Gamble King chapter 06. Hypothetically

On the morning of the sixth day, Max woke before the dawn horn sounded. His final day to accomplish the impossible. Tomorrow at dawn, Gregory would test him for Fanga, find him lacking, and reject him as a squire.

He sat up on his bedroll, muscles protesting the movement but no longer screaming in agony as they had those first few days. The camp was silent save for the occasional pop from dying fires and the soft snores of sleeping soldiers.

Max rubbed his face, feeling the grime of several days' travel.

He'd been focusing so much on running that personal hygiene had become... optional. Which was a polite way of saying he stank.

Everyone stank.

The whole camp reeked of unwashed bodies, leather, horses, and smoke.

Reading about medieval fantasy worlds was one thing. Living in one--with its complete lack of indoor plumbing, deodorant, or even basic soap--was an entirely different experience.

"Definitely need to fix that," he muttered, standing and stretching carefully.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him it had been hours since his last meal. Breakfast wouldn't be ready for a while yet—the camp cooks were just starting to stir. Maybe he could find something to tide him over.

As Max wandered between the tents, he spotted a cluster of bushes laden with small, round berries at the edge of camp. They looked plump and inviting, their deep blue color visible even in the pre-dawn light.

"Breakfast solved," he murmured, reaching out to pluck a handful.

"Touch those and you'll be dead before you know it," a gruff voice said from behind him.

Max turned to find Gerth, the old healer, watching him with a mixture of exasperation and alarm.

"They're poisonous?" Max asked, pulling his hand back quickly.

"Nightshade's cousin, we call it," Gerth explained, coming closer to examine the bush. "Doesn't even hurt. Makes you sleep, then never wake." He shook his head. "Nasty business."

"Thanks for the warning," Max said, genuinely grateful. Death by berry would have been an embarrassing end to his time in this world.

"Don't thank me yet," Gerth snorted. "I just saved myself the trouble of dealing with your corpse. I've got enough work without adding 'another noble's idiot son poisoned himself' to my list of duties."

"Charming as always," Max replied dryly.

Gerth grunted, already turning away. "Clean yourself up. You smell like the wrong end of a horse."

"That was next on my list," Max assured him.

Tomas had mentioned a river not far from their camp--the source of their drinking water and, for the more fastidious soldiers, a place to rinse off the worst of the road dust. Max grabbed a small cloth that passed for a towel in this world and headed in that direction, guided by the sound of running water.

It was cold outside. A sign that they were close to the northern borders.

The river wasn't large--more of a wide stream, really--but the water ran clear over smooth stones. Dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky, coloring everything in a dim gray light. No one else seemed to be up yet, giving Max a rare moment of privacy.

He knelt at the river's edge and splashed cold water on his face, gasping at the shock of it. After washing away the sleep from his eyes, he sat back on his heels and stared at his reflection in the calm eddy near the bank.

Harek's face stared back at him, looking less puffy than it had a few days ago. The constant running was already showing results, thinning his cheeks slightly and bringing out the bone structure beneath.

"Should have packed toothpaste when crossing into a fantasy world," he muttered, running his tongue over his teeth. "And shampoo. And toilet paper. Especially toilet paper."

He dipped his hands back into the water, preparing to splash his face again, when something moved in the reflection beside his own.

Max froze.

A woman's head broke the surface of the water in the deeper part of the river, not ten feet away. Blonde hair, slicked back and darkened by water, framed a face that would have stopped traffic in his old world. High cheekbones, delicate nose, and eyes so green they seemed to glow in the early morning light.

She hadn't noticed him yet, turning slightly to wring water from her hair, which fell in waves down her back. Max couldn't see anything below her shoulders—the water's surface hid the rest of her—but the implications were clear.

She was bathing. Which meant she was probably naked. Which meant Max should definitely look away and leave immediately.

He didn't move.

The woman turned, her gaze catching his. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn't scream or duck beneath the water as he might have expected. Instead, she simply stared back, as if evaluating whether he posed a threat.

"You're not a man-eating mermaid, are you?" Max asked.

It wasn't the smoothest opening line, but in his defense, he'd just woken up, and he still had ten rerolls if this went badly. His threat assessment had shifted dramatically since acquiring the ability to come back from death.

The woman's lips quirked in a small, restrained smile. "No," she replied, her voice low and melodious. "I am not."

"Good to know," Max nodded, as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation and not a strange encounter at a river at dawn. "Just checking. This world is full of surprises."

"They all are."

"What do you mean?" Max asked, suddenly curious.

"The world of men, the world of women, the world of day, the world of night," she explained. "Each person walks through many worlds at once."

"Right..." Max said slowly. "So... you're human, then?"

The woman tilted her head slightly, water droplets sliding down her neck. "I am a daughter of the Elder Domains, as are you, Lord Vanheim."

That wasn't exactly an answer, Max noted. And she knew who he was, which felt strange.

Was this one of those lucky encounters?

...Wait.

"You didn't actually answer my question," he pointed out.

"I believe I did," she replied, that same small smile playing at her lips.

"No, you didn't. Being a 'daughter of the Elder Domains' could mean—"

The hairs on the back of Max's neck stood up. A presence behind him—heavy breathing, the faint smell of something earthy and pungent. He whirled around, hands instinctively rising in defense.

Standing not three feet away was the ugliest man Max had ever seen. "Man" might have been generous—his features were so twisted and asymmetrical that they barely seemed human. His nose hooked sharply to one side, as if broken and never set properly. One eye sat noticeably lower than the other, and his jaw jutted forward, revealing teeth too large for his mouth. His skin had a grayish cast to it, covered in wartlike growths.

"Gah!" Max gasped, startled enough that he lost his footing on the slippery riverbank.

There was a moment of weightlessness, then the cold shock of water as he fell backward into the river. His clothes immediately soaked through, weighing him down as he flailed. He'd never been a strong swimmer in his original body, and Harek's form was even less buoyant.

Max sputtered to the surface, coughing and spitting water. When he managed to clear his vision, he saw the woman already standing on the bank, wrapped in a simple white robe that someone had handed her. Not the ugly man—he still stood exactly where Max had first seen him, watching impassively.

The woman's shoulders shook slightly with restrained laughter as Max struggled to the shore, his waterlogged clothes clinging to him like a second skin.

"Quite graceful, Lord Vanheim," she commented, her voice dry but not unkind.

"Thanks," Max muttered, pulling himself up onto the bank. "I've been working on my diving technique."

He glanced at the ugly man, who hadn't moved or spoken. "Friend of yours?"

"Voran is my guardian," she said simply.

Now that Max looked more closely, he could see that Voran's clothing was different from the northern garb of Gregory's men. He wore simple, worn robes in muted greens and browns, with practical patches at the elbows and knees. Despite his unfortunate appearance, there was something dignified in how he carried himself.

"Does your guardian speak?" Max asked, wringing water from his tunic.

"When necessary," the woman answered. "Which is rarely."

Max nodded, as if this made perfect sense. "And you are...?"

The woman regarded him for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer. "Just a traveler," she replied, adjusting her modest white drapes that covered her completely. "I arrived with the other pilgrims last night."

"Pilgrims?" Max repeated, surprised he hadn't noticed new arrivals.

"We seek the waters of Frosthold," she explained simply. "The Prince permitted us to join your company."

That explained why Max hadn't noticed her—he'd collapsed into exhausted sleep as soon as evening meal was done, missing any new arrivals to camp.

In the Chronicles, it wasn't uncommon for Bjorn to have lucky encounters with enigmatic beings that would end up giving him guidance, an object, or teach him something that would become relevant later in the story. Sabo had a style for it, he'd always write them a certain way. Slightly different from each other, but always carrying that mysterious aura.

Max carefully adjusted his approach, wondering if he was actually face-to-face with one of those pivotal character interactions that changed the course of a hero's journey.

"You're some kind of... holy person?"

A small, content smile touched her lips. "I wouldn't say holy."

Mysterious vibe, check.

"Do people call you anything? A title, maybe?" Max pressed.

"Names have little importance on the path we walk," she replied. "But others address me as the Guide."

Oh?

Max wasn't sure if that was meant to be helpful or just deliberately vague. "I don't suppose you have any priestly wisdom about manifesting Fanga in less than seven days?" he asked — only half-joking.

Maybe even fully serious.

"Would you listen if I did?" she countered.

Oh!

"I- uh.. depends. Is it better than 'run until you drop'?"

Keep calm. Act normal. Just act normal.

This earned him a look of quiet understanding. "The traditional path takes years of discipline, it's true. But there are tales of those who found... other means."

There it is. THERE IT IS!

"Other means?" Max's replied. "Like what?"

The Guide's gaze drifted toward the camp. "Ancient relics. Natural phenomena. Rare substances. The world is full of wonders that can transform a person." Her eyes returned to his face. "Though such shortcuts often exact their own price."

"Right now, I'd pay just about any price," Max admitted.

"Be careful what you wish for, Lord Vanheim." Her voice carried neither judgment nor encouragement—just simple observation. "This company carries many burdens besides weary travelers."

As if on cue, the distant sound of the dawn horn echoed through the trees.

"Great," Max muttered. "Day six of impossible training, now with wet clothes."

The Guide turned to leave, her white drapes flowing around her as she moved. Voran fell in behind her, his misshapen body moving with surprising steadiness.

"Wait," Max called. "Are you saying there's something here that could help me?"

She paused, glancing back. "I'm saying that when a proud man sets impossible terms, he rarely expects them to be met by conventional means." With that cryptic remark, she and Voran disappeared into the trees.

*****

Max trudged back to camp, his clothes still damp and uncomfortable. His mind replayed the strange encounter by the river, wondering what to make of the mysterious Guide and her cryptic words. By the time he reached his bedroll to change, the morning rush of camp activity was in full swing.

Tomas found him just as he finished pulling on a dry tunic. "There you are! Gregory's already barking orders." He paused, studying Max's face. "You look like someone stole your dinner."

"Just got a late start," Max said, running a hand through his hair.

As they joined the column for the day's march, Max found his thoughts drifting, barely registering Gregory's instructions or the scenery around them. Tomorrow would be the end of this farce. The seventh day when Gregory would test him for Fanga, find him lacking, and send him away.

By midday, when they stopped to water the horses and eat a quick meal of hard bread and dried meat, Tomas nudged Max's shoulder.

"You're elsewhere today," Tomas observed. "More than usual, I mean."

Max shrugged. "Just thinking about tomorrow."

Tomas nodded in understanding. "Nobody will see you as a failure, you know. Everyone's watched you push yourself past breaking these past days."

Max gave him a half-smile. "Thanks. It's not just that, though. I've always wondered what it feels like—Fanga. Since I was a kid, I dreamed about manifesting it, at least once."

They walked toward the makeshift stables where the warhorses were tethered. Max approached the large bay stallion he'd been taken from Eastwatch. He had decided to name the beast 'Flash' for his speed despite and boldness.

"Here you go," Max said, offering Flash an apple he'd saved from his rations. The horse snorted but accepted the treat.

"You really like that monster?" Tomas asked. "He's tried to bite every other handler."

"We understand each other," Max replied, stroking the horse's neck. "Both of us just want to run."

Tomas leaned against the fence post. "You know, my old man used to say Fanga isn't something you achieve through muscle alone. It's soul-based."

"Soul-based?" Max asked, suddenly attentive. "What do you mean?"

Tomas looked a bit confused by Max's intensity. "Just old folklore, really. Fanga comes from the spirit, not just the body. That's why children and old men can sometimes manifest it when strong warriors can't."

Max's brow furrowed. "Soul-based," he repeated softly. This wasn't something Sabo had mentioned in the novels. It was new information.

"My grandmother used to say Fanga was the soul pushing through the body's limits," Tomas continued. "If it weighs on your soul enough, eventually you'll find it. With proper training, of course," he added hastily, perhaps remembering Gregory's opinions on the matter.

Max's mind raced, connecting dots. The Guide's words echoed in his memory: "The traditional path takes years of discipline... But there are tales of those who found other means... Ancient relics. Rare substances. The world is full of wonders that can transform a person."

"What are you thinking about?" Tomas asked, noticing Max's distant expression.

"This company carries many burdens besides weary travelers," Max mumbled, repeating the Guide's words.

"What's that?"

"Something someone said to me this morning," Max explained. "About the company carrying burdens. What did she mean by that?"

Tomas's eyebrows rose. "Oh? The Dragon Heart, most likely. That's our biggest burden—why we have double guards every night."

"..."

Tomas leaned forward, noticing Max's suddenly widened eyes. "Are you alright?"

Still no answer.

"...My lord?"

"I am an idiot," Max muttered.

"Now, now," Tomas chided, wagging a finger. "My grandmother always said one should never speak ill of oneself. Words have power. Call yourself an idiot enough times, and you'll start to believe it."

Max shook his head. "You don't understand. You're a genius, Tomas."

"Genius?" Tomas snorted. "That's quite an exaggeration. I'm averagely smart, at best. I can read and write, but no one's ever called me a genius." He paused, scratching his bearded, chin. "Some might even say I'm slightly below average, in fact."

"Now who's speaking ill of themselves?" Max countered, his mind still racing.

He did feel like the world's biggest idiot. Of course. The Dragon Heart. The prize they'd recovered from Dragonmeet, the item the enemy forces had tried to capture at Eastwatch.

"The Dragon Heart," Max repeated slowly. "What exactly is it? I mean, what does it do?"

Tomas lowered his voice, glancing around to ensure no one was listening too closely. "A relic of power. The heart of a young dragon, preserved by ancient magic. They say it contains the essence of the dragon's power."

"What exactly is the Dragon Heart used for?" Max asked, trying to sound merely curious.

"It's given to the mages at Frosthold," Tomas explained. "They use it to create powerful barriers that protect territories—REALLY large territories. The Heart from Dragonmeet could shield all of the Northern Reaches for decades, they say. We wouldn't have to die to the monsters outside, or fear more incursions from other enemies like the barbarians from the Deep North."

"And if someone, say... ate it?"

Tomas stared at him. "Ate it? It would kill them! Everyone knows that." He shook his head in disbelief. "The Dragon Heart contains raw, primal power—not something human bodies can withstand."

It was the only thing Max remembered Sabo ever mentioning about a dragon's heart in his novels. Eating one was a death sentence.

"But what if someone did survive?" Max pressed. "Hypothetically."

Tomas frowned. "What does that mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"Hypo... hypothet... that word you just said."

"Hypothetically? It means 'what if' but in a theoretical sense."

Tomas nodded slowly. "Is that a higher level education thing?"

"Technically, yes."

"Huh."

"We digress. What if someone survived eating it?"

Tomas eyed him suspiciously.

"Hypothetically. of course." Max said. With the nicest smile he could conjure.

"Hmm. Hypothetically?" Tomas replied. "Well, they'd die too quickly to find out what it did. No one's foolish enough to try."

Max fell silent, his mind working. What if consuming the Heart could force an awakening? A terrible gamble, certainly.

But if the power was soul based, and if his soul was what looped when he died—and he was almost certain it was—then what if he kept the power even after death? What if he died consuming the Heart, but then came back with the ability to manifest Fanga?

"Why are you asking about this?" Tomas asked.

"Just curious about what we fought so hard to protect."

The conversation shifted to other topics as they rejoined the march, but Max's thoughts remained fixed on the Dragon Heart. It was a desperate plan, borderline suicidal—literally suicidal—but it might be his only opportunity.

It would be stealing, of course. Stealing from the Prince himself. If caught, the penalty would be death. Even with his reroll ability, success seemed nearly impossible with the Heart so heavily guarded.

But still...

As evening fell and the company made camp for the night, Max found himself standing apart from the others, staring at the Prince's tent where the Heart would be kept.

Max chewed his lower lip, weighing his choices. Training hadn't worked. Conventional methods would take years. The Dragon Heart might be his only chance.

And if he succeeded—if he somehow manifested Fanga overnight—who would question how he'd done it? The "Hero of Eastwatch" suddenly proving himself worthy of being Gregory's squire would make for a much better story than the alternative.

Max made his decision.

He would steal the Dragon Heart.

There was only one teeny, tiny problem: Gregory.