The Gamble King- Chapter 04. Harek Of House Vanheim

"AAAARGH!"

Max's scream echoed through the tent as the healer yanked his shoulder back into its socket with a sickening pop.

"Stay still, you big baby," the old man grumbled, pressing down on Max's chest to keep him from moving. "Thrash around like that again and I'll dislocate it just to teach you a lesson."

"You sadistic bastard," Max gasped, sweat pouring down his face. The pain was electric, shooting from his shoulder down his arm and across his chest. Now that the adrenaline of battle had worn off, his body was letting him know exactly how much damage it had taken.

The healer—Gerth, he'd called himself—snorted. "Sadistic would be leaving you like this. Though I'm tempted, considering the stories they're telling out there."

The tent was small but well-equipped, with bundles of dried herbs hanging from the support beams and clay pots of mysterious substances arranged in neat rows. Incense burned in a small brazier near the entrance, releasing a pungent scent that couldn't quite mask the more disturbing smell from outside.

Max could hear the sounds of celebration beyond the canvas walls—men laughing too loudly, drinking too much. Not so much a victory party as a desperate attempt to forget what they'd all just survived. Through the partially open tent flap, he glimpsed soldiers passing around skins of wine and horn cups of mead.

"Is that lamb I smell?" Max asked, trying to distract himself from the pain as Gerth began wrapping his ribs tightly with strips of linen.

"Aye," the healer replied, not looking up from his work. "Whole herd of 'em roasting. Prince's orders."

"Seems like an awful lot of meat," Max ventured.

Gerth's hands paused briefly. "Not for the taste. To cover the other smell."

Max didn't need to ask what other smell.

He'd seen the soldiers piling bodies at the edge of camp—friend and foe alike—and setting them ablaze. The smoke had been thick and black, carrying an odor that turned his stomach.

"Why burn them?" Max asked. "In the—" He caught himself before saying 'in the novel.' "I mean, don't you usually bury your dead?"

Gerth's eyebrows shot up. "You hit your head too? We haven't buried our dead since the Frost Moon. Not since they started rising again."

Rising again. The words sent a chill down Max's spine that had nothing to do with his injuries.

"Right," Max said quickly. "Of course. I just... forgot for a moment."

It went without saying that such a thing was absolutely never mentioned in the novel.

"Forgot?" Gerth scoffed. "Next you'll tell me you forgot how to throw a knife." He cinched the bandage tight enough to make Max gasp.

Max gritted his teeth as the healer tied off the bandage. His new body—Harek's body—was a constant source of discomfort. Even without the battle injuries, he felt wrong in his own skin. The extra weight around his middle. The way his thighs chafed when he walked. How his stamina was so low.

All he wanted was a hot bath, a soft bed, and for this entire experience to be a very elaborate hallucination. Maybe if he slept, he'd wake up back in his apartment with a headache and a story to tell about the time he got too high and thought he was in a fantasy novel.

Sabo, if I catch you... Max thought darkly.

"Always knew you had the eye," Gerth continued, mixing some foul-smelling paste in a small bowl. "Best damn shot in Frosthold, once you're standing still. Just never thought you'd have the courage to use it when it mattered."

"Oh?" Max asked, seizing the opportunity to learn more. "And when did you decide I did have the courage?"

Gerth barked a laugh. "I didn't. When I saw that dome go up and trap you lot inside, I said to myself, 'That boy's dead.' Started praying to Voros for your soul right then and there." He shook his head. "Shows what I know."

Max vaguely remembered the name "Frosthold". It was the first place Bjorn went to.

"This body wasn't meant for heroics," Gerth commented, eyeing Max's midsection with obvious disdain. "Lord Harek the Dainty, they called you behind your back. Though I suppose after today, they'll come up with something more flattering."

"Wonderful," Max muttered. "Any chance you could just knock me out until my ribs heal?"

"And miss the Prince's summons? Not likely." Gerth began gathering his supplies. "He's been waiting for you to stop whimpering long enough to make an appearance."

"I wasn't whimpering," Max protested. "I was expressing pain in a very dignified manner."

"Is that what you call it? I've heard wounded cats make less noise."

The tent flap opened, letting in a gust of cool air and the much stronger smell of roasting meat. A young soldier stood in the entrance, looking nervous.

"Lord Vanheim? The Prince requests your presence. Immediately, if you're... able."

Max sighed, wincing as his ribs protested. "Of course he does."

"Here," Gerth said, tossing a bundle of cloth at Max. "Can't have you meeting your future father-in-law looking like you crawled out of a latrine."

"My what?!" Max blurted, almost falling off the cot.

The soldier and Gerth both stared at him.

"Prince Keiran," Gerth said slowly, as if explaining to a child. "Father of Princess Aelara. Your betrothed for the past year?"

"Right," Max said weakly. "Of course. I just... the pain made me confused for a moment."

"Sure it did," Gerth replied dryly. "Just like the pain made you forget about the walking dead."

This was a lot to take in. What kind of person was Harek exactly?

The clothing was simple but well-made—a clean linen shirt, a leather jerkin with the same bear's head emblem Max had noticed on his armor, and a woolen cloak dyed a deep blue.

"I don't suppose there's anywhere I could bathe first?" Max asked hopefully.

Both Gerth and the young soldier looked at him like he'd suggested flying to the moon.

"Right," Max sighed. "Silly question."

He struggled into the shirt, his shoulder screaming in protest with every movement. The young soldier stepped forward to help, but Gerth waved him away.

"Let him do it himself," the healer said. "If he can break a magical barrier and kill Gorm the Crusher, he can put on his own damn shirt."

"I didn't actually kill Gorm by myself," Max said, head emerging from the collar. "The archers helped."

"That's not what Tomas is telling everyone," the soldier said. "According to him, you organized the archers, killed the giant with a perfect shot through the eye, then charged the barrier on horseback and destroyed it with an arrow you fired while jumping over the commander's guards."

Max couldn't help but smile slightly. "Well, when you put it that way..."

"Horseshit," Gerth declared. "I've known you since you were a squealing babe, Harek. You've got the best aim in Frosthold, I'll grant you that, but you've never had the nerve to use it when it matters."

"Maybe I found my nerve," Max suggested, pulling on the jerkin.

"Maybe the stories are exaggerated," Gerth countered. "Like all the tales men tell after battle to make themselves feel braver than they were."

"I destroyed the barrier," Max said firmly. That much, at least, was true.

"With an arrow. While jumping over the commander's guards. On horseback." Gerth's tone made it clear what he thought of this claim.

Max shrugged, then immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his shoulder. "Believe what you want."

"The men believe it," the young soldier offered. "They're calling you the Hero of Eastwatch."

"The Hero of Eastwatch," Gerth repeated mockingly. "Last week they were calling you the Gamble King after you lost half your father's gold in that card game with the merchants from Sunport."

Max gave up trying to defend himself. Apparently, Harek's reputation was more complicated than he'd first realized.

He'd somehow landed in the most predictable storyline possible—loser noble suddenly gets competent and proves everyone wrong.

Classic Sabo. Zero originality, maximum cliché.

The Prince is waiting," the soldier reminded them, shifting uncomfortably.

"Yes, yes," Max said, carefully fastening the cloak around his shoulders. "Lead the way."

As they exited the tent, Max took his first real look at the camp. Hundreds of tents stretched across the valley below the ridge where they'd made their stand. Fires burned everywhere, some for cooking, others for warmth, and the largest, at the far edge, for the bodies. Men gathered in clusters, drinking and talking too loudly, their faces flickering between relief and grief in the firelight.

Max followed the soldier through the camp, each step a reminder of his injuries. His ribs felt like they were on fire, and his shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat. As they walked, soldiers stopped their conversations to stare at him. Some nodded respectfully. Others looked openly skeptical.

"So," Max said to break the silence, "what's the prince like? When he's not leading armies, I mean."

The soldier glanced back, puzzled. "He's... the same as he's always been, my lord. Stern but fair. The king's brother in blood but his opposite in temperament."

"Right," Max said. "Of course. I just wanted your opinion."

"My opinion isn't worth much," the soldier replied, "but the men would follow him into the Abyss itself. And they did, when we went to retrieve the Dragon Heart from Dragonmeet."

Dragon Heart. That was the artifact they'd mentioned. Max tried to sound casual. "And now we're taking it back to Frosthold."

"Aye," the soldier nodded. "Though we didn't expect to be ambushed along the way. Good thing Sir Gregory arrived when he did."

They approached a large tent at the center of the camp, this one flying a banner with the same bear's head emblem that adorned Max's jerkin. Two guards stood at attention outside, hands resting on sword hilts. They straightened as Max approached.

"Lord Harek to see Prince Keiran," the young soldier announced.

One of the guards nodded and pulled back the tent flap. "He's expecting you."

Max took a deep breath, wincing as his ribs protested, and stepped into the tent.

Max stepped into the tent and was immediately hit by the buzz of conversation, which died down as heads turned toward him. The space was crowded with men in finery that would have looked at home in a Renaissance fair—fur-trimmed cloaks, ornate brooches, rings that caught the lamplight. Lords, by all appearances. Men of importance who wore their status like a second skin.

A map-covered table dominated the center of the tent. Around it stood at least a dozen men, each wearing expressions ranging from curiosity to open skepticism as they regarded Max. The tent smelled of leather, candle wax, and the particular musk of men who considered bathing optional.

But Max barely noticed any of that, because standing against the far wall was the Knight of the Morning Star himself.

Sir Gregory.

Max had spent countless hours imagining what Bjorn's companion looked like. Sabo's descriptions had been vague at best—"tall," "imposing," "eyes that had seen too much death." But the real thing was both exactly what Max had pictured and somehow more.

The knight had short brown hair that matched his eyes, a neatly trimmed beard framing a face that seemed permanently set in stoic determination. His armor was simpler than Max expected, lacking the ostentatious decorations of the lords. Just well-maintained steel that had clearly seen actual use.

The famous sword, Moonfall, hung at his side, currently dormant but still radiating a subtle power that Max could feel even from across the tent.

This was one of Bjorn's companions. Right here. In the flesh.

Where was Bjorn, anyway?

"There he is!" A deep voice cut through Max's thoughts. "The Hero of Eastwatch!"

A tall, broad-shouldered man with steel-gray hair stepped away from the table. Prince Keiran, Max presumed. He moved with the confidence of someone used to command, his face weathered by sun and wind, but his eyes sharp and assessing.

The Prince was imposing, yes, but as he approached, Max realized something—Harek was just as tall. He must be about 1.96 meters, the same height Max had been in his original body. Strange to think that this doughy frame had the same height advantage he was used to. He wondered what Harek actually looked like.

"My boy!" Prince Keiran clapped a hand on Max's uninjured shoulder and pulled him into a brief, firm embrace. The assembled lords watched with expressions ranging from approval to barely concealed disdain.

Max stood rigid, unsure how to respond to this sudden display of affection from a complete stranger who apparently thought he was his future father-in-law.

"My Prince," Max managed, the words feeling strange in his mouth.

"You've made House Vanheim proud today," a portly man with an elaborately waxed mustache declared. "Breaking that barrier when all seemed lost!"

"Indeed," added another, a thin man with a scar running across his left cheek. "Baron Tuc's men are still talking about how you leapt over the enemy commander on horseback."

"Using the giant's corpse as a ramp, no less!" chimed in a third.

Max shifted uncomfortably.

"The Prince's future son-in-law has proven his mettle," the mustached lord continued, raising a goblet. "Not that we expected any less from the heir to Frosthold."

"Your father will be proud," Prince Keiran said, studying Max's face. "Though perhaps surprised. He's often lamented your... reluctance to engage in martial pursuits."

"People change," Max said simply, unsure what else to add.

His comment drew a few chuckles from the lords.

"Indeed they do," the Prince agreed. "War has a way of revealing a man's true character." He gestured toward the table. "Join us, Harek. We were just discussing the next phase of our journey back to Frosthold."

Max approached the table, noting the map spread across it. He recognized nothing—none of the place names, none of the geographical features.

"The question," continued the thin, scarred lord, "is how to properly reward Lord Vanheim's heir for his actions today."

"A purse of gold seems appropriate," suggested the mustached man.

"Gold?" scoffed another. "The boy saved half our army! Gold is an insult."

"Perhaps a tract of land along the southern border?" offered a fourth lord.

Max stood silently as they debated his reward, not having any input on what kind of compensation a fantasy hero should receive. He wasn't even sure he wanted a reward. What he wanted was information—about this world, about Harek, about where Bjorn was, and most importantly, about how to get home.

But he didn't have a chance to voice any of this because the lords were too busy deciding his fate for him.

"A new title, perhaps?"

"He's already heir to Frosthold."

"Then new hunting rights in the royal forest?"

"For a man who prefers cards to hunting? Wasted."

Max fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was starting to understand why Harek had chosen gambling over whatever passed for proper noble behavior in this world.

Prince Keiran had remained silent during this exchange, his eyes never leaving Max's face. Finally, he raised a hand, and the tent fell quiet.

"I know," the Prince said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Why not make Harek Sir Gregory's squire?"

The suggestion landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples of surprise through the assembly. All eyes turned to the knight, who had remained silent and motionless against the far wall.

"He proved himself more than capable of such training today," Prince Keiran continued. "And what better way to hone this newly discovered martial talent than under the tutelage of the greatest knight in the realm?"

Max blinked, caught off guard. Squire? As in fetching things and polishing armor? He was twenty-six years old—or at least, his mind was. The idea of becoming someone's servant, even a legendary knight's, wasn't exactly appealing.

More importantly, the lack of control over his own fate was starting to rankle. First dying, then being dumped into someone else's body in a fantasy world, and now having his future decided by committee while he stood there like a prop.

Everyone was looking at Gregory now, waiting for his response. The knight's expression hadn't changed, but there was a slight narrowing of his eyes as he studied Max.

"I haven't taken a squire in seven years," Gregory said finally, his voice deeper and rougher than Max had imagined. "The last one died."

An uncomfortable silence followed this declaration.

Max felt like he'd been doused with ice water. Pim. Gregory's squire in the novels. Max remembered reading about his death just two chapters before the final one—torn apart by the Lich King's shadow wolves while buying time for Bjorn and his party to escape with the Frost Amulet.

But that had happened in the story's present time. Not seven years ago.

Seven years? Seven years since the ending of the book? Since Bjorn and the Lich King had disappeared in that flash of light?

"All the more reason to take a new one," Prince Keiran pressed. "And Harek has already demonstrated remarkable resilience."

Max barely heard him, still reeling from the revelation. If he was seven years past the book's ending, he was in completely uncharted territory. Whatever knowledge he had about this world from the novels might be hopelessly outdated.

He tried to compose himself, aware that his reaction might seem strange to everyone watching. This was information he wasn't supposed to know about—the death of a squire seven years ago wouldn't mean anything special to Harek Vanheim.

"Shouldn't my father have some say in this?" Max asked, trying to keep his tone neutral while his thoughts continued to spiral.

The lords exchanged glances, some looking surprised that he'd spoken at all.

"Your father authorized me to act in his stead during this expedition," Prince Keiran explained, a hint of impatience entering his voice. "Unless you object to training under the one of the greatest knights in the Nine?"

It was a trap, and Max knew it. Refuse, and he'd insult both the Prince and Sir Gregory. Accept, and he'd be committing to who knew what kind of servitude.

But maybe this was an opportunity. Gregory had been Bjorn's companion. If anyone knew what happened to the protagonist of this world, it would be him.

"I'm honored by the suggestion," Max said carefully. "If Sir Gregory is willing."

All eyes turned back to the knight, who pushed off from the wall and approached the table.

"I'll take him," Gregory said, his gaze drilling into Max as if trying to see through him. "But on my terms."

Prince Keiran smiled broadly. "Excellent! It's settled then."

It certainly didn't feel settled to Max, who had the distinct impression that he'd just agreed to something he would immediately regret. The familiar feeling of events spiraling beyond his control washed over him again.

"Sir Gregory, if you're willing to take Lord Vanheim as your squire, what terms would you set?" the Prince asked, bringing the room to order.

Gregory stepped forward from his position against the wall, his movements deliberate and measured as he approached the table.

"I have one condition," he said, his eyes fixing on Max. "Can you use Fanga, Lord Vanheim?"

The question hung in the air. Max blinked, caught off guard.

Fanga. The word resonated through him like a plucked string. In the novels, Fanga was the mysterious energy used by the most skilled warriors. It was what allowed Gregory to scare off three hundred men today. It was how Bjorn had survived the Dragon Emperor's encounter.

"No," Max admitted. "I cannot."

Gregory nodded, as if confirming something he already suspected. "Fanga is what separates true warriors from skilled fighters," he explained, likely for the benefit of the younger lords present. "It is the life force within us, channeled and harnessed through discipline and will."

"It is acquired through much hard work," added a white-haired lord standing near the Prince. "But the young Vanheim is..." He trailed off and shook his head, as if pitying Harek. Which made Max frown.

"Most people never manifest it at all," Gregory continued. "Which is why I'm setting my terms. I'll give you six days, Lord Vanheim. Until we reach Frosthold, by dawn of the seventh day, you must demonstrate even the smallest spark of Fanga. Fail, and I won't take you as my squire."

Murmurs erupted around the table.

"That's unreasonable," protested the mustached lord. "Even those with a better potential often take years of training to manifest it."

"Impossible demands," muttered another. "The knight doesn't want a squire."

Prince Keiran raised a hand, and the tent fell silent once more. "Sir Gregory has the right to set his own terms," he said firmly. "We don't force knights to take squires against their will. Those are the ancient codes."

He turned to Max, his expression softening slightly. "The choice is yours, Lord Vanheim. You've earned glory enough today to decline without shame."

...For some reason, it felt like he did not mean it.

In the books, Sabo had never fully explained how Fanga worked—it was always shrouded in mystique, described in poetic terms rather than concrete mechanisms.

And now he had a chance to experience it himself.

Part of him knew he should focus on finding a way home. On understanding how he was here in the first place. Discovering who Sabo actually was. On figuring out what had happened to Bjorn and the others after the book ended.

But another part—the part that had read the novel for fourteen years, the part that had debated theories about Fanga on comment sections until 3 AM—couldn't let this opportunity pass.

He might never feel what it was like to channel Fanga if he walked away now.

Max stared at Gregory and opened his mouth to accept, then stopped.

This wasn't a game.

This wasn't one of his comment section debates about power scaling and magical systems. This was real, and if he failed, he'd be humiliating himself in front of the most powerful people in the kingdom. People who already thought Harek was a joke.

"I..." Max began, then faltered.

The tent had gone quiet, everyone waiting for his answer. Gregory's expression hadn't changed, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he expected Max to decline. Maybe even wanted him to.

"That's quite a challenging timeline," Max said carefully, buying himself time to think.

"Indeed it is," agreed the mustached lord. "Perhaps Sir Gregory could be more reasonable—"

"No."

Prince Keiran's voice cut through the murmur. He stepped away from the table, moving toward Max. The other lords instinctively shifted back, creating space.

When Keiran spoke again, his voice was lower, pitched for Max's ears alone but loud enough that everyone could hear.

"Walk with me, Lord Vanheim."

It wasn't a request.

Max followed the Prince to a corner of the tent, away from the table but still within earshot of the others. Keiran turned to face him, and Max was struck by how the man's entire demeanor had shifted. Gone was the jovial father-in-law figure. This was a prince of the realm. Eyes pale and piercing. Calculative and definitely not the type to take 'no' as an answer.

"Let me ask you something," Keiran said, his voice conversational but somehow more menacing for its calm tone. "Do you think today's performance bought you much time?"

Max blinked. "My lord?"

"The Hero of Eastwatch." Keiran's smile was sharp as a dagger. "A fine story. But we both know stories fade."

The Prince stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Your house needs more than one moment of heroism, Harek. It needs consistency. It needs proof that change is real, not temporary."

Max felt like he was missing half the conversation, but Keiran's tone suggested disagreeing would be unwise.

"Everyone is watching now," Keiran continued, his gaze steady. "After today, they'll expect to see if the Gamble King can become something more. Whether House Vanheim's heir can live up to his bloodline."

"And if I fail sir Gregory's test?"

Keiran's smile turned predatory. "Then you'll have tried and failed publicly, which is still far better than not trying at all. But if you succeed, even partially..." He leaned closer. "You'll have proven that today wasn't luck."

The words carried weight Max didn't fully understand, but the Prince's intensity made it clear this was about more than just becoming a squire.

"Sir Gregory is respected throughout Hommenor," Keiran said, straightening. "Training under him would elevate your reputation considerably. Show everyone that House Vanheim's heir is serious about... improvement."

Max stared at the Prince. This... felt like a lifeline being offered, but he wasn't entirely sure what he was drowning in.

"You're giving me an opportunity."

"I'm giving you what you need," Keiran corrected. "Whether you're wise enough to take it is up to you."

The Prince stepped back, his voice returning to normal volume. "But I suggest you choose quickly. Everyone is waiting."

Max looked around the tent at the assembled lords. Some watched with open curiosity, others with barely concealed skepticism. Gregory remained motionless against the wall, his expression unreadable.

Six days to manifest Fanga. Six days to prove... something. Max wasn't entirely sure what, but Keiran's tone suggested his future depended on it.

He took a deep breath, his ribs protesting. "I accept your terms, Sir."

The knight nodded once.

"We begin at first light."

At that moment, Max smiled broadly, but only one thought came to his mind: What had he gotten himself into?