Gamble King Chapter 14. Magic

The morning after his Fanga training, Max’s body launched a full-scale revolt.

Shoulders, back, arms, legs—every muscle, joint, and scrap of connective tissue had filed a formal complaint and was now staging a coordinated strike.

And naturally, this was the perfect time for a leisurely stroll up approximately seventeen thousand stone steps in the Tower.

"This is cruel and unusual punishment," he muttered, gripping the stone banister with white knuckles.

Aldwin walked beside him. The mage's expression suggested he was watching a particularly unimpressive species of slug attempt to climb a mountain.

"Are you quite finished?" Aldwin asked.

Max paused on the seventh step, breathing harder than he cared to admit. "Finished with what?"

"The theatrical suffering."

"Theatrical?" Max turned to stare at him. "What the hell are you looking at? I'm in genuine physical distress here."

"I'm looking at someone who yesterday couldn't light a candle and today thinks he's earned the right to complain about walking up stairs."

Max resumed his painful ascent. "Yesterday I wasn't feeling like I'd been hit by a truck full of lightning."

"What's a truck?"

"Never mind." Max gritted his teeth and forced himself up another step. "Point is, this hurts. All of it. Everything hurts."

Aldwin's silence felt distinctly judgmental.

Dick.

They climbed for what felt like hours but was probably minutes. Max's legs trembled with effort, and by the time they reached a landing with an ornate wooden door, his shirt was damp with sweat despite the cool air.

The door was different from the others they'd passed. Darker wood, with silver inlays.

"The Archmage is waiting for you in there," Aldwin said.

Max leaned forward, hands on his knees, chest heaving. "Just... give me a minute."

Aldwin frowned. "What is a minute?"

Max looked up at him, still panting. Right. Different world, different time measurements. He'd been thinking in Earth terms again.

"Nevermind," he managed between breaths. "Just... let me catch my breath."

Aldwin looked him up and down. His eyes lingered on Max's sweat-stained shirt, his trembling legs, his white-knuckled grip on the banister. Then he made a small tsk sound and shook his head.

"Stop doing that," Max said.

"Doing what?"

"That. The looking. The judging. The whole condescending disapproval thing you've got going on. It's disrespectful."

"Is it now?"

Max straightened despite the protests from his back muscles. Something hot was building in his chest, a heat that had perhaps something to do with the climb, and his patience—never his strongest virtue—was wearing dangerously thin.

"Yeah. It is. I don't know what your problem is with me. I don't think we've known each other before yesterday but you've been acting like I personally shit in your breakfast. If we're gonna be seeing each other often, you better drop the smugness."

Aldwin lifted his chin slowly, eyes narrowing as he looked up. "And what exactly do you plan to do about it, Lord Vanheim?"

The title dripped with enough sarcasm to fill a bathtub. Max felt that heat in his chest spread outward, warming his arms, his hands. His fingers curled into fists.

Alright, that's it.

"First of all, stop doing that thing with your neck. You're gonna break something trying to look up at me when I'm literally taller than you. And second..." Max took a step forward. "You really want to find out?"

"Oh, I think I have a fairly good idea of what you're capable of." Aldwin's fingers twitched at his sides—not nervous twitching, but purposeful. Like a pianist warming up before a performance. "After all, I've been watching you struggle up seven flights of stairs for the past half hour."

Max noticed the hand movements and felt his grin turn sharp. "What's wrong, Baldwin? Hands getting a little shaky? You practicing your lute hands, or is that supposed to intimidate me?"

"My name is Aldwin."

"Is it? Because with that shiny dome you've got going on up there, Baldwin seems way more appropriate." Max gestured at Aldwin's hairline, which was staging a strategic retreat from his forehead. "Seriously, what happened? Did your hair hear about your winning personality and decide to evacuate? Or did you just get so stressed out being a miserable bastard that it all fell out?"

Aldwin's jaw tightened, and his fingers stopped twitching. "How amusing."

"Oh, we're just getting started, my guy." Max was warming up now, the exhaustion forgotten. "I mean, look at you. Standing there trying to look all mysterious and powerful, but really you're just a middle-aged dude having a mid-life crisis in a bathrobe. What are you, forty? Fifty? Hard to tell with all that... wisdom... written across your forehead in wrinkles."

"I am thirty-seven."

"Thirty-seven?" Max let out a low whistle. "Damn, man. Life's been hard on you, hasn't it? You look like you've been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Or maybe that's just the weight of being such a miserable prick all the time."

Aldwin's face was starting to flush red. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I? Let me guess—you used to have hair, probably had some dreams, maybe even a personality that wasn't completely insufferable. But somewhere along the way, life decided to take a big steaming dump on your head, and now here you are, picking fights with people half your age because it's the only way you can feel important anymore."

"You arrogant little—"

"Little what? Go ahead, say it. I'm waiting." Max took a step closer, close enough to see the veins starting to pop in Aldwin's neck. "Come on, Baldwin. Show me what all that finger-wiggling was about. Or are you all talk and no action, like everything else about you?"

Aldwin's hands were definitely doing something now—the air around them started to feel charged, like the moment before lightning struck. But his voice, when he spoke, was controlled. Deadly quiet.

"I should have known the rumors about you being some sort of hero were unfounded. A man they call the Gamble King earning praise for anything other than reckless stupidity—" His eyes narrowed. "I see you for exactly what you are and have no respect for you whatsoever."

"Oh yeah?" Max felt the electricity in the air but didn't back down. If anything, he leaned in closer. "And what's that? Go ahead. Say it. I promise you won't be eating solid food for a while after you do."

"What I see," Aldwin said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "is a pathetic, weak—"

The ornate door swung open with enough force to bang against the stone wall.

"WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS IS ALL THIS RACKET?"

Archmage Kellor.

"Fighting like children in my hallway," the old man continued, looking between them. "At your age. Honestly. You'd think grown men would have better things to do than wave their cocks around in a tower stairwell."

The charged feeling in the air dissipated immediately. Aldwin straightened and cleared his throat, his face still flushed.

"Archmage, if I may take my leave—"

"You may. And next time, try not to pick fights with people half your age. Makes you look petty. And small."

Aldwin's face went from red to purple, but he bowed stiffly and turned to go.

"Bye, Baldwin," Max called after him sweetly. "Try not to lose any more hair on the way down."

Aldwin's shoulders went rigid, but he kept walking. Max was pretty sure he heard him mutter something about "insolent whelp" as he disappeared down the stairs.

Kellor looked Max up and down, his eyes stopping at the gap where Max's shirt was visible beneath his heavy fur cloak.

"You should be wearing heavier clothes under that," he said. "Walking around in just a shirt like some southern lordling. You'll catch your death."

"I'm getting used to the cold," Max said. And he was, though he couldn't tell if it was because of the Fanga training or something about Harek's natural constitution.

"Getting used to it." Kellor snorted. "Stubborn as a mule. Come on then, get inside before you freeze my door frame."

The room beyond was larger than Max had expected. High ceilings, tall windows that let in the gray morning light, and walls lined with more books than Max had ever seen in one place. A massive desk sat in the center, covered with papers, scrolls, and what looked like several different kinds of writing instruments. The whole space smelled of parchment, ink, and something faintly metallic.

"That was idiotic of you," Kellor said, settling into the chair behind his desk with a grunt. "Provoking a mage like that. Amusing, but idiotic. I felt Aldwin's spell forming from in here."

"I don't think he would've had the balls to actually cast it," Max said.

Kellor looked at him. Really looked at him. The kind of look that made Max suddenly aware of the tone he'd just used with the most powerful mage in the North.

"Sorry," Max said.

He was still riding the wave of anger from his confrontation with Aldwin, he realized. Still feeling that heat in his chest, that urge to push back against anyone who tried to put him in his place. It wasn't like him to be this consistently aggressive.

Well, it was like him to be hot-headed, but not to this degree. Was it some kind of Fanga aftereffect? Something about the physical training that was making him more confrontational?

He waited for Kellor to tell him to watch his tone, to show proper respect to his betters, to remember his place.

Instead, the old man threw back his head and laughed. A deep, booming sound that filled the room.

"Ha! I like you, boy. Haven't changed a bit since the last time I saw you, when you were just a whelp running around the South eight summers ago. You were probably too young to remember."

Max found himself almost smiling despite himself. He kind of liked the old man.

"Don't just stand there like a statue," Kellor said, waving a hand toward the chairs in front of his desk. "Sit down, sit down."

Max lowered himself into one of the chairs, grateful to give his protesting legs a break.

"So," Kellor said, leaning back in his chair. "Your father asked me to verify a few things about your... situation. I'm going to need to see something."

"Sure," Max said.

Kellor closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were pure white—not just the irises, but the entire visible part of his eyes. They glowed faintly, like moonlight through fog.

Max jerked back in his chair. "What the—"

Kellor stared at him with those unsettling white eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side. After a long moment, he made a small humming sound.

"Fascinating," he said.

"What's fascinating?"

Kellor closed his eyes again. When he opened them, they were back to their normal brown.

"You truly are a born mage," he said. "No question about it."

Max stared at him. "I truly have no idea what any of this means."

Kellor leaned forward in his chair. "Born mage," he said. "It means you're naturally connected to the Source. No intermediary, no bargaining, no selling pieces of yourself for scraps of power." Kellor's voice grew louder, more animated. "The Source flows through you like it was meant to be there. Like you were meant to be there."

Max still looked blank.

Kellor made a frustrated sound and reached for a cup on his desk. He took a long drink—definitely not water—and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Right. Let me explain it properly." He set the cup down with more force than necessary. "There are two kinds of people who can touch magic in this world. The Birthed—that's you, that's me, that's every mage worth a damn—we're born with a natural tether to the Source. It's in our blood, in our bones. We feel it from childhood, even if we don't know what it is."

He gestured broadly with one hand. "Then there are the others. The Bound." The way he said the word made it sound like something distasteful. "They make pacts. Bargains. They find some creature from the Unseen—spirits, demons, worse things—and they trade pieces of themselves for the ability to channel magic through these... intermediaries."

Kellor's expression darkened. "Memories, years of their life, their first born, their capacity to feel joy, love, fear. They hollow themselves out bit by bit, becoming something less than human, all for borrowed power." He spat to the side. "Some of them make deals with demons. Actual demons. Those ones are forbidden in civilized lands, and for good reason."

Max was starting to understand the hierarchy here. "So born mages are... better?"

"Better?" Kellor laughed, but it wasn't entirely pleasant. "Boy, we're not just better. We're the real thing. The Bound? They're pale imitations. Desperate souls who couldn't accept that magic wasn't meant for them, so they found ways to steal it." His voice dropped to something more serious. "And every single one of them pays for it, one way or another."

Max leaned back in his chair, processing everything Kellor had said. The hierarchy, the disdain, the pride—it was a lot. But one thing kept nagging at him.

"What exactly is the Source?" he asked.

Kellor's expression shifted again, this time to something almost reverent. "Picture a river, boy. But not water—pure magical energy, flowing beneath everything that exists. Every spell, every manifestation of power, every miracle you've ever heard of draws from that river." He gestured with his hands as if he could actually see it flowing between them. "It's what separates us—the gifted few—from those who will live and die never knowing magic exists."

Max nodded slowly. "But I never... felt a connection to anything like that."

The words hung in the air. Kellor went very still, his cup halfway to his lips. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

"You," Kellor said finally, setting his cup down with deliberate care, "are in all aspects a special case." He studied Max's face. "The connection to the Source is soul-bound. Some awaken to it as children. Others..." He shrugged. "Others awaken late. But you are, without question, a born mage. When I verified your awakening, there wasn't a single creature from the Unseen anywhere near you."

"That's what that was?" Max asked. "The verification?"

"Yes." Kellor stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "Which brings me to my next point. Now that we've confirmed what you are, I'm going to personally teach you how to use that power. How to connect to the Source, how to cast spells, how to harness what flows through you." His voice took on the tone of someone making a proclamation. "I'll teach you everything there is to know about magic. Take you as my disciple."

Max blinked. "Whoa."

"I appreciate the offer," Max said, and he meant it—the excitement was already building in his chest at the thought of actually doing magic. "I'd be gladder than glad to take it. But I'm already sir Gregory's squire, and I don't think I'd have time to manage both squireship and magic."

Kellor waved a dismissive hand. "I'll have a word with Gregory. We'll agree on something. But I'm not letting a mage rot his talent away without doing anything about it." He fixed Max with that intense stare again. "You're one of the rare Vanheims who's a mage, it seems. It's unfortunately uncommon in your house."

"Really?"

"Your great-grandfather, Lord Ethan Vanheim—they called him the Pathfinder—he was one. Cleared the Grimlands of the Ironclad tribes in a single campaign, displaced them all the way back to the Frozen Reaches." Kellor's eyes grew distant. "I was ten years old when he broke their last stronghold. Quite the sight."

Max did some quick mental arithmetic and came up short. "How old are you?"

A slow smile spread across Kellor's weathered face. "That's the beauty of being a mage, boy. Longevity. I'm currently one hundred and three years old this summer."

Max stared at him. Kellor did look older—distinguished, weathered around the edges—but sixty-something, not over a century.

“Damn. Congratulations on looking like you’re in your sixties. I figured you were just really into moisturizing.”

"Thank you," Kellor replied without missing a beat. "Does that help with looking younger?"

"What? Moisturizing?"

"Yes."

"Oh, yeah," Max said. "You could use, like, almond oil or something."

Kellor actually pulled out a small piece of parchment and made a note. "Almond oil. I will look into that." He set the parchment aside and leaned forward again. "And since you have elven blood from your mother, you're already promised a long life. But with your connection to the Source..." He smiled. "We could do great things together, Harek."

Max let out an awkward chuckle. "Yeah, uh, great things. Looking forward to it."

The words felt strange in his mouth. Great things. What did that even mean in a world where people could apparently make fire appear out of thin air and live to be over a hundred?

As Kellor shuffled through some papers on his desk, Max found himself thinking about something that had been nagging at him. If magic was soul-bound, and Harek presumably hadn't been a mage before, then that meant... Max's soul was the reason magic was possible now.

The thought made him feel oddly proud. Like he'd brought something valuable to this whole bizarre body-swap situation. Not just his Earth knowledge and his smart mouth, but something fundamental.

"So," Max said. "How does it actually work? The casting, I mean."

Kellor looked up from his papers. "Ah. Ready for your first lesson, are you?"

"I mean, if you're offering."

"I am indeed." Kellor stood up and moved around to the front of his desk, settling himself against the edge. "But first, let me ask you something, boy. What do you think magic is?"

Max considered this. "Honestly? I have no idea. Until yesterday I didn't think I could do it at all."

"Fair enough." Kellor held up one hand, palm facing upward. "Watch carefully. I'm going to cast a very simple spell, and I'll explain what I'm doing as I do it."

Max leaned forward, suddenly very interested.

"First," Kellor said, "I need to decide exactly what I want to happen. Not just 'I want fire,' but the precise shape of it. How big, how hot, how long it will last, where it will appear." He paused. "We call this a Thoughtshape. Think of it as... architectural plans for reality."

Kellor's eyes grew distant, focused on something Max couldn't see.

"I want," Kellor said slowly, "a flame the size of a large coin. Orange-yellow, hot enough to feel but not to burn. Hovering exactly three inches above my palm. Lasting for the time it takes to count slowly to a hundred, then extinguishing itself cleanly."

Nothing happened yet. Kellor's hand remained empty.

"That's step one, intent," he said. "Now comes step two. I have to open myself to the Source."

Kellor went very still. His breathing deepened, became more regular. The change was subtle, but Max could sense it—like the air in the room had shifted somehow.

"The Source flows beneath everything," Kellor said, his voice quieter now. "Like a river under the world. Right now, I'm... stepping into that river. Letting it know I'm here."

Max watched, fascinated. He couldn't see anything different about Kellor, but something was definitely happening. The old man's presence felt more... substantial. Like he was taking up more space in the room without actually moving.

"Step three," Kellor continued. "I draw power from the Source. Just a small amount—more than I need for the spell, but not so much that it becomes dangerous to hold."

Now Max could feel it. A subtle electric sensation in the air, like the moment before lightning struck. The hair on his arms stood up slightly.

"Holding raw Source energy is like holding lightning in your bare hands," Kellor explained. "It wants to be shaped, wants to become something. If I hold it too long without giving it form, it'll find its own way out. Usually in ways I won't enjoy."

The feeling in the air intensified. Max found himself holding his breath.

"Step four. Shaping." Kellor's voice was completely focused now. "I take the energy I've drawn and I pour it into the Thoughtshape I created. Like filling a mold."

Still nothing visible.

"The Source wants to follow the shape I've given it," Kellor said. "If my mental image is clear and complete, it flows naturally. If there are gaps or contradictions..." He shrugged. "Well, that's when things get interesting. Usually in bad ways."

"Step five. Stabilization." The electric feeling in the air was stronger now, more focused. "I hold the shaped spell for just a moment, making sure everything is aligned properly. This is where most beginners fail—they get excited and skip this step."

Max could almost see something now. Not quite, but like looking at something out of the corner of his eye.

"And finally," Kellor said, "step six. Release."

He smiled.

A flame bloomed above his palm.

It was exactly what he'd described—the size of a large coin, flickering orange-yellow, hovering steadily three inches above his skin. But seeing it actually appear, watching reality bend to match someone's will, made Max's mouth fall open slightly.

"My God," he breathed.

"The flame will burn for as long as it takes to count slowly to a hundred," Kellor said conversationally, as if conjuring fire from nothing was the most natural thing in the world. "Then it will extinguish itself. No fuel, no heat source, no physical explanation. Just will made manifest."

Max stared at the flame. It looked completely real—it flickered like fire, cast dancing shadows on the walls, made the air above it shimmer with heat. But there was something slightly other about it too. Something that his brain insisted wasn't quite right, even though his eyes couldn't find anything wrong.

"How does it feel?" Max asked. "Casting, I mean."

Kellor considered this. "Like... have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, and then suddenly remembered it? That moment when everything clicks into place?"

Max nodded.

"It's like that, but instead of remembering a word, you're remembering how reality is supposed to work. And then gently suggesting that maybe it should work a little differently for a moment."

The flame flickered and went out, exactly sixty seconds after it had appeared.

"That," Kellor said, "is magic."

"Now," the old man continued, settling back against his desk, "before you get too excited about conjuring dragons out of thin air, let me explain a few things about actually learning magic."

He picked up his cup again and took another sip of whatever he was drinking.

"That demonstration I just gave you took me about three years to master when I was your age. The flame spell is considered one of the simplest possible manifestations, and I still managed to singe off my eyebrows at least a dozen times while learning it."

Max unconsciously touched his own eyebrows. "Three years for that?"

"Three years to do it reliably. Without accidentally setting my robes on fire, or creating a flame so hot it melted whatever I was holding, or producing something that looked like fire but actually turned out to be some kind of glowing swamp gas that made everyone in the room violently ill." Kellor's expression grew distant. "That was an unpleasant week."

"So magic is difficult."

"Magic," Kellor said with the kind of pride that suggested he considered this a personal virtue, "is the most demanding discipline that exists. It requires you to understand physics, biology, mathematics, philosophy, and metaphysics. All at once. While maintaining perfect mental clarity and emotional control." He gestured broadly. "Lesser minds break under the pressure. That's why there are so few of us."

The old man clearly took enormous pleasure in being part of such an exclusive club.

"The real challenge," Kellor continued, "isn't just the six steps I showed you. It's developing the intuition to feel the Source in the first place. And that feels different for every mage."

"Different how?"

Kellor considered this. "Some describe it as warmth. Others as a kind of singing in their bones. I knew a mage once who said it felt like standing in a gentle rainfall, except the rain was made of light." He shrugged. "For me, it feels like... have you ever stood near a very large waterfall? That sense of immense power moving just beyond your reach?"

Max nodded.

"That's what the Source feels like to me. Vast, constant, waiting." Kellor's eyes grew distant. "The trick is learning to step into that waterfall without being swept away by it."

"And that takes practice?"

"Years of practice. Daily practice. The kind of practice that makes your head ache and your hands shake from the effort." Kellor's voice took on a lecturing tone. "You'll spend months just learning to feel the Source consistently. More months learning to draw from it without either pulling too little to be useful or too much to control safely."

Max was starting to understand why there weren't more mages running around.

"But here's the thing that makes it all worthwhile," Kellor said, leaning forward with renewed enthusiasm. "Once you start to understand the theory, really understand it, you begin to see possibilities that others miss."

"What do you mean?"

"Take that flame spell I just cast. A village hedge-mage might spend weeks learning to create a flame by thinking about all the separate pieces—gathering the fire element from the air, providing something for it to consume, balancing the hot and dry humors, maintaining the proper mixture." Kellor gestured with his hands as he spoke. "His Thoughtshape becomes a complicated mess of different processes all happening at once."

Max nodded, following along.

"But a true scholar might have spent time actually watching how fire behaves. He notices that flames always need air—put a cup over a candle and it dies. He sees that fire must have something to consume—it devours wood, cloth, oil. He observes that you need heat to start a fire in the first place." Kellor's eyes grew more focused. "So his Thoughtshape becomes: 'create heat, provide fuel from the air itself, sustain the reaction.'"

Max felt something click in his head. "So the more you actually understand about how things work in the real world..."

"The simpler and more reliable your magic becomes. Exactly." Kellor grinned "A mage who's studied anatomy knows exactly which blood vessels to seal during healing. One who understands how plants actually grow can coax them to flourish in ways that amaze farmers who only know traditional planting wisdom."

Max's mind was racing. If magic worked by understanding the underlying principles of reality, then his modern knowledge could be a massive advantage. He knew things about how the world actually worked that wouldn't be discovered here for centuries.

"A mage who truly understands how the eye sees light can create illusions that fool anyone," Kellor continued. "One who knows the real reasons why some metals are stronger than others can forge weapons that seem impossible."

Max tried to keep his expression neutral, but inside he was practically vibrating with excitement. Physics. Chemistry. Mathematics far beyond what existed here. If he could figure out how to apply modern scientific understanding to this world's magic system...

"That's..." he started, then caught himself. He'd been about to mention germ theory, or atomic structure, or any number of concepts that probably didn't exist here yet. "That's fascinating."

"Isn't it?" Kellor looked pleased. "That's why mages become scholars, boy. We have to. Magic demands that we understand everything—mathematics to calculate precise effects, philosophy to grasp abstract concepts, natural studies to know what we're trying to change." His voice grew more animated. "The greatest mages in history weren't just powerful. They were innovators. They brought new ways of thinking to magic itself."

Max could practically see the possibilities unfolding.

"You're thinking," Kellor observed with approval. "Good. That's the first sign of a true mage. Now, shall we see if you can actually feel the Source?"

Max straightened in his chair. "Right now?"

"No time like the present. Close your eyes."

Max did as instructed, settling back in the chair and letting his eyes drift shut.

"First," Kellor's voice came from somewhere in front of him, "you need to find your center. Not some mystical nonsense—just a state of mental clarity. Push away all the distractions, all the noise in your head."

Max tried to clear his mind, but it was harder than it sounded. His thoughts kept drifting—to the confrontation with Aldwin, to the pain in his muscles, to the surreal fact that he was sitting in a medieval tower learning magic from a hundred-year-old man.

"Stop thinking so hard," Kellor said, and Max could hear the amusement in his voice. "You're not trying to solve a riddle. You're trying to listen."

"Listen to what?"

"Everything. Nothing. The space between thoughts." Kellor's voice was patient. "The Source isn't about forcing anything. It's about opening yourself to what's already there."

Max tried again, this time focusing on his breathing. In and out, steady and calm. The sounds of the room faded slightly—the crackling of the fire, the distant sounds from elsewhere in the Tower.

"Good. Now, while maintaining that stillness, I want you to... reach out. Not with your hands, but with your attention. Like you're trying to sense something just beyond your perception."

Max frowned, still keeping his eyes closed. Reach out with his attention? What did that even mean?

He tried to extend his awareness somehow, imagining it spreading outward from his body like ripples in a pond. Nothing happened that he could detect.

"I'm not feeling anything," he said.

"You won't, at first. The Source isn't obvious until you learn to recognize it. Try again. This time, don't search for something specific. Just... be open to whatever might be there."

Max tried again. And again. He spent what felt like a long time sitting in that chair with his eyes closed, trying to sense some mystical energy field that his rational mind insisted didn't exist.

Nothing.

He opened his eyes with a sigh. "I don't think I'm feeling anything."

Kellor didn't look surprised. "Of course you're not. I'd be shocked if you managed it on your first attempt." He stood up and moved back around to his chair. "Most mages take weeks of practice before they can reliably sense the Source. Some take months."

"Months?" Max felt a stab of disappointment.

"The Source isn't like a candle you can see clearly from across the room. It's more like... learning to hear a whisper in a crowded tavern. At first, there's too much noise. But the more you practice listening, the better you become at filtering out everything else." Kellor settled into his chair with a grunt. "The key is persistence. Every time you reach out, you get a little closer. Even when you don't feel anything, you're still training your mind to recognize what it's looking for."

Max nodded, though he still felt frustrated. "So I just... keep trying?"

"You keep trying. Every day, multiple times a day if possible. Eventually, you'll feel it. Just a flutter at first, like a butterfly landing on your shoulder. But once you know what to look for..." Kellor smiled. "Well, then the real work begins."

"And then you'll teach me to actually cast spells?"

"Once you can consistently reach the Source, yes. We'll start with the simplest possible manifestations and work our way up." Kellor picked up a piece of parchment from his desk and made a note. "I'll need to speak with Sir Gregory about your training schedule. Magic requires regular, disciplined practice. Can't be learned in spare moments between sword lessons."

Max felt a thrill of excitement despite his earlier failure. "How often are we talking?"

"Ideally? Every morning, for at least the time it takes the sun to move a hand's width across the sky." Kellor gestured toward the window. "Though in the beginning, we might not need that long. Your mind will tire quickly from the effort."

Max tried to convert "hand's width of sun movement" into something he could understand. Maybe an hour or two?

"But first," Kellor continued, "I need to have that conversation with Gregory. Make sure he understands that magical training isn't optional for a born mage. It's a responsibility." His voice took on that proud, slightly imperial tone again. "The realm has invested in your potential, boy. We don't waste that kind of resource."

"Right," Max said. "Speaking of sir Gregory, I should probably get back to him soon. Don't want to keep him waiting too long."

"Probably wise. Gregory gets tetchy when his schedule is disrupted." Kellor stood up, clearly preparing to dismiss him. "But before you go—keep practicing what I showed you. Even if you don't feel anything, the mental exercise is valuable. Think of it as... building muscle, but for your ability to perceive the Source."

Max stood as well, his legs protesting only slightly. The excitement of the magic lesson had apparently done wonders for his aches and pains.

"Thank you," he said, and meant it. "For the explanation, the demonstration, everything."

"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you can conjure a flame without setting yourself on fire." Kellor's grin was sharp. "That's when you'll know you're actually learning something useful."

Max moved toward the door, then paused. "One more question."

"Yes?"

"How will I know when I'm actually feeling the Source and not just... imagining it?"

Kellor's expression grew serious. "Trust me, boy. When you feel it for the first time, you'll know. It's not the sort of thing you can mistake for imagination." He settled back behind his desk. "The Source has a presence. A weight to it. Like standing next to something ancient and vast and aware."

"Aware?"

"Not intelligent, exactly. But... responsive. Like it's been waiting for you to notice it." Kellor waved a hand toward the door. "Now go on. I have other matters to attend to, and Gregory will be wondering where his squire has wandered off to."

Max nodded and headed for the door. As he reached for the handle, Kellor called after him.

"And Harek?"

Max turned back.

"When you do start to feel the Source... don't try to grab it. Don't force it. Think of it like approaching a wild animal. Too much eagerness will just scare it away."

Max nodded again, filed that advice away, and stepped out into the stairwell. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, leaving him alone with the long descent back down those same seventeen thousand steps.

But this time, the ache in his legs didn't bother him nearly as much. His mind was too busy turning over everything Kellor had explained, imagining the possibilities that lay ahead.

Magic. Actual, real magic. And if it worked by understanding the true nature of things...

Max paused halfway down the stairs as reality hit him like a cold bucket of water.

He knew about combustion being a chemical reaction, sure. But could he actually explain the precise molecular processes involved? He'd watched documentaries about cellular biology, but could he describe exactly how mitosis worked, step by step? He'd read about physics and chemistry, mostly to have something to talk about at parties and work functions, but the details...

The details were fuzzy. Embarrassingly fuzzy.

He knew that fire needed oxygen, but he couldn't remember the exact chemical formula for combustion. He knew about DNA and cellular repair, but he'd be hopeless trying to explain the specific mechanisms. His understanding was broad but shallow—the kind of knowledge you picked up from science channels and popular books, not the deep, precise understanding that would actually be useful for revolutionizing magic.

Max continued down the stairs, his excitement dampening considerably. What good was knowing that atoms existed if he couldn't remember how they actually bonded together?

But then another memory surfaced, this one from the novels he'd devoured so eagerly. There had been an arc where Bjorn needed to uncover his true heritage, to remember details from his childhood that had been buried by trauma. The solution had been a rare alchemical potion—something called the Draught of Perfect Recollection.

For a limited time, it had allowed Bjorn to remember everything he'd ever experienced with absolute clarity. Every conversation, every book he'd read, every lesson he'd learned. The effect was temporary, but he'd been able to retain the specific memories he focused on while under its influence.

Max stopped walking entirely.

If such a thing existed in this world... if he could get his hands on something like that...

Every documentary he'd ever watched. Every textbook he'd skimmed. Every casual article about scientific breakthroughs he'd read while procrastinating at work. All of it was still there in his brain somewhere, just buried under years of newer, less useful memories.

The possibilities made his head spin.

Max resumed his descent, but his mind was no longer on magic lessons or sword training. It was focused on a single, burning question:

Where exactly did one find a Draught of Perfect Recollection?

***

The small white spider pressed himself deeper into the crack between the stones, all eight eyes fixed on the confrontation unfolding in the stairwell below.

How dare he.

The spider's tiny body trembled with indignation as he watched the bald man—the insolent one—speak to the Great Savior with such disrespect. Such venom. Did this fool not understand who stood before him?

He mocks my Master. He threatens Him.

The spider could feel something building in the air, a crackling energy that made his tiny hairs stand on end. The Great Savior's power was stirring, responding to the challenge.

Yes, my master. Show him. Show him what happens to those who dare defy you.

The spider practically vibrated with anticipation as the argument escalated. He watched the Great Savior step closer, saw the dangerous glint in His eyes, felt the electric tension growing stronger. The very air seemed to thrum with barely contained force.

Unleash it. Let him feel your wrath.

Any moment now, the Great Savior would strike. The walls would crack. The stones would tremble. This insolent fool would learn—too late—the price of challenging one so mighty.

Let him suffer for his insolence.

But then... nothing.

The ornate door opened. An older man emerged, shouting about racket and children. The bald one straightened, bowed, and simply... left.

The spider stared in confusion as the confrontation ended not in devastation, but in words. No unleashing of power. No demonstration of the terrible strength that had been building in the air. The electric tension simply... faded.

He... let him go.

Understanding dawned slowly in the spider's transformed mind.

Mercy. He chose mercy.

The spider's eight eyes glistened with something approaching awe. Of course. Of course the Great Savior would not destroy such a pathetic creature. He possessed power beyond imagination—power the spider had felt building in the very air around them—yet He chose restraint.

He could have crushed that fool. Instead, He let him walk away.

The spider watched as his Master disappeared into the older man's chambers, and felt his devotion deepen even further.

Merciful. So powerful, yet merciful.

What a magnificent Master I serve.