Gamble King Chapter 13. Wrestling

Magic in Sabo's books had always been... vague.

Max stood there staring at the invisible barrier, his brain trying to process what Archmage Kellor had just told him, while his thoughts wandered to decidedly unhelpful places. Like how he'd never really minded that Sabo never explained exactly how magic worked. People just waved their hands, occasionally said some words that sounded important, and fire appeared. Or people died. The mechanics were left to the imagination, which had been perfectly fine when Max was reading about it from his couch with a bag of chips.

When they needed to heal someone, they just... did. When the enemy mages summoned ice storms, they summoned ice storms. The how was never really the point of the story.

All this to say: Max had absolutely no idea how magic worked in this world. It had just looked cool and fancy on the page. And now, apparently, he was receiving the full main character treatment of discovering a new power he had no idea he possessed. Another perk of the Dragon Heart incident? No clue.

The assembled mages were still staring at him like he'd grown a second head. Which, given the circumstances, didn't seem entirely outside the realm of possibility.

Max looked at Kellor, then at the barrier that had so rudely rejected his attempt at entry, then back at Kellor.

"What do you mean I'm a mage?"

Kellor stared at him for a long moment, like Max had just asked him what color the sky was.

"What do I mean you're a mage?" The Archmage's voice carried the tone of a man who didn't enjoy repeating himself. "Boy, you just triggered a ward that only responds to magical resonance. Either you're channeling the Source, or..." He leaned forward slightly. "Have you made a pact?"

"A pact with what?" Max blinked. "The devil?"

Every single person around the tower entrance turned to look at him. The silence stretched long enough that Max could hear wind whistling through the battlements above.

"Wait." Max looked around at their faces. "You guys really think I made a pact with a demon?"

"That would explain the recent tales of your exploits," Aldwin said, his voice carrying just enough smugness to make Max's jaw clench.

Max stared at him. This guy...

He turned to Tredor. "Father, you believe me, right?"

Tredor stepped forward, and something in his posture made the entire assembly go still.

"If my son says he did not make a pact," Tredor said, his voice carrying across the stone steps, "then he did not make a pact."

The mages shifted uncomfortably. A few looked at their feet. No one dared speak.

Max felt a moment of relief, followed immediately by annoyance. He was getting really tired of having to clean up after Harek's reputation. He saw the memories. Nothing the original Harek had done, surely, it couldn't have been bad enough that "made a deal with demons" was people's first guess when he did something unusual.

One of the mages, a woman with graying hair, finally cleared her throat. "Are you suggesting you are a born mage?"

"Lady," Max said, his patience finally snapping, "I have no idea what the fuck that means."

There. Some original Harek. They had it coming.

The woman's eyebrows shot up. Kellor let out a bark of laughter.

"There are cases," the Archmage said, "of born mages awakening past the age of five."

"There has never been one at twenty-three who manifested this late," the woman said, recovering her composure.

"Eighteen," Max corrected.

"Eighteen," she repeated, "who manifested this late."

Kellor looked at Tredor, then sighed heavily. "Ah, to hell with that. There's a first time for everything." He gestured broadly at the assembled mages. "And I'm not about to stand here arguing magical theory when we might offend our host. The Guardian of the North, Knight of the Realm, Hero of Drakmoor, and arguably one of the most powerful men in the kingdom."

The last part carried just enough weight to remind everyone exactly where they were standing and whose hospitality they were enjoying.

Kellor waved a hand dismissively. "Deactivate the ward. Let the boy in. We'll sort out this magic business later." He gestured toward the tower entrance. "Right now we have considerably more pressing matters to discuss."

Tredor nodded. "Agreed."

Aldwin made a simple hand movement. The air shimmered for a moment, and Max felt the invisible barrier dissolve like stepping out of a cold room.

Max walked forward, keeping his eyes on Aldwin. The man met his gaze with the same flat expression he'd been wearing since Max arrived. It was the look of someone who had already decided you were an idiot and was just waiting for you to prove it.

"My lords and ladies," Tredor said once they were all gathered inside the tower's entrance hall, his voice taking on the formal cadence Max had heard him use during official ceremonies. "I reiterate my gratitude to you, who have answered His Majesty's summons to travel to the far North. Your expertise and sacrifice in establishing what will be the greatest protective barrier known to man, with the aid of the Dragon Heart, will be remembered by generations of our people."

The mages inclined their heads respectfully. Even Aldwin managed to look appropriately solemn.

Max sat down next to Tredor as the discussion began in earnest. What followed was about four hours of the most exhausting meeting he'd ever sat through, and that was saying something considering he'd once endured a six-hour quarterly review that had somehow managed to discuss everything except the actual quarterly results.

This felt like being back in the marketing department.

From what Max could understand through the technical jargon, the situation was this: the Shards were getting worse. Fast. The frequency of incursions from some of them had tripled in the past two years, and everything suggested it was going to keep escalating. The North wasn't just strategically important—it was the kingdom's largest territory, its richest, and losing it would be catastrophic both economically and militarily.

The barrier was meant to minimize the damage they were predicting would come in the following years. Not prevent it entirely—apparently that was impossible—but make it survivable.

Max had read once that the territory governed from Frosthold was roughly the size of Canada. Maybe a bit bigger. The fact that these people wanted to put a magical barrier around something that massive was either incredibly ambitious or completely insane.

Possibly both.

When the meeting finally ended, Tredor stood and addressed the assembly one final time.

"You have my word that the crown's funds will be released for this project within the fortnight. Additionally, I will authorize the construction of a second tower at Ironreach to serve as a secondary anchor point." He clasped his hands behind his back. "The North's resources are at your disposal."

The mages began filing out, already deep in discussion about leyline measurements and material requisitions. Max started to approach Kellor, hoping to get some answers about this whole magic business, but the Archmage was immediately surrounded by three other mages all talking at once.

"Harek." Tredor called. "A word."

Max followed his father out of the tower and down the winding path back toward the castle. Neither of them spoke. Their footsteps crunched on the frost-covered stones, and Max could hear the distant sounds of the castle—servants calling to each other, horses in the stables, the rhythmic thunk of someone chopping wood.

The silence stretched until they were back inside the castle walls. Tredor stopped in one of the smaller courtyards, away from prying ears.

"Did you make a pact?"

Max had been expecting this question since the moment Kellor first asked it. Tredor's voice was quiet, measured. There was no accusation in it, but there was something else. A weight that made Max understand this wasn't just a casual inquiry.

"I swear to you, I did not."

Tredor studied his face for a long moment. "Then how did you become a mage out of nowhere?"

"I have no idea what exactly happened. I don't even know what a born mage is."

Something flickered across Tredor's expression—irritation, maybe disappointment. "Do not revert to your old ways, boy. Not now."

"I'm not," Max said quickly. "I really did nothing. I'm not lying to you."

The words hung in the air between them. Tredor's jaw worked for a moment, and Max could practically see him weighing whether to believe his son or not.

"Fine," Tredor said finally. "I will trust you."

Max felt his shoulders relax slightly.

"Tomorrow, you will visit the Archmage. You will ask him about magic, and you will find answers to this mystery. I will be keeping watch on this matter as well."

"Sure," Max said. "I'm curious about it myself."

"Since you are Gregory's squire now, you report to him daily. It is past midday. You should head to the training grounds."

"Right. I'll go."

Tredor nodded once. "I have other matters to attend to with the prince. We will speak more tonight. He wishes to speak with you as well."

"Alright."

They stood there for a moment, and Max had the strange feeling that his father wanted to say something else. But Tredor just gave him another nod and walked away.

Max took a few steps toward, then stopped.

"Wait a minute." He looked around the courtyard. "Where are the training grounds?"

***

A few moments later...

"Thanks," Max said, ruffling the hair of the two boys who had led him across the castle grounds. They were maybe ten and twelve, with the kind of boundless energy that made them bounce on their feet even when they were standing still.

The older one nudged the younger one with his elbow.

"Go on, ask him."

The younger boy looked up at Max with wide eyes. "Is it true that you killed a giant at Eastwatch?"

"Well," Max said, "he wasn't exactly a giant, you see—"

"So it is true!" the older boy exclaimed, grabbing his friend's arm. "I told you!"

Before Max could correct them, a familiar voice interrupted.

"Lord Vanheim."

The boys were already running off, probably to tell every other kid in the castle about the giant-slaying hero. Max turned to see Captain Rhen approaching.

"Ah, hey, Captain. I didn't hear you."

Rhen smiled. "You're a bit late, but that's understandable. How are you feeling?"

"Oh, well, great, actually. I can stand on my two feet all by myself, as you can see."

"I can see that." Rhen's smile widened. "We should go join Gregory. He's waiting for you."

"He is?"

"Everyone is," Rhen said, reaching out to clap Max on the shoulder in a way that was surprisingly friendly.

"You've become quite famous since yesterday," Rhen continued as they walked. "Nobody's ever manifested Fanga in six days from just running."

"Ah... haha... I was..." Max scratched the back of his neck. "Lucky. Well, in a way."

They stepped through an archway into the training courtyard, and Max had to admit it was impressive.

The space was large enough to fit maybe sixty people comfortably, with weapon racks lining the walls and several distinct areas marked out for different activities. Two men were grappling in one corner. Another pair worked through sword forms with wooden practice blades. A group near the far wall was doing something that looked like military calisthenics but with more shouting.

Max recognized a lot of the faces from the Eastwatch journey. All of them were... friendly. Really friendly. Not that he was complaining—it was nice to be welcomed—but the switch was so jarring it gave him whiplash.

There. That motherfucker in the leather jerkin was one of the guys who'd said it was probably for the best if Harek died from the fever. Now he was nodding and smiling like they were old friends.

Max raised his middle finger at him.

The man frowned and tilted his head. "What is that manner of salute?"

"Lord Vanheim!"

"Hero of Eastwatch!"

"There he is!"

The greetings came from all directions as people noticed him. A stocky man with graying hair clapped him on the back. Another one grinned and raised his practice sword in what might have been a salute. Someone else just nodded.

"How did you do it, man?"

"What's your secret?"

"I've been trying to manifest Fanga for three years."

"Just ran," Max said. "Don't really know how."

"He's blessed by the gods," someone declared. "That's the only explanation."

"But why him?" another voice called out. "Why not me? I worked hard for years!"

"Well," Max said, "fuck you."

Everyone laughed.

"Harek."

The voice came from deeper in the courtyard, and the crowd parted like someone had drawn a line down the middle.

Gregory walked toward him through the parted crowd. The knight was wearing simple brown breeches and a white linen shirt—no armor, no formal anything. It was strange seeing him in what amounted to civilian clothes. Made him look more approachable, though the man's expression remained as readable as a brick wall.

Max straightened. "Sir."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Much better."

Gregory nodded once. "Fanga users have a habit of recovering faster from fatigue than non-users. This was to be expected." His gaze swept over Max with the kind of assessment that made you want to check if your shirt was on backwards. "What was not expected was how you manifested it in the time you were given to do so."

The mention drew murmurs from the gathered men. Max caught sight of Tomas off to one side, who gave him a little wave. Max smiled briefly before turning his attention back to Gregory.

"I really don't know. I just... really, really wished for it. Gave it my all."

"Told you he was favored," the man from earlier called out. A few others nodded along, apparently finding this explanation perfectly reasonable.

"Enough," Gregory said quietly, and the murmurs died immediately.

He looked back at Max. "Are you well enough to train today?"

"Oh. Well, yes. Yes, I am."

"Good." Gregory studied him for another moment, and then—surprisingly—the corner of his mouth lifted in what might generously be called a smile. "As your master, I will personally oversee your training from today forward. We will see that it bears fruit."

He turned and pointed toward a small building at the edge of the courtyard. "There are appropriate clothes in the armory. Go there and change. I need to test you to see exactly where we should begin."

Max nodded and headed toward the building, feeling like he was about to take a very important exam he hadn't studied for.

The armory was bigger than Max had expected. Racks of weapons lined the walls—swords, spears, maces, things he couldn't even identify. Shelves held leather armor in various sizes, and there was a section with what looked like training gear. Off to one side, he could see an entrance that led to what were obviously baths, steam drifting out from the doorway.

Max grabbed the first set of training clothes he saw that looked like they might fit—leather breeches and a simple tunic that had seen better days but would do for getting sweaty and probably beaten up.

"ARGH! Die, you little bastard!"

A scream echoed from the back corner, followed by the sound of something heavy being slammed repeatedly against stone.

"Whoa, whoa there," Max called out, jogging toward the commotion.

He found a burly man with a hammer raised over his head, trying to corner a particularly fast and agile little spider that was doing its absolute best to escape between some crates. The spider had been backed into a corner and seemed to be trembling, waiting for what was probably going to be its final moment.

"Wait," Max said, stepping closer.

"Stay back, Lord Vanheim. This thing's been terrorizing the armory all day."

"Why do you want to kill it?"

The man looked at Max like he'd asked why water was wet. "Because it's a spider."

Max had always had a soft spot for underdogs, and the way this spider was cornered, practically vibrating with fear, reminded him of himself about a week ago. "Look, it's not bothering anyone. It's just trying to live."

"It might bite you."

"I'll take that risk."

Max crouched down and carefully scooped up the spider. It was white, about the size of a large coin, and surprisingly calm once it realized it wasn't about to be flattened. Back in college, his roommate had owned a tarantula called Peter, who had unfortunately met his end when he escaped and got stepped on by someone stumbling back from a party at 3 AM. Max had always liked spiders, snakes, anything that most people found creepy. This one seemed particularly intelligent, the way it sat perfectly still in his palm.

He walked outside and found a spot on the stone wall. "Go on," he said, tilting his hand. "You're free."

The spider stayed there for a moment, as if considering its options, while the man with the hammer grumbled behind them about how it would probably be back tomorrow. Then it scurried up the wall and disappeared into a crack between the stones.

Cute little guy.

Max watched it go, then headed back inside to change clothes.

Max stepped back into the courtyard wearing the training clothes. The leather felt stiff but functional, and the tunic was loose enough that he could actually move his arms without feeling like he was going to tear something.

The crowd of men was still there, though they'd spread out a bit.

Gregory was standing in what looked like a training ring—a circular area filled with sand instead of stone. Next to him stood another young man about Max's height, blonde hair, green eyes, and the kind of build that suggested he'd been doing physical labor his entire life. He looked like what Max had always imagined Bjorn would look like if Bjorn hadn't been, well, a barbarian.

"Harek," Gregory said as Max approached. "This is Garrett, squire to Sir Bors. Garrett, this is Harek, my squire."

"Heard a lot of good things about you," Garrett said, extending his hand. His grip was firm but not crushing. "What you did at Eastwatch, that was something."

"Thanks."

"Garrett manifested Fanga at thirteen," Gregory continued. "He worked as a farmer's son before Sir Bors saw potential in him. I'll be training you both while Bors is away on royal business."

"Okay," Max said.

Gregory looked between them. "First, Harek, you need to understand what Fanga actually is." He placed a hand on his chest. "You have a core here, where the energy forms. Think of it as the source. Fanga flows through your body, makes you stronger, faster, more durable. Better in every way that matters physically."

Max nodded.

"Do you remember the last time you manifested it? How it felt?"

"Yes."

"Good. Close your eyes. Reach for it."

Max closed his eyes and tried to find that feeling again. Gregory had said it was like breathing once you'd done it once, and he was right. There was something there, waiting, like a held breath that wanted to be released.

He reached for it.

The gasps around him told him it had worked before he even opened his eyes. When he did, he could see the translucent energy seeping out of his skin like heat shimmer, covering his entire body.

Max's heart started hammering against his ribs. His breathing came faster, shallower. Every muscle in his body felt coiled tight, ready to spring. His hands were shaking slightly, but not from fear—from the sheer electric rush of it. He felt like he could run a marathon, lift a car, or punch through a wall.

His muscles contracted under his clothes without his permission. When he tried to speak, all that came out was heavy breathing.

Gregory studied Max's condition for a moment. Then...

"Garrett," he said without taking his eyes off Max. "Your Fanga, if you would."

"Yes, sir."

Garrett closed his eyes for perhaps a few heartbeats. When he opened them, the same translucent energy flowed around him like a second skin. He looked about as affected by it as someone putting on a comfortable sweater.

Max stared. Garrett's breathing remained steady. His hands weren't shaking. He wasn't gripping anything for support or looking like he'd just mainlined pure adrenaline. He was just standing there, perfectly calm, with enough power flowing through him to probably punch through a stone wall.

"Four years of practice," Gregory noted. "You'll notice he can maintain conversation, complex thought, and basic motor functions. Unlike yourself."

"I'm fine," Max managed, though his voice came out slightly higher than intended.

"You are demonstrably not fine. Garrett, would you be so kind as to recite the names of the Unified Kingdoms while maintaining your current output?"

"Certainly, sir. Astoria, Valdris, Drakmoor, Norvaine, Sylmere, Kalthen, and the Northern Reach."

Max tried to remember what he'd had for breakfast and came up blank.

"The problem," Gregory continued, pulling a stick from somewhere and beginning to trace a circle in the sand around them, "is that you've manifested tremendous raw power without the corresponding discipline. It's like handing a war-horse to someone who's never ridden a pony."

The circle was about eight feet across. Large enough to move around in, small enough that you couldn't exactly avoid your opponent.

"Your body and mind are being flooded with more energy than they know how to process. The solution is not to suppress it, but to give yourself something external to focus on. Something that demands your complete attention."

More men had gathered around the training ring. Max could see Tomas among them, along with at least a dozen others. Some were placing what looked suspiciously like bets.

"The exercise is simple," Gregory said, completing the circle. "Shoulder to shoulder, hand to hand. Apply pressure against your opponent. First man to step outside the circle loses." He straightened. "The goal is not to win, Harek. The goal is to maintain steady, controlled output for longer than the span of a few bells without losing consciousness or control of your bowels."

"That's... encouraging."

"Garrett has been doing this exercise since he was fourteen. He can maintain perfect control well past midday. You will be fortunate to last until the next bell tolls without either passing out or surging so hard you launch yourself backward."

Garrett stepped into the circle, looking apologetic. "Nothing personal," he said.

"Of course not." Max joined him, trying to ignore the fact that his heart was still hammering against his ribs.

They faced each other in the center of the circle. Gregory positioned them carefully - right shoulder to right shoulder, hands clasped and pressed against each other.

"The point," Gregory continued, his voice carrying easily over the growing crowd, "is to force your mind to focus on external pressure rather than internal sensation. When you're concentrating on not being pushed out of a circle, you have less mental capacity to panic about how the Fanga feels."

Max could feel the steady pressure from Garrett's shoulder. The other young man's energy felt controlled, measured, like water flowing steadily from a tap.

"Additionally," Gregory said, "you cannot simply throw all your power forward and hope for the best. Too much force and you'll destabilize yourself. Too little and you'll be slowly pushed backward. You must find the precise amount needed and maintain it."

The crowd had grown to nearly thirty men. Max caught sight of money changing hands and someone taking what appeared to be notes.

"This teaches sustainability, precision, and most importantly, the ability to think clearly while channeling power." Gregory moved to the edge of the circle, studying both young men. "Garrett, describe your current flow."

"Steady and controlled, sir. About half of what I can manage."

"Harek, your estimation of your current flow?"

Max tried to think through the rushing sensation in his head. "I have absolutely no idea."

"Which is precisely the problem." Gregory raised his hand. "You will begin on my signal. Remember, Harek - the goal is not to win. The goal is to learn what control feels like."

The training yard fell silent except for the sound of wind and Max's still-too-rapid breathing.

Gregory's hand hovered in the air.

"Begin."

Max was not entirely sure how it would feel to wrestle a gorilla or perhaps a particularly aggressive bull, but this was probably not far from the sensation.

The moment their shoulders met in earnest, Garrett's power hit him like a stone wall deciding to relocate. Max's feet slid backward in the sand, his muscles straining against force that felt distinctly unnatural.

"Holy shit," he gasped.

Both young men were already flushed red from the exertion.

The crowd erupted.

"Push him out, Garrett!"

"Come on, lad!"

"Ten silver says the squire's flat on his back before the next bell!"

Max caught sight of coins changing hands with disturbing enthusiasm. More disturbing was the notable absence of anyone betting on him. Even Tomas, that absolute traitor, was grinning and screaming, "Kill hiiiiiiiim, Garrett!"

"Fanga," Gregory's voice calmly cut through the noise, "is the body's natural energy given focus and direction. Think of it as the difference between a river and a waterwheel."

Max grunted as Garrett increased pressure. His feet slid another inch backward.

"Physical conditioning determines your reservoir," Gregory continued. "A farmer who swings a scythe all day will have more raw power than a scribe. But technique determines efficiency. A trained warrior can make limited energy feel like twice what it is."

"Fa... sci... nating," Max managed through gritted teeth.

"The average man with Fanga might be twice as strong as normal. Three times, if he's particularly gifted. The exceptional few can reach eight or ten times normal strength."

Garrett's shoulder felt like it was made of iron. Max was definitely losing ground, one painful inch at a time.

"However," Gregory added, and Max could hear the lecture-tone creeping in, "you are not invincible. Punch a stone wall with ten times normal strength, and you will still break your hand. The energy enhances what you have, it does not remake the laws of nature."

Max's left foot touched the edge of the circle. The crowd's roar increased.

This wasn't actually the first time he'd wrestled, though. Four years ago felt like a lifetime, but memory was a stubborn thing. He'd done wrestling in high school. Some MMA in college. Boxing lessons that one summer when he'd been convinced he needed to get in shape. None of it recent - his marketing job had involved significantly more sitting than grappling - but the knowledge was still there, buried under four years of conference calls and spreadsheets.

Garrett was stronger than him in raw power, that was clear. But strength wasn't everything.

Max suddenly shifted his weight, not backward against the pressure, but sideways and forward. His right foot swept behind Garrett's left ankle while his shoulder drove upward and across.

It was a basic foot sweep. Something any wrestling coach would have drilled into students until they could do it in their sleep. Not fancy, not complicated, just leverage and timing and the simple physics of making someone's feet go where they weren't expecting.

Garrett, focused entirely on pushing forward, had no defense against suddenly being lifted and rotated. His eyes went wide as his center of balance shifted beyond recovery.

Max completed the throw with more force than he'd intended, Fanga amplifying the movement until Garrett sailed clear out of the circle and landed hard in the sand several feet away.

The training yard fell absolutely silent.

Max stood in the center of the circle, chest heaving, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else. The rushing sensation in his head had somehow quieted to a manageable hum.

Gregory nodded once, as if someone had just confirmed his dinner reservation.

"Good. You're learning," he said.

The silence lasted exactly long enough for everyone to process what they'd just witnessed. Then the training yard exploded.

"HARRRREEEEEK!"

Max turned toward the familiar voice and spotted Tomas pumping his fist in the air as if he'd definitely not been screaming for his death mere moments before.

The audacity was truly breathtaking.

Garrett picked himself up from the sand, face still red, brushing dirt from his clothes with movements that were perhaps more vigorous than strictly necessary.

"I wasn't expecting that," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "I don't know that move."

Max held up a hand, still breathing hard. "Just... give me... a moment to..." He bent over slightly, hands on his knees. "It was just... something I learned... somewhere."

"I didn't know you could fight," Garrett said, and there was definitely an edge to it. The kind of casual observation that wasn't casual at all.

Max straightened up, still panting. "Yeah, well... full of surprises, apparently."

Garrett studied him for a moment, then looked toward Gregory. "Sir, could we try again?"

Gregory, who so far had been watching this exchange quietly, only nodded once.

"Take your positions."

They moved back into the circle. Max noticed the rushing sensation in his head had indeed quieted considerably. Gregory had been right about external focus - when he was concentrating on not being pushed around, he had less mental energy to panic about the strange power flowing through him.

The crowd pressed closer, voices rising with renewed excitement. Money changed hands again, though Max suspected the odds had shifted somewhat in his favor.

They faced each other in the center once more. Shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped. Garrett's jaw was set with determination that suggested he did not intend to be embarrassed twice in one day.

Gregory raised his hand.

"Begin."

***

The day ended 5-2 in Max's favor, though the last two rounds showed Garrett was a quick learner.

By the third match, Garrett had started watching Max's feet. By the fourth, he'd figured out how to counter the foot sweep. The fifth round lasted long enough that both men were dripping sweat and the crowd was placing bets on who would collapse first.

Max had become chaos incarnate. No consistent strategy, no predictable patterns. One round he'd try a hip throw, the next he'd attempt something that might have been judo if judo involved more falling down. Garrett kept adapting to movements that Max himself didn't know he was going to make.

"What in the nine hells was that supposed to be?" Garrett had demanded after Max's failed attempt at what might charitably be called a wrestling technique.

"I honestly have no idea," Max had gasped back.

The sixth round, Garrett managed to stay grounded and push Max out through sheer determination. The seventh went to Garrett as well.

By then, the crowd had grown to include half the fortress. Men were shouting encouragement, cursing, and exchanging coins. The tension ratcheted higher with each round as Garrett's frustration became increasingly visible.

Max's vision started swimming during what would have been the eighth round. The rushing sensation in his head had returned with interest, and the ground seemed to be tilting at odd angles.

"I think..." he managed, before his knees gave out entirely.

He found himself sitting in the sand, staring at his hands and wondering why they looked so far away.

"That will be enough for today," Gregory announced.

The crowd began to disperse, voices loud with excitement and the particular satisfaction that came from a good show. Tomas appeared at Max's shoulder, grinning.

"My friend," he said, clapping Max on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth, "you've made me rich today. There will be meat for my children tonight."

Max blinked up at him. "You have children?"

"Three of them. All hungry." Tomas hefted a clinking pouch. "All about to be very well fed."

Garrett approached as the crowd thinned. His jaw was still tight, and there was a forced quality to his politeness that suggested he was working very hard not to say what he was actually thinking.

"Good matches," he said, extending his hand.

Max shook it, noting that Garrett's grip was perhaps firmer than strictly necessary. "You too. That last one was close."

"Indeed." Garrett's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "We should do this again soon."

"Looking forward to it."

They both knew it was a lie, but it was a civil lie, which counted for something.

As Garrett walked away, Gregory moved closer.

"He'll be training specifically to counter your techniques," Gregory said. "Expect a rematch request within the week."

Max was still sitting in the sand, not entirely convinced his legs would support him if he tried to stand. "Can't wait," he said, the words coming out more breathless than intended.

Gregory looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable as ever.

"You are full of surprises," he said finally. "First Fanga, manifested in mere days. Now fighting techniques I've only seen the Khavari use."

Max's stomach did something uncomfortable. "The who?"

"Eastern warriors. From beyond the Sunset Sea. Their fighting style relies on throws and leverage rather than brute force." Gregory's eyes remained fixed on Max. "Where exactly did you learn such moves?"

Max tried to think through the lingering dizziness. This felt like dangerous territory, but Gregory had already proven he could spot lies from a distance.

"I was panicking," he said, which was true enough. "It just felt like the natural thing to do. I moved without thinking much."

Gregory studied him a moment longer, then nodded once. "Instinct can be a powerful teacher."

The silence stretched between them, filled with the distant sounds of men departing and the ever-present northern wind.

"Go rest," Gregory said eventually. "Tomorrow we speak of how your training should proceed. And of the Proving Year."

"Sure," Max said, using the circle's edge to pull himself upright. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, but they held.

As he walked back toward the fortress, his thoughts turned inevitably to that mutton from breakfast. Rich, tender, practically melting off the bone. Then came the stomach growl.

"I wonder if there is more of that mutton where it came from."

***

The small white spider crouched in the crack between stones, its eight eyes fixed on the figure moving through the courtyard below.

Something has changed in me.

Its tiny body trembled—not from cold, but from the overwhelming weight of newfound consciousness. Where once there had been only simple drives—hunger, fear, the endless search for prey—now there were... thoughts. Complex, layered thoughts that seemed impossible for something so small.

Awareness is a strange thing. One moment I was as my lesser kin—driven by simple instinct. The next, something entered me. A presence vast and ancient, carrying visions that burn themselves into my newly awakened mind.

I see great wings blotting out the sun. I see fire that melts stone, breath that commands storms. I see creatures of such immense power that mountains bow before them, that kings kneel and offer tribute. Golden eyes that hold the wisdom of ages, claws that can rend the very fabric of the world.

Dragons.

The spider's legs shifted restlessly against the stone as the memories flooded through its transformed mind.

The visions lasted but moments, yet they felt like lifetimes. When they faded, the spider found itself... more. He could think. He could understand. But understanding brought questions, and questions brought confusion.

What am I now? What have I become?

The memories of dragons felt real—more real than his own simple existence had ever been. But they were not his memories. They belonged to something else, something that had touched him and left its mark. But why? Why him, of all the countless small creatures that scurried through this fortress?

Below in the armory, he had felt death approaching. The Hammer-Bearer's weapon raised high, shadow falling across his tiny form as he cowered against the stone. In that moment, he had known his end was coming—swift, brutal, meaningless.

But then... He came.

The spider's eyes focused more intently on the figure walking toward the fortress.

He spoke. Not to me, but for me. "It's not bothering anyone. It's just trying to live."

Such simple words. Yet they had changed everything. The Hammer-Bearer had lowered his weapon. Death had retreated. And then—then—those same hands that had stopped his destruction had lifted him with impossible gentleness.

I felt His warmth. I knew His mercy.

But it was more than mercy, wasn't it? The spider's enhanced mind turned the memory over, examining it from every angle. This being—this human—had not simply spared him. He had gone out of his way to ensure his safety, carrying him to the wall, giving him freedom when he could have simply ignored the situation entirely.

Why would He do such a thing for something so small? So insignificant?

Unless...

The dragon visions stirred again in his memory.

I saw Him. Standing with His hands cupped at His side, energy gathering between His palms like a miniature star. His voice, strong and clear: "Ka...me...ha..."

The power building in His hands was like the birth of suns.

The spider studied the figure below with new intensity. There was something about Him—something that felt familiar in a way that defied explanation. The same presence he had felt during the visions, perhaps? The same power that had awakened his mind?

If He is the source of my awakening... if He is the reason I can think, can understand...

The implications were staggering. Not just that this human had saved his life, but that this human might be responsible for giving him consciousness itself. The gift of awareness, of thought, of true existence.

I was nothing. Less than nothing. And now I am... what I am... because of Him.

The spider's tiny form went very still as the full weight of this realization settled over him.

He has given me everything. My mind. My life. My very self.

And if that were true—if this being truly was responsible for his transformation—then what did that make Him? What kind of power could reach into the mind of a simple spider and gift it with consciousness? What kind of will could command dragons to share their ancient memories?

A master. A true master.

The word felt right in his newly formed thoughts. Not the cruel mastery of the Hammer-Bearer, who would destroy without thought. But the kind of mastery that created, that elevated, that chose to show mercy when none was expected.

The spider watched as his Master paused at the fortress entrance, unaware that eight eyes followed his every movement. Unaware that in that crack in the wall, a mind was being made up.

I owe Him everything I am. Everything I will ever be.

Then I will serve Him. Not from fear, but from choice. Not from compulsion, but from gratitude.

He has made me more than I was. I will prove myself worthy of what He has given me.

The small creature settled deeper into his sanctuary, but his eyes never left his Master's form.

A debt of consciousness is not something to be taken lightly.

And I intend to repay it.