About time," Thomas said bluntly, then seemed to remember who he was talking to. "Begging your pardon, my lord. It's just... well, we've had some difficulties."

"That's why we're here," Max replied. "Can we speak inside? It's cold enough to freeze a man's words before he can speak them."

Sarah nodded quickly. "Of course. Henrik, come along."

The boy peeked around his mother's skirts at Max, then darted forward to grab onto her hand. As they walked toward the farmhouse, Max waved at the child.

"Hello there, Henrik."

The boy immediately hid his face against his mother's skirts, though Max caught him peeking out a moment later.

"He's shy around strangers," Sarah explained. "Especially lately, with... well, you'll understand when Thomas tells you."

The farmhouse interior was warm and practical, dominated by a large stone fireplace that cast dancing shadows across timber walls. Simple furniture filled the space—a heavy wooden table, chairs that looked hand-built, shelves lined with pottery and preserved goods.

"Sit, please," Sarah said, gesturing toward the table. "I'll get something warm."

As they settled around the table, Thomas leaned forward.

"When did you last see guards in the valley?" Roderick asked without preamble.

"Three months ago," Thomas replied immediately. "Maybe a bit longer. Used to be three men on rotation, every two weeks. Regular as sunrise."

"Then they just stopped coming?" Jorik asked, pulling out his leather journal.

"Like they never existed," Sarah said, returning with a pot of something that smelled of herbs and honey. "We sent word to the castle twice. Letters with every merchant who passed through. Never heard anything back."

Thomas's jaw tightened. "We figured maybe they were needed elsewhere. Border troubles, bandits, who knows. But weeks turned into months, and nothing."

"What kind of problems have you been having?" Max asked.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken grief.

"Wolves," Thomas said finally. "They hunt like they're thinking, planning."

"We lost half our sheep in the first month," Sarah added quietly. "They don't just kill for food. They take what they want and leave the rest to rot in the snow."

Henrik had climbed onto his mother's lap and was playing with a small wooden horse, apparently oblivious to the adult conversation swirling around him.

"Any... human casualties?" Roderick asked carefully.

Thomas's face went gray. "The Henderson farm lost their daughter. Little Mia. She was Henrik's age."

Sarah's arms tightened around her son. "Six weeks ago. The wolves cornered her near their grain storage. By the time her father found her..." She shook her head. "There wasn't much left to bury."

Max felt anger building in his chest, even though he'd known this was coming. "Anyone else?"

"Old Willem's boy," Thomas said. "Strong lad, nineteen winters. Wolves got him three weeks back."

"They hunt in packs," Sarah explained. "Coordinated attacks. Like they're communicating with each other."

As the conversation continued, Max found himself growing restless. He pushed back from the table and moved toward the window that faced the forest. The afternoon sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon.

The forest looked peaceful enough. Snow-heavy branches, the occasional bird darting between trees, the kind of winter quiet that could lull you into thinking the world was safe.

But Max knew better.

He studied the treeline, maybe a hundred yards from the farmhouse. Dense clusters of pine trees provided perfect cover for anything that didn't want to be seen. The interplay of light and shadow created a natural camouflage that could hide—

"The worst part is feeling trapped," Thomas was saying behind him. "We haven't let the sheep out to graze in four days. Every time we try, we see movement in the trees."

Max's attention sharpened. "Movement?"

"Shapes between the trees. Never clear enough to be sure, but..." Thomas shrugged. "We know they're watching."

Max continued studying the forest, his eyes moving from tree to tree. Nothing seemed out of place. Just winter woods, silent and—

There.

Deep in the shadows between two large pines, something glinted. Two small points of reflected light, too steady to be ice, too low to be sunlight on snow.

Eyes.

Max forced himself to remain casual, not wanting to alarm anyone until he was certain. He shifted his position slightly, trying to get a different angle.

The glints disappeared, then reappeared slightly to the left. Whatever was watching had moved.

"They're creatures of habit," Roderick was saying. "Wolves typically hunt at dawn and dusk. If they're watching during the day, they're planning something specific."

Max spotted another pair of eyes, this one further south along the treeline. Then another, almost hidden behind a fallen log.

They were being watched. Multiple watchers, positioned for optimal coverage of the farm.

"How many sheep do you have?" Max asked, not turning away from the window.

"Twenty-six," Sarah replied. "Why do you ask?"

Max finally turned back to the group. "Because I think your watchers are here."

The conversation stopped. Roderick and Jorik immediately moved to the windows, hands dropping to their weapons.

"Where?" Roderick asked quietly.

"Treeline. Multiple positions." Max kept his voice level. "They're not moving much, just... observing."

Jorik squinted toward the forest. "I don't see anything."

"They're there," Max said with quiet certainty. "Waiting for something."

Thomas stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Sarah, take Henrik to the back room. Now."

"Thomas—"

"Now, Sarah."

The urgency in his voice got through to her. She scooped Henrik up, the boy protesting softly as his wooden horse fell to the floor.

"What's happening?" Henrik asked, confused by the sudden tension.

"Just a game, sweetheart," Sarah said, forcing a smile. "We're going to play hide and seek."

As Sarah disappeared toward the back of the house with Henrik, Thomas moved to a wooden chest near the fireplace. He lifted the lid and pulled out a crossbow, already strung and ready.

"You know how to use that?" Garrett asked.

"Well enough," Thomas replied grimly. "Had to learn, these past few months."

Max returned to the window, studying the forest. The watchers were still there, patient and calculating. He could feel their attention like a physical weight.

"They're waiting for something," he said. "Night, maybe. Or for us to leave."

"So what do we do?" Jorik asked.

Max was quiet for a long moment, thinking through possibilities. "We make them come to us."

"How?" Roderick asked.

"Bait," Max said simply. "They want the sheep. We give them what they want, but on our terms."

Thomas frowned. "Use my animals as bait?"

"Better to lose a few sheep than your whole flock," Garrett pointed out. "Or your family."

Roderick nodded slowly. "Could work. But we'd need positioning. Can't let them scatter back into the trees if things go wrong."

Max studied the layout of the farm through the window. The sheep pen sat in open ground between the house and the forest. A large oak tree stood near the pen, its thick trunk offering good cover and sight lines.

"I'll take position in that tree," Max said, pointing. "Good elevation, clear shots."

"You sure you can make those shots?" Jorik asked.

Max's smile was thin. "I'm sure."

"Roderick and I can flank them from the barn," Garrett suggested. "Keep them from retreating north."

"And I'll cover the south approach," Jorik added. "Box them in."

Thomas gripped his crossbow tighter. "What about my family?"

"They stay inside," Roderick said firmly. "Lock the doors, stay away from windows, don't come out until we give the all-clear."

From the back of the house came the sound of Henrik asking his mother why they were hiding. Sarah's voice was patient but strained as she tried to explain without frightening him.

"How many sheep?" Max asked.

"Three," Thomas said. "No more. If this doesn't work..."

"It'll work," Max said with more confidence than he felt. "Give us ten minutes to get into position, then release them."

As they prepared to move out, Max checked his bow and counted his arrows one more time. Thirty-seven shafts. More than enough if his aim held true.

"You really think this will work?" Garrett asked quietly.

Max looked back toward the forest, where those patient eyes still watched from the shadows.

"They're here," he said. "They want something. We just need to make them show themselves to get it."

The waiting was about to begin.

Max settled into the crook of the oak tree's massive branches, forty feet above the sheep pen. The thick trunk provided solid cover while the spreading limbs gave him clear sight lines across the entire clearing. From here, he could see the forest edge where those patient eyes waited, the barn where Roderick and Garrett had positioned themselves, and the farmhouse where the Miller family huddled behind locked doors.

He'd climbed the tree while the others moved to their positions, bow slung across his back, quiver secured at his hip. The rough bark bit into his palms as he found his perch, but the discomfort faded as he focused on what was coming.

Below, Thomas Miller emerged from the farmhouse and approached the sheep pen. The man moved with careful deliberation, crossbow held ready but not raised. He reached the wooden gate and paused, looking toward the tree where Max waited.

Max gave a subtle nod.

Thomas lifted the latch.

Three sheep wandered out, bleating softly as they began to graze near the pen. They moved with the unhurried calm of animals unaware they were bait, noses down in the snow-dusted grass.

The forest went absolutely still.

Max nocked an arrow, drawing the string back to anchor at the corner of his mouth. Seventy yards to the treeline. Light crosswind from the east. Moving targets, once they showed themselves.

His breathing slowed. Heartbeat steadied. The world narrowed to the simple geometry of distance, wind, and trajectory.

The first wolf emerged from behind a cluster of pines—massive, gray-furred, moving with predatory grace. Others followed. Five. Six. Seven. All focused on the grazing sheep.

Max's attention locked on the largest one, the alpha that hung back while the others advanced. Storm-gray fur, intelligent yellow eyes, old scars across its muzzle.

The alpha stepped into clear view, maybe eighty yards out. Max tracked its movement, calculating lead time, accounting for wind drift.

His breathing fell into perfect rhythm. In. Hold. Out. Hold.

The world faded at the edges. No cold. No wind. No sound except his own heartbeat, slow and steady as a metronome. Just the target, the bow, the arrow waiting to fly.

He released.

The arrow took the alpha through the left eye, punching deep into its brain. The massive beast dropped instantly, blood spreading across the snow in dark rivulets.

Chaos erupted below. The pack scattered as the remaining wolves realized they were being hunted, but Max was already tracking his next target. A rangy female, running hard toward the treeline.

Draw. Breathe. Release.

The arrow caught her in the throat mid-stride. She tumbled, momentum carrying her several feet before she lay still.

Another wolf had broken toward the farmhouse where movement behind a window had caught its attention. Max swung his aim, leading the target, feeling that familiar stillness settle over him like a warm cloak.

Draw. Breathe. Release.

Spine shot. The wolf dropped immediately.

And that's when Max paused.

His hand moved automatically toward his quiver for another arrow, but something made him stop. The sensation washing over him—this crystalline focus, this state where time seemed to slow and every movement flowed with perfect precision—it felt familiar in a way that had nothing to do with archery.

Their ability to achieve a particular state of consciousness on command.

Gerth's words echoed in his mind. This was what the old man had described. The quiet state. Max wasn't thinking about his shots, wasn't calculating wind drift or drop compensation. He was simply existing in the moment, his body moving with trained instinct while his mind achieved that perfect balance between awareness and emptiness.

So focused that you lose track of time, forget where you are, stop being aware of yourself as separate from what you're doing.

Below, Garrett engaged two wolves simultaneously, his sword work enhanced by Fanga. Roderick flanked another beast near the sheep pen. They had the situation under control, but Max barely registered their movements. His attention had turned inward, recognizing something profound.

This state—this hyperfocused trance where everything else fell away—this was exactly what Gerth had told him to look for.

The moment you start thinking about whether you're in it, you break it.

Max forced himself not to think about what he was doing. Instead, he let his breathing deepen naturally, let his pulse slow further, let the crystalline focus that came with perfect archery expand beyond just shooting.

The sensation intensified. The cold air around him seemed to shimmer, and his heartbeat, already slow and controlled, began to thunder in his ears. But not with anxiety—with something else. Something that felt like power building pressure behind his ribs.

Heat bloomed in his chest, spreading outward through his limbs. Not the warmth of exertion but something deeper, more fundamental. His heart rate accelerated even as his breathing remained perfectly controlled, blood rushing through his veins with sudden intensity.

Not meditation, not relaxation—focused intensity without conscious effort.

He was still aware of the battle below. Still tracking the movement of wolves and men. But part of his attention had turned to this growing sensation, this heat that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

The pressure built. The shimmer in the air intensified. And suddenly Max felt as if he were falling—

—into an ocean of storm and fury.

The vision struck him like a physical blow. He stood on a rocky shore facing endless churning waters, waves tall as buildings crashing against black stone. Lightning split the sky in branching veins of white fire, illuminating clouds that boiled and writhed like living things. The air tasted of copper and ozone, electric with raw potential.

This was the Source.

Not Kellor's gentle mystical river, but a raging tempest of power that stretched beyond the horizon. The ocean called to him, waves reaching toward the shore where he stood, inviting him to step forward and let the tide carry him away.

Max felt an arrow in his hand—solid, real, perfectly fletched. The urge to test this power, to see what he could do with it, overwhelmed his caution. He drew the string back and released.

The shaft disintegrated before it traveled three feet. The wood compressed inward, collapsing on itself as if crushed by invisible hands. Splinters rained down into the churning waves.

Too much. He'd drawn too much power without understanding how to control it.

The vision shattered.

Max snapped back to the tree branch, gasping, his body trembling with residual energy. Below, the battle was nearly over. Garrett had finished his opponents, Roderick was cleaning his blade, and Jorik was emerging from behind the barn having cornered the last fleeing wolf.

"Harek!" Garrett called up. "You alright up there? Thought I heard something fall."

Max looked down at the scattered splinters of wood at the base of his tree. "Just dropped an arrow," he called back, his voice steadier than he felt.

But inside, his heart was racing with more than just the aftereffects of touching the Source. He'd done it. He'd actually felt the connection Gerth had described, had experienced that vast ocean of power that lay beneath everything.

The connection was there, waiting for him to learn how to approach it properly. But that would require practice, study, careful experimentation under controlled conditions.

For now, seven wolves lay dead in the snow, Max had kept his promise to Edmund—to bring guards, to protect the valley. And Henrik Miller would keep both his legs.

A good day, by all reasonable measure.

***

The small white spider clung to his perch high in the oak tree's bark, all eight eyes wide with confusion and something approaching existential terror.

The day truly had... returned.

He had watched his Master ride away from the clearing yesterday—victorious, purposeful, carrying the wounded child toward salvation. The spider had felt such pride, such reverence for the Great Savior's mercy and power.

And then...

And then he had awakened this morning to find himself back in the stone walls of the castle, watching his Master prepare for the exact same journey. The same conversations. The same preparations. The same route to the farming valley.

At first, the spider had thought perhaps he had dreamed the previous day's events. A fevered vision brought on by his transformed mind trying to process the magnitude of serving such a being.

But no. The memories were too clear, too precise. He remembered every detail—the wolf pack's coordinated attack, his Master's impossible archery, the moment when the Great Savior saved the child.

Time flows backward for Him.

The realization struck the spider like lightning.

Of course. Of course his Master commanded even the fundamental forces of existence. What were the petty concerns of linear time to one who could rewrite the very fabric of reality?

But why? Why had the Great Savior chosen to return this day?

The spider's tiny mind raced through possibilities. Perhaps the previous outcome had been insufficient. Perhaps his Master had foreseen some greater purpose that required... adjustment.

He shapes time itself to His will.

Below, the spider watched as the wolf pack emerged from the forest exactly as they had before. Seven massive beasts, moving with predatory coordination toward the three sheep that grazed innocently near the pen.

But this time, his Master was prepared.

This time, the Great Savior moved like one who had seen this moment before, who knew exactly how each piece would fall.

The first arrow took the alpha wolf directly through the eye—not the heart, not the throat, but the eye. Instant death. The spider had watched this creature survive much worse wounds in the previous iteration. His Master had learned from observation, had chosen the perfect killing strike.

He learns. He adapts. He perfects.

The remaining wolves scattered as the guards burst from concealment, but his Master was already tracking his next target. Draw. Breathe. Release. Another clean kill.

The spider pressed closer to the bark, transfixed.

And then something extraordinary happened.

His Master paused. Mid-battle, with wolves still alive and threats still present, the Great Savior simply... stopped. The spider could see him in the tree, bow half-raised, his attention turning inward.

What is He doing?

The air around the clearing began to change. Not visibly—the spider's enhanced senses detected something far more subtle. A building pressure, like the moment before a storm breaks.

His Master's breathing had shifted, become deeper, more rhythmic. The spider could sense the change even from his distant perch, could feel the way reality itself seemed to lean in, waiting.

He calls upon the deeper mysteries.

The pressure built. The spider's tiny hairs stood on end as something vast stirred in response to his Master's will. Not Fanga—the spider had observed that power before. This was something else entirely. Something that made the very fabric of existence tremble with anticipation.

And then the Great Savior reached for it.

The spider's eight eyes went wide as his Master touched the Source itself. The power that flowed through him was immense, wild, barely contained.

He communes with the fundamental forces of creation.

The arrow in his Master's hand pulsed with contained energy, reality warping slightly around its edges. The spider could feel the power radiating from it even at this distance.

The Great Savior drew back his bowstring and released.

The arrow disintegrated before it had traveled three yards, compressed by forces the spider couldn't begin to comprehend. Wood, metal, and fletching collapsed inward on themselves, leaving only scattered splinters falling toward the snow.

Too much power. Even He must exercise restraint.

Suddenly, his Master's attention snapped back to the immediate moment, back to the battle that still raged below. But now the spider understood what he had witnessed.

He tested His limits. He measured His strength against the very Source of all magic.

The remaining arrows flew with mundane precision, each one finding its mark through skill alone. No magic, no enhancement—just the perfect application of training and knowledge. The wolves fell one by one until only silence remained.

But the spider had seen the truth. Had witnessed the moment when his Master chose to restrain himself, to limit his power to what the situation required rather than what he was capable of.

Infinite power, wielded with infinite wisdom.

The day had been reset so that the Great Savior could explore these deeper mysteries. Could test the boundaries of his connection to forces beyond mortal understanding. The wolf attack, the child's injury—all of it had been preparation for this moment of cosmic experimentation.

And when his Master had learned what he needed to know, he had chosen the gentler path. The precise application of mortal skill rather than overwhelming force.

He could unmake reality itself, yet He chooses to save a single child's leg.

The spider's devotion, already absolute, somehow deepened further.

What manner of being had he chosen to serve? One who commanded time, who touched the Source of all magic as easily as breathing, yet who spent his infinite power ensuring that a farmer's son would walk without a limp?

Merciful beyond measure. Powerful beyond comprehension.

As his Master climbed down from the tree, the spider settled back into his hiding place among the bark, his tiny mind reeling with the implications of what he had witnessed.

But then, another realization struck him with the force of revelation.

I remember. He allowed me to remember.

Of all the creatures in existence, of all the beings who had witnessed his Master's manipulation of time itself, only the spider retained knowledge of both iterations. The wolves remembered nothing. The humans went about their day oblivious to the cosmic forces that had reshaped their reality.

But the spider remembered everything.

He chose me. He granted me this knowledge.

The implications were staggering. His Master had not simply reset time for his own purposes—he had specifically ensured that his smallest, most devoted follower would understand what had transpired. Would witness the full scope of his power and wisdom.

This is a lesson. A teaching.

The spider's tiny body trembled with overwhelming emotion as understanding flooded through him. His Master had shown him the ultimate truth: that perfection came through repetition, through the endless pursuit of improvement. The Great Savior could have succeeded perfectly on the first iteration, could have achieved any outcome he desired through raw power alone.

Instead, he had demonstrated the virtue of refinement. Of taking what was already good and making it better through careful observation and adjustment.

Practice. Dedication. The relentless pursuit of excellence.

And by allowing his servant to remember, the Master had delivered the most profound lesson possible. The spider understood now what was expected of him. Not simple worship, not passive devotion, but active improvement. The constant striving to become more worthy of the privilege of serving such a being.

I must become better. Always better.

Just as his Master had used the gift of repeated time to perfect his approach to the wolf attack, the spider must use his awareness of this cosmic lesson to perfect himself. To train harder, to observe more carefully, to dedicate every fiber of his transformed being to becoming a more perfect servant.

If the spider could have wept, tears of overwhelming gratitude would have flowed freely down his pale carapace. Instead, his entire form quivered with an emotion too pure and intense for such a small creature to contain.

He trusts me with this knowledge. He believes I can learn from it.

The gift was beyond precious—not just the memory itself, but the implicit faith his Master had shown by granting it. The Great Savior, who commanded time and touched the Source of all magic, had looked upon his tiniest follower and deemed him worthy of enlightenment.

I will not disappoint Him. I will become worthy of this trust.

As his Master disappeared from view, heading back toward the castle, the spider settled deeper into the bark and began to plan. Every moment from now on would be dedicated to improvement. Every observation, every action, every thought would be focused on becoming a more perfect servant.

His Master had shown him the way through example: endless repetition in the pursuit of perfection.

The spider would follow that path until his dying breath.

Thank you, Great Savior. Thank you for believing I could understand.