Gamble King Chapter 30. Noob

From his perch high in the eastern tower, Bro observed the Great Master's curious ritual with growing bewilderment. His Great Master stood i

From his perch high in the eastern tower, Bro observed the Great Master's curious ritual with growing bewilderment.

His Great Master stood in the training yard below, wielding two gleaming blades with obvious mastery, yet allowing the other human to strike him repeatedly. Blood flowed from the Great Master's noble visage, his mortal vessel trembling with what appeared to be exhaustion.

This was most perplexing.

Bro had witnessed the Great Master's true power. The Great Master could have reduced this entire castle to ash with a thought, yet here he stood, permitting a mere mortal to bruise his sacred form.

Clearly, this was some profound test of wisdom that Bro's simple mind could not fully comprehend.

Perhaps the Great Master was learning the ways of these lesser beings, studying their crude combat techniques for some greater purpose. Or perhaps this was a form of meditation, strengthening his mortal vessel through deliberate suffering. The Great Master's thoughts were as vast as the ocean and twice as deep—it was not Bro's place to question such mysteries.

Still, Bro felt a flutter of anticipation in his tiny heart.

Someday, surely, the Great Master would tire of this elaborate pretense. Someday he would reveal his true nature to these ignorant creatures who surrounded him, and Bro would have the honor of witnessing their awe and terror.

Until then, he would wait. And watch. And serve faithfully, as was proper.

The Great Master stumbled again, allowing the other large human to strike him across the ribs. Such dedication to his performance! Such commitment to—

"Meow."

Bro's attention shifted as the sound reached him. He turned to see the white creature called Ghost padding silently across the stone floor, its blue-green eyes fixed on the scene.

Behind the creature came another figure: the female with the green eyes who had spoken so boldly to the Great Master in the frozen garden.

Bro's tiny form tensed as he recalled that encounter.

She had addressed the Great Master with such casual familiarity, dismissing his attempts at courtesy with cold words. For such disrespect toward his Lord, lesser creatures would burn. Bro's very nature urged him to reduce her to ash for her presumption.

Yet... the Great Master spoke of this female sometimes.

In quiet moments, when he knew himself unobserved, the Great Master's thoughts would turn to her. She occupied his considerations, was given face through his attention and concern.

And then, as Bro watched her move to the window, crossing her arms as she observed the Great Master's ritual below, understanding dawned upon him like the first light of dawn.

This was not merely a female. This was The female.

The Chosen One.

Of course. How had he not seen it before? The way the Great Master's voice changed when he spoke her name, the careful attention he paid to her words even when they stung, the amusement Bro had sensed radiating from his Lord during their quiet moments together.

She was honored above all others, blessed with the Great Master's affection despite her occasional impudence. If the Great Master had chosen this female as his own among all others, then Bro could not act against her. To do so would shame his Lord, and such shame was unthinkable.

Bro straightened his tiny form and offered her a respectful bow, lowering his upper body in acknowledgment of her elevated status.

The Chosen One's gaze fell upon the Great Master's sacred spider at that moment, and her lips curved into a small smile. But she made no attempt to approach or touch him without permission, maintaining proper distance while showing clear appreciation for his gesture.

Boundaries. She understood boundaries.

This was good. This was proper.

And it pleased Bro greatly.

He had observed many humans attempt to handle him with casual familiarity, as if his Great Master's sacred companion were some common creature to be petted at will.

Such presumption was intolerable.

But the Chosen One showed wisdom to recognize his elevated status. She acknowledged his respect with her own, but did not presume to claim intimacy that had not been offered.

Yes, Bro decided with growing satisfaction, she would indeed be worthy of the Great Master.

Her manner was respectful yet confident, her beauty pleasing to look upon, her understanding of proper conduct evident even in small gestures. She was not here as a treacherous beast skulking in shadows. She observed openly, with honest attention.

When the Great Master finally tired of concealing his true nature, when he revealed his power to these ignorant mortals, the Chosen One would stand beside him as was fitting.

And Bro would be there too, of course.

Satisfied with this understanding, Bro turned his attention back to the yard below, where the Great Master continued his elaborate performance of mortality, allowing yet another strike to connect with his sacred form.

Such patience. Such commitment to whatever grand design occupied that brilliant mind.

Truly, the Great Master's wisdom was beyond measure.

***

"COME ON, HAREK!"

"Show him what you've learned!"

"Twenty coppers on the knight!"

"Make it thirty—look at the size difference!"

"Harek's got two blades though!"

"Lot of good that'll do him!"

The training yard had exploded into something resembling a bear-baiting pit. Every servant, soldier, and minor lord within shouting distance had materialized around the edges, coins changing hands as fast as bets could be called. Someone had even dragged out wooden crates to stand on for a better view.

Max rolled his shoulders, dual short swords feeling solid in his grip. The blades were maybe two feet long each, curved slightly for slashing, balanced for speed over power. Perfect for someone who needed to stay mobile.

He reached for his Fanga.

The energy flooded through him with that familiar rush. Muscles toning, heart rate fastening, the works.

Gregory stood ten feet away, completely unarmed, looking about as concerned as someone waiting for porridge to cool.

His own Fanga already manifested.

"Begin when ready," Gregory called.

Max didn't hesitate.

He exploded forward, right blade cutting horizontally while his left came up in a diagonal slash. The classic dual-sword opener—attack different levels simultaneously, force the opponent to choose which threat to address.

Gregory chose neither.

He stepped backward just far enough to let both blades pass through empty air, then lunged forward while Max was still committed to the attack.

Gregory's elbow caught him square in the ribs.

The impact drove the air from Max's lungs and sent him stumbling sideways, both swords windmilling as he fought for balance.

"Overextension," Gregory said, already moving to capitalize. "Your reach with dual blades is shorter than you think."

Max spun to face him, raising both guards just as Gregory's fist came toward his face. He caught the punch on the cross of his blades, used the contact to pivot away and create distance.

"Better. But you're moving like you're carrying two single swords. They need to work together. Faster."

Max reset his stance, both blades held in a high guard position. The pain in his ribs was sharp but manageable—Gregory had pulled that shot.

He attacked again, this time with overlapping arcs designed to create a zone of steel rather than individual strikes. Right blade cutting down and across while left blade swept up from below, both moving in a pattern that should have been impossible to avoid.

Gregory caught Max's right wrist mid-swing, redirected the blade's momentum to throw him off balance, then drove his knee toward Max's solar plexus.

Max twisted away from the knee strike, used his left blade to hook Gregory's extended leg and nearly took the knight down.

Nearly.

Gregory hopped backward on one foot, regained his balance, and immediately pressed forward with a series of quick jabs that forced Max to retreat.

"Good improvisation with the leg hook. Your left hand is learning to think independently. But you're still—"

Gregory's palm shot toward Max's face.

Max ducked, brought both blades up in an X-pattern to catch Gregory's follow-up strike.

The impact jarred his arms to the elbows.

"—dropping your guard when you dodge. Movement without protection is suicide. Faster."

Sweat was already beading on Max's forehead despite the cold air. Gregory wasn't even breathing hard.

Max feinted with his left blade, committed with his right in a thrust aimed at Gregory's center mass.

Gregory sidestepped the thrust, grabbed Max's extended arm, and used it as leverage to spin him around.

Max found himself facing away from Gregory with his right arm twisted behind his back.

Gregory's other hand chopped toward the base of his neck.

Max dropped into a crouch, breaking Gregory's grip, rolled forward and came up facing the knight with both blades moving in defensive spirals.

"Excellent escape. You're starting to think with your whole body instead of just your arms. But—"

Gregory was already inside his guard again, somehow having covered the distance while Max was recovering from the roll.

A quick succession of strikes—elbow toward the head, knee toward the ribs, palm thrust toward the chest.

Max caught the elbow on his left blade, twisted away from the knee, brought his right blade around to intercept the palm thrust.

Steel rang against flesh. Gregory's hand had caught the flat of the blade and redirected it away from his body.

"Your recovery time is improving. But you're still thinking in sequences instead of flows. Dual blades need to move like water. Faster."

Max was breathing hard now, a thin trickle of blood running from where Gregory's knuckles had scraped his cheek during one exchange. His ribs ached from multiple impacts.

But something was changing in the rhythm of the fight.

His body was starting to remember things his mind had never learned. The way his left blade could cover while his right attacked. How to use one sword's momentum to power the other's strike. The subtle footwork that kept him balanced while wielding two weapons.

"LOOK AT HIM GO!"

"Huh. He's lasting longer than I expected."

"Sir Gregory's actually having to work!"

Max tuned out the crowd, focused entirely on Gregory's position. The knight was circling now, hands loose and ready.

"Your breathing is better. Your stance is solidifying. But you're still moving like you're afraid of your own weapons. Commit to the attacks. Faster."

"Yes, sir."

Max attacked with renewed aggression, both blades working in concert. Right blade high, left blade low, then both converging on Gregory's center in a scissoring motion that should have trapped him.

Gregory slipped between the blades like smoke, grabbed both of Max's wrists, and headbutted him in the forehead.

Stars exploded across Max's vision. He staggered backward, both swords dropping to guard positions purely through instinct.

"Better commitment, but you betrayed the convergence. Your shoulders dipped before the attack. And you left your head completely unprotected. Faster."

Blood was running from Max's nose now, warm and copper-tasting. His head rang like a bell. But his hands were steady on the sword grips.

Gregory pressed the attack, moving faster now, forcing Max to react purely on reflex.

A series of strikes came at him from multiple angles—high, low, center, off to the sides. Max's blades moved without conscious thought, deflecting, redirecting, creating space through pure muscle memory.

His left blade caught Gregory's wrist and guided it away from his head. His right blade swept low to intercept a kick. Both weapons working together in patterns he couldn't have planned but somehow knew.

"Good! You're finally trusting your body over your thoughts. But your strikes still follow a straight path. Use the space around you — above, below, and beside. Faster."

Max reset, wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His chest was heaving, sweat stinging his eyes despite the winter air.

Gregory looked exactly the same as when they'd started.

"You're getting tired," Gregory observed. "Use it. Desperation makes you honest. Strip away the fancy techniques and fight."

This time when Max attacked, it was with pure aggression. No complex combinations, no clever angles. Just raw violence channeled through two feet of steel.

He drove forward like a man possessed, both blades cutting, thrusting, hooking in a continuous assault that gave Gregory no time to counter-attack.

The knight was forced to retreat for the first time, giving ground step by step as Max's relentless advance pressed him toward the edge of the training area.

"Better! Much better!"

Gregory suddenly stopped retreating and exploded forward, ducking under Max's high strike and driving his shoulder into Max's chest.

The impact lifted Max off his feet and sent him crashing backward into the dirt.

He rolled away immediately, came up in a crouch with both blades ready.

Gregory was already there.

A kick caught Max in the ribs and sent him sprawling sideways. He rolled with the impact, used the momentum to swing his left blade in a wide arc that forced Gregory to step back.

"Good recovery. But you're favoring your left side now. I can see the injury affecting your movement. Compensate or die. Faster."

Max's ribs felt like they were on fire. Each breath sent spikes of pain through his chest. But his grip on the swords remained solid.

He came up from the crouch with both blades moving in a complex weaving pattern designed to create openings rather than deliver immediate damage.

Gregory read the pattern, started to counter—

Max suddenly dropped his right blade.

The sword clattered to the ground as Max's now-free hand shot out to grab Gregory's wrist. Basic grappling. If you controlled the joint, you controlled the limb.

Gregory's eyes widened slightly—the first sign of genuine surprise Max had seen.

Max used his grip on Gregory's wrist to pull the knight off-balance while his left blade swept toward Gregory's throat in a tight, vicious arc.

For one perfect moment, everything aligned. Gregory was off-balance, his attention divided between the unexpected grapple and the incoming blade.

The sword cut through air toward its target.

Gregory's head snapped backward at the last possible instant.

The blade passed less than an inch from his throat, close enough that Max felt the wind displacement.

Max's momentum carried him forward into empty space. His perfect gambit became overextension. His footing, compromised by the dropped sword and aggressive lunge, simply gave way.

He stumbled forward, his left hand still gripping Gregory's wrist, both of them tangling together as gravity took over.

They went down in a heap of limbs and steel.

The training yard went dead silent.

Max lay on his back in the dirt, Gregory's weight across his chest, only one of them was the only one breathing hard. The dropped sword lay inches from Gregory's head. The other blade was trapped beneath their bodies.

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

Then the crowd exploded.

"INCREDIBLE!"

"HE NEARLY HAD HIM!"

"Did you see that grab?"

"Sir Gregory actually looked surprised!"

"The boy's got stones, I'll give him that!"

Gregory got to his feet and looked down at Max with what might have been the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Then he extended his hand.

Max stared at it for a moment, still catching his breath. Gregory's expression was... different. It really did look like a smile.

He grabbed the offered hand and let Gregory haul him upright. His ribs protested the movement with a sharp spike of pain that made him wince.

"You've improved considerably these past few days," Gregory said, dusting dirt from his training clothes. "Quite the fast learner, actually."

The crowd was still buzzing around them, voices overlapping in excited chatter.

Max wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand, tasting copper. "Well, the Proving Year starts tomorrow." He picked up his dropped sword, testing its weight. "I better be."

Gregory nodded.

"I've trained for the last twelve days to make sure I wouldn't be killed by the first noob in the wilderness." Max sheathed both blades, trying to ignore the way his hands were still shaking from the adrenaline. "Seemed like the smart approach."

"Noob?" Gregory's expression shifted to mild confusion. "What is a 'noob'?"

Oh. Right. Max felt heat creep up his neck. How could he lie to the man who would detect a lie without lying?

"Well, it's... it's a word I thought of. It means... someone who's new at something. Inexperienced. Doesn't know what they're doing yet."

"Noob," Gregory repeated slowly, as if testing the sound.

"Yeah."

Gregory looked at Max with a perfectly straight face and...

"You are a noob."

Max's heart actually skipped a beat, some primal part of his brain interpreting the statement as a mortal insult despite the fact that he'd literally just explained what it meant.

"Well, I mean," Max said quickly, "compared to you, everyone here is a noob, sir."

Gregory's expression didn't change. "It was a joke."

The training yard seemed to hold its breath for a moment.

"Oh." Max blinked. "Ah. Haha... ha."

The laughter came out strangled and awkward.

Max cleared his throat, desperate to steer the conversation away from his complete failure to recognize Gregory's attempt at humor. "What did you think, then? Am I really ready?"

Gregory studied him for a long moment. "You were ready even before this," he said finally. "Don't worry about your combat skills in the Deeper North. Your job is to avoid fighting whenever you can. That's what non-noobs do."

Teaching him this word was not a good decision.

"Right," Max said weakly.

He straightened slowly and was reaching for a cloth to wipe the blood from his nose when movement caught his eye.

High up in the eastern tower, framed by one of the narrow windows that overlooked the training yard, stood a familiar figure.

Aelara.

She was close enough that he could see her face clearly—arms crossed, perfectly still, watching. How long had she been there? Had she seen the whole fight?

Max raised his hand and waved.

She nodded back. No smile, just a simple acknowledgment. Then she turned and disappeared from the window.

Well. That was... something.

Max lowered his hand, still staring at the empty window. Did that count as progress? It felt like progress.

Max turned to find Gregory watching him.

Their eyes met.

Max felt the need to sigh deeply. Gregory had noticed the exchange. This was probably the moment where he'd get some gruff but well-meaning advice about courtship, or duty, or how not to make a complete ass of himself with his betrothed.

"Go rest," Gregory said simply.

That was it.

Max blinked. "That's... yes, sir."

Gregory was already walking away, collecting practice weapons from the ground.

Thank God.

He looked around the training yard, scanning the dispersing crowd for Garrett's distinctive shock of blond hair.

No sign of him.

Which was odd. Bubbles had been practically living in the training yard for the past week, watching Max's sessions with the intensity of someone studying for an exam. Where the hell was he?

"Oi, Roderick," Max called to one of the guards who was helping clear the practice area. "You seen Garrett around?"

"Rode out this morning," Roderick replied without looking up from the weapons rack he was organizing. "Said something about visiting his family's farm."

Ah. Of course.

Tomorrow the Proving Year began, which meant tonight was Garrett's last evening here for the next twelve months. Assuming he survived the whole thing, he'd return as a Standard Squire—if he didn't, well, he wouldn't return at all.

Made sense that he'd want to spend that time with people he might never see again.

Max felt a strange pang at the thought. He'd gotten used to having Bubbles around, with his earnest enthusiasm and his tendency to treat every conversation like it might contain the secrets of the universe. The training yard felt oddly empty without him lurking somewhere nearby, taking mental notes.

He'd see him later though. Tomorrow, probably, when they all gathered for whatever ceremony marked the official beginning of the Proving Year. Right now, Max had other priorities.

He needed to talk to his father.

Max wiped the last of the blood from his nose, tested his ribs gingerly to make sure nothing was actually broken, and headed toward the keep.

Max found Tredor in the castle's solar, bent over a thick ledger and deeply focused. Parchments covered the heavy oak table—grain tallies, tax records, correspondence sealed with various house sigils.

"Father?"

Tredor looked up, setting down his quill. "Finished with your training?"

"Yes, sir." Max gestured vaguely toward the window that overlooked the training yard. "Gregory says I'm ready."

"Good." Tredor's gaze lingered on the dried blood still caked around Max's nostril. "Though it appears readiness comes with a price."

Max touched his nose self-consciously. "Nothing serious."

Tredor nodded and began gathering the scattered papers. "To be honest, I was just thinking of taking a walk. The castle walls grow confining when winter drags on. Join me?"

It wasn't really a request.

"Of course."

They left the solar together, Tredor's boots echoing against the stone floors as they made their way through corridors lined with tapestries depicting long-dead Vanheims. Servants and guards they passed offered respectful nods—"My Lord," "Lord Tredor"—which he acknowledged with subtle inclines of his head.

The great doors groaned open, admitting a gust of winter air that carried the scent of snow and woodsmoke.

Frosthold's courtyard stretched before them, bustling with late afternoon activity despite the cold. Stable boys led horses to shelter, servants hurried between buildings with armloads of supplies, and somewhere a blacksmith's hammer rang against anvil in steady rhythm.

Snow crunched beneath their feet as they walked. Fresh powder had fallen during the morning, coating everything in pristine white that sparkled in the pale sunlight.

"Are you scared?" Tredor asked abruptly.

The question caught Max off guard. He'd been expecting something more... ceremonial. More lordly. But Tredor's tone was direct, almost casual.

"Yes," Max said. No point in lying.

"Good. I was terrified."

Max glanced at the high lord sideways. "You were?"

"Absolutely. Sixteen years old, just lost my lord father, and suddenly I'm supposed to spend a year alone in the wilderness proving I'm worthy of becoming a knight." Tredor gestured at the castle around them. "I threw up the morning I left. Twice."

Despite everything, Max almost smiled at that image.

“The thing about fear,” Tredor continued. Max resisted the urge to tell him he didn’t need the pep talk — but it was too late. “It’s not the enemy; it’s information. It tells you to pay attention, to respect what you’re facing.”

They passed a group of guards practicing sword forms near the armory. One of them called out a greeting—"My Lord, young lord"—and Tredor raised a hand in acknowledgment.

"But what you do despite that fear, that's what defines you," Tredor said. "I spent my first week up north barely sleeping, jumping at every sound, convinced something was going to kill me in the dark."

"What changed?"

"Nothing changed. I was still scared. But I realized that being scared and being capable aren't mutually exclusive. You can acknowledge the danger and still function."

Max kicked at a clump of snow as they walked. "Gregory keeps telling me it's about survival and finding some sort of hermit."

"Survive, yes. But it's more than that." Tredor paused near the castle's main well, where a group of children played some kind of game involving wooden sticks and a leather ball. "You know why we call it the Proving Year and not just a trial?"

"No."

"Because you're not just proving yourself to us. You're proving yourself to yourself. To the people you'll rule someday. And yes, to the northern tribes."

"The barbarians?"

"Our barbarians," Tredor corrected. "And they're not as barbaric as southern lords like to pretend. They're different, but they're our allies. Have been for centuries."

Max frowned. "Because they have to be?"

"Because the Aspects—their spiritual guides—decreed it long ago. They don't follow Frosthold because we conquered them. They follow us because they believe we're divinely appointed to protect them." Tredor's expression grew more serious. "But divine appointment only goes so far. We still have to prove we're worthy of that trust."

"And that's what the Proving Year does?"

"Part of it. Your presence up there, surviving among them, learning their ways—it reinforces the bond. Shows them we trust them."

"Trust?"

"We're sending our youth to live among them, to depend on their knowledge for survival. That's not something you do with people you consider beneath you." Tredor's expression grew thoughtful. "You don't have to go through the tribes, you know. You could spend the whole year alone in the wilderness, never asking for their help or guidance. Some squires try that approach."

"But that would be stupid."

"Exactly. And they know it. When our squires choose to seek out the tribes, to learn their ways of surviving in that harsh land, it shows respect. It acknowledges that they have wisdom we need." Tredor gestured toward the courtyard around them. "The tribes remember every person who lived among them. It creates bonds that last generations."

They resumed walking, passing a group of craftsmen repairing one of the courtyard's stone archways. The men nodded respectfully as they passed.

"What was it like?" Max asked. "Your year?"

"Cold. Hungry. Lonely." Tredor's mouth quirked slightly. "I spent it with the Silver Falcon clan, up near the Frozen Falls. Their chieftain, Grimvar, was an old friend of my father's, but that didn't make him go easy on me."

"What do you mean?"

"First week, I nearly died of exposure because I was too proud to ask for help building a proper shelter. I thought I knew better than people who'd been surviving in that climate their entire lives."

Max smiled. That did not sound like something Tredor might do.

"Second week, I got food poisoning from eating berries that Grimvar's daughter specifically warned me not to touch. Again, I thought I knew better."

"Starting to see a pattern."

"I was an arrogant little shit," Tredor said bluntly. "Convinced my blood made me special. The north has a way of beating that out of you."

They paused beside a fountain that had frozen solid, its carved stone fishes trapped mid-leap in clear ice.

"Third week," Tredor continued, "three White Hand raiders tried to ambush me while I was hunting."

"White Hands?"

"Tribes that reject the Aspects. They worship something else, something darker. They see the loyal tribes as weak and chained by superstition. They also particularly enjoy killing squires during the Proving Year."

Ah, those guys.

The squires did talk about that, now that Max thought about it. Some of them were apparently cannibals. "And you fought them?"

"I killed one, wounded another, and the third escaped. But not before he gave me this." Tredor pulled back his left sleeve, revealing a long, pale scar running from wrist to elbow. "Poisoned blade. I was delirious for days."

Max stared at the scar. He'd never noticed it before, or if he had, he'd never thought to ask about it.

"The Silver Falcon people saved my life," Tredor said. "Used their precious winter medicines to keep me alive. Could have let me die—I'd been nothing but trouble since arriving."

"Why didn't they?"

"Because honor matters to them and because they believed the Aspects had chosen our house to protect them." Tredor took a deep breath. "Because sometimes people are better than they have to be."

They approached the castle's granary, where workers were loading sacks of grain onto wagons despite the cold.

"Supplies for the northern tribes," Tredor explained. "We send them food every three months. Part of maintaining the relationship."

"Even now?"

"Especially now. Winter's when they need it most." Tredor paused to speak briefly with the wagon master, confirming departure times and routes. When he returned to Max's side, his expression was thoughtful.

They walked past the stables, where horses snorted and stamped in the warm, hay-scented darkness.

"There was this girl," Tredor said quietly. "Grimvar's daughter, Nara. She's the one who spoke for me when I was dying from that poison. Convinced her people to use their medicine on me instead of saving it for themselves."

"What happened to her?"

Tredor was quiet for a long moment. "She died that spring. Fever took her. The same fever I'd recovered from, using medicine that should have been hers."

The words hung in the cold air between them.

"I didn't learn about it until I returned to Frosthold," Tredor continued. "Grimvar never told me. Never blamed me. But I knew."

This seemed to weight on Tredor's mind.

"Did you want to come back?" Max asked. "When you learned that?"

"Part of me wanted to run. Just disappear and let someone else carry the weight." Tredor's honesty was startling. "But running doesn't make the responsibility disappear. It just leaves other people to bear it."

They approached the castle's blacksmith shop, warm light spilling from its open doorway. The steady ring of hammer on anvil provided a rhythmic backdrop to their conversation.

"The thing about the Proving Year," Tredor said, "is that it's not really about proving you're strong enough to rule. It's about proving you're willing to sacrifice for the responsibility."

"Sacrifice what?"

"Your comfort. Your pride. Your certainty that you know what's best." Tredor gestured toward the bustling courtyard. "Look around you. Every person here depends on the decisions made in that solar. When you're lord, their lives become your responsibility. The Proving Year teaches you what that weight feels like."

Max stood quietly, staring into the forge's flickering flames.

He wasn't thinking about failure or responsabilty, exactly. He was thinking about survival. About the fact that everything he'd done so far had been about buying himself time. Time to figure out just how fucked he was in this world and whether he could unfuck himself.

The Proving Year was part of that path, a crucial step in washing Harek's name clean and proving he was worthy of the lordship. Because if House Vanheim was deemed unworthy, if their reputation crumbled completely, rival lords wouldn't just strip them of their titles. They'd hunt down every surviving member to prevent any future claims. Him included.

He had rerolls, sure, but they were a limited resource. Better to get this right the first time.

Tredor seemed to interpret his silence differently.

"Look," Tredor said, his voice losing some of its formal edge. "When you're out there and everything seems impossible, when you're scared or doubting yourself, just empty your mind. Give yourself a big slap to snap out of it."

Without warning, Tredor brought his hand down hard on Max's back. A solid, father-to-son thump that sent Max stumbling forward a step.

"Like that," Tredor said, laughing as Max caught his balance.

Max turned around, steadying himself, and saw the high lord grinning at him. It was the most relaxed he'd seen Tredor look in... well, since he'd arrived in this world.

"You used Fanga there, right?" Max said, rubbing his shoulder where the blow had landed.

"Of course," Tredor replied, still smiling. "You're too big otherwise to be pushed around like this."

Max chuckled.

"You loved play-fighting as a kid," Tredor continued, his expression softening with reminiscence. "Always wanting to wrestle, to see if you could knock me down."

"It'll serve you well out there," Tredor added. "That instinct to fight and keep going even when you're outmatched. The tribes respect that kind of spirit."

The sound of metal striking metal continued its steady rhythm as they stood still.

Soon enough, from the forge's glowing interior, a massive figure emerged like a mountain taking human form. The man was built like a bear that had decided to walk upright and take up metalworking—a full head taller than both Tredor and Max, who weren't exactly short at their six-foot-four frames.

His shoulders filled the doorway completely, and when he stepped into the courtyard, Max had the distinct impression that the ground should probably shake a little.

"My Lord," the giant said, straightening and offering a respectful nod. "Lord Harek."

Tredor waved a hand dismissively. "Drop it, Jorik. We're not at court."

The blacksmith's formal posture disappeared instantly. "About bloody time you showed up. Been three months since I've seen your face around here."

"The towers construction—"

"Has been going on for months. That's not why you haven't come for supper." Jorik crossed his massive arms. "Lyanna's been complaining. Says you're avoiding her cooking."

"I'm not avoiding anything. I've been busy."

"Right. Tell that to Keiran. He stops by every few weeks despite being as busy as you." Jorik's expression turned sly. "Course, he mainly comes for the ale and to complain about his joints aching."

Max blinked. The prince visited this blacksmith regularly? For ale and conversation?

"Keiran complains because he's getting soft," Tredor said. "All that sitting around the capital."

"We're all getting soft. And old."

Tredor snorted. "Speak for yourself."

Jorik turned to Max. "Your father's been lying to himself about his age for the past five years. Still thinks he's twenty."

Max had no memory of this man, but the easy way he spoke suggested they'd known each other for years. "Well, he moves fast enough during training with his men."

"Does he now?" Jorik grinned. "Good to know all that practice sword work isn't going to waste."

"Jorik," Tredor interrupted, "is it ready?"

"Course it's ready. Been ready for days." The blacksmith's expression shifted to something approaching professional pride. "Just been waiting for you to actually show up."

Max looked between them. He'd initially come to Tredor to ask about buying the draught, not expecting... whatever this was.

Tredor caught his glance. "I have been observing your training sessions. Saw what weapons you prefer." He gestured toward Jorik. " Jorik here is my childhood friend and personal blacksmith. He learned his craft in the mines of Ankor, among the dwarves themselves. I know his work." Tredor winked at Max. "I Figured you might need something better than practice blades for the wilderness."

"Took me ten attempts to get it right," Jorik added, already heading back toward the forge. "But I think you'll approve."

Max felt his pulse quicken despite himself. The anticipation was almost childlike. Like Christmas morning, but with the potential for extremely sharp presents. What was it? Some sort of legendary weapon? Probably made with some sort of special and rare metal. Or even a magical weapon. Or–

No.

Max stopped himself. This was exactly the kind of moment where the universe liked to teach lessons about managing expectations. Get too excited about the mysterious wrapped gift, and it turns out to be a slightly better practice sword. Or worse, a really nice belt buckle.

Better to assume it was something practical and boring. That way, if it was actually cool, it would be a pleasant surprise. And if it wasn't, well, at least he wouldn't look like an idiot who'd been expecting Excalibur.

But still.

It was hard not to get a little excited about free weapons when you were about to spend a year trying not to die in the wilderness.

Tredor laughed outright and reached over to ruffle Max's hair. "At least try to act dignified, boy. You're practically vibrating."

"I don't look like—"

"You absolutely do." Tredor turned back to Jorik. "Well? Don't keep him in suspense any longer. The lad might burst."

Jorik emerged from the forge carrying something wrapped in oiled leather.

"Three months of work," Jorik said simply, setting the bundle down on a nearby anvil. "Let's see if it was worth it."

The blacksmith's thick fingers worked at the leather wrapping with surprising delicacy. Each fold peeled back slowly, building anticipation until—

Oh. There it was.

Two short swords lay side by side, identical in every detail.

The blades were pure obsidian, so black they seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Each pommel was carved into the head of a roaring bear, the detail so fine Max could see individual teeth. Patterns ran along the fuller of each blade—geometric designs that seemed to shift and move.

Even Bro, who had been quietly nestled in Max's cloak since the training session, emerged slightly to peer at the weapons. His tiny form trembled with what looked like reverence.

There was something mesmerizing about the blades. They didn't just look sharp, they looked like they could cut through reality itself.

"Thirty years past," Tredor said quietly, "a rock fell from the sky."

Max tore his gaze away from the swords to look at the high lord.

"I was but twelve years of age. Beyond the castle walls with my cousin Neptania of House Sylmere and Prince Keiran, playing at some fool's game in the dark." Tredor's gaze was distant. "We saw this streak of light tear across the night sky, brighter than aught I'd ever witnessed. Crashed into the northern hills with a sound like thunder itself."

"Three days it took us to find where it had fallen," Tredor continued. "When we did... there was this crater, still smoking. And at its heart, a chunk of metal unlike any we'd seen before. Mithrendar, the scholars named it in time. One of the rarest substances in all the world."

"A gift from the Aspects, without doubt," Jorik said solemnly.

"Aye, I believe it so." Tredor nodded. "The three of us shared it amongst ourselves. I had my sword wrought from it, Keiran made his blade, and Neptania her daggers. We all bore pieces of that same fallen star."

His expression grew thoughtful. "I kept some of the metal by. Always meant to pass it on when the time was right." He gestured toward the obsidian blades. "It seemed fitting that you should bear it for your Proving Year."

Tredor's eyes moved from the swords to Max. "Go on, lad. Take them up."

Max reached for the nearest blade, his fingers closing around the bear-headed pommel.

The sword lifted from the leather like it weighed nothing at all. The balance was perfect—not just good, but perfect, as if the weapon had been forged specifically for his hand. The edge caught the light from the forge and seemed to bend it, creating a line of darkness that hurt to look at directly.

"The mithrendar holds an edge like naught else," Jorik said, pride evident in his voice. "You could wield those for ten years without honing and they'd still part mail like silk. They sing when they move, too. Listen."

Max gave the blade an experimental swing. A low, musical note filled the air—not quite a whistle, not quite a hum, but something that resonated in his bones.

"Holy shit," Max breathed.

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Both Tredor and Jorik raised eyebrows, but neither seemed offended.

"Mind your tongue, boy," Tredor said mildly, though he was smiling.

Max picked up the second blade. The weight distribution was identical, the balance just as perfect. He held both swords, feeling their eager readiness, and for a moment felt like he could take on the entire world.

The silence stretched as all three men looked at the weapons. Even the forge seemed to have quieted, the only sound the distant ring of hammer on anvil from somewhere deeper in the shop.

"What will you name them?" Tredor asked finally.

Max blinked. "Name them?"

"Yes. Every fine blade deserves a name." Tredor's expression grew serious. "Rome's hammer was called Judgment. The hero Bjorn bore an axe named Frostbite. Gregory's sword is Moonfall." He rested his hand on his own pommel. "Mine is called Snow."

Max looked down at the twin blades.

Bob and Steve?

No, that was just him being silly. He tried to think of something more fitting.

The memory hit him suddenly: an old show he used to watch, about a warrior who fought with twin blades. The hero had named his swords after concepts he believed in, and Max had always thought it was the coolest thing ever. He'd even practiced with two wooden sticks in his backyard, pretending to be that character.

The names from the show wouldn't work here, but the idea behind them would. These blades were forged from starfall metal, meant to keep him alive in the wilderness. They deserved names that meant something.

"Dusk," he said finally, raising the blade in his left hand. "And Dawn."

The names felt right. Dusk for the darkness he'd need to survive, Dawn for the hope of seeing another day.

Tredor nodded slowly. "Dusk and Dawn. Good names. Strong names."

"They'll serve you well," Jorik added, beginning to fold up the leather wrapping. "Just remember. These are not playthings. See that it cuts only what you mean it to."

Max sheathed both blades in the scabbards Jorik had provided, feeling their weight settle across his back.

They felt like they belonged there.