Gamble King Chapter 21. First Spell

The trial was scheduled for dawn, which meant it was cold as balls.

Max stood with the other squires in the great hall of Frosthold, watching his breath mist in the frigid morning air. Someone had opened the massive doors to accommodate the crowd, and the North's winter was making itself at home among the stone walls and hanging banners.

The hall was packed. Max had never seen it this full—common folk from the farming valley stood shoulder to shoulder with Frosthold's townspeople, while soldiers in their winter cloaks lined the walls like sentries. The nobles had claimed the best spots near the front, their furs and jewels a stark contrast to the rough-spun wool of the farmers.

Even Prince Keiran was here.

Max had completely forgotten about him until he spotted the man's distinctive silver hair near the high table. The Crown Prince of Hommenor stood with his arms crossed, watching the proceedings. He'd stayed in Frosthold ever since their return from the expedition, for a reason Max ignored.

As for lord Peyter Wynmont, he knelt in the center of the hall, iron shackles around his wrists and ankles.

Max recognized the face from Harek's memories—countless times he'd burst into his father's study to find Peyter there, deep in conversation with Tredor about trade routes or border disputes. The man had always greeted Harek with patient courtesy, even when the interruptions were clearly unwelcome. Now that same face was gaunt with fear and shame. The chains were just long enough to let him shift his weight, but not long enough for dignity.

Behind him, separated by a line of guards, sat his family. Lady Wynmont clutched a sodden handkerchief, her shoulders shaking with barely contained sobs. Their eldest son—a young man Harek's age—stared at the floor with the hollow expression of someone watching his world collapse. Two younger children sat rigid beside their mother, old enough to understand that their father was on trial for his life but too young to process what that meant for their future.

Tredor sat in the High Lord's chair like judgment incarnate. He hadn't spoken since calling the assembly to order. Just listened as witness after witness recounted the same story.

Old Edmund had gone first.

Then came Thomas Miller, his calloused hands steady as he described finding his neighbor's torn body in the snow. His voice never wavered, even when describing little Mia Henderson's final moments.

Marta Henderson had followed, her testimony delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone she'd used to serve Max cider. No theatrics, no appeals to emotion. Just facts, laid out like stones in a foundation.

"We sent three messages to Lord Peyter's keep," she said. "Asked for help. Asked for guards. Asked for anything. Got nothing back but silence."

The Crow family testified as a unit—father, mother, and three sons describing weeks of sleepless nights and wolves testing their defenses. Young Corvin's voice cracked when he described finding Sara's body at the northern farm.

"She had children, m'lord," the boy said. "Three little ones. They watched from the window while the wolves..."

He couldn't finish. Didn't need to.

One by one, seventeen families told their stories. Seventeen different voices, all saying the same thing: they'd been abandoned. Left to face winter and wolves and death without the protection they'd been promised.

Through it all, Peyter kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Occasionally his shoulders would twitch, as if he wanted to interrupt, to explain, to defend himself. But he stayed silent until the last witness finished speaking.

The hall fell quiet except for the distant sound of wind through stone and Lady Wynmont's muffled weeping.

Tredor let the silence stretch. And stretch. And stretch.

Prince Keiran shifted slightly, his pale eyes moving from Peyter to Tredor and back again. Even he seemed affected by the weight of what they'd heard.

Finally, Tredor spoke.

"Lord Peyter Wynmont." His voice carried clearly through the hall without being raised. "You have heard the testimony against you. Do you dispute any of these accounts?"

Peyter's head came up slowly. His face was haggard, aged years in a single night.

"No, my lord," he said quietly. "I do not dispute them."

"Then you acknowledge that you withdrew guards from the farming valley three months ago?"

"Yes, my lord."

"That you failed to respond to multiple requests for aid?"

"Yes, my lord."

"That your negligence directly resulted in the deaths of three innocent people?"

Peyter's voice broke. "Yes, my lord."

Tredor nodded once, as if Peyter had simply confirmed the weather.

"Defend yourself," he said.

The words hung in the cold air like a challenge. Here was Peyter's chance—his one opportunity to explain, to justify, to offer some reason that might spare his life.

Peyter's eyes darted around the hall, searching faces in the crowd.

Max followed his gaze as it swept over the assembled nobles—Archmage Kellor standing near the pillars, Baldwin with his perpetual scowl, some guy named Lord Harren of the eastern valleys, another named Lady Morwyn whose lands bordered Wynmont territory.

One by one, Peyter looked at them, his expression growing more desperate with each face that offered no comfort, no support, no sign of intervention.

Finally, his gaze settled on his family.

Lady Wynmont met his eyes, her tear-streaked face full of something that wasn't quite hope but wasn't quite despair either. For a moment, they seemed to communicate without words.

Peyter looked around the hall once more, as if searching for salvation that simply wasn't there.

"Lord Wynmont," Tredor said again. "Defend yourself."

Peyter's shoulders sagged. A long, shuddering sigh escaped him.

"My lord," he said, his voice cracking. "I... I have no defense. I lied. I lied to you, to my family, to myself." His words came faster now, tumbling over each other. "I told myself it was about the poor harvest, about my own people's needs, but that's not... that's not the truth."

He looked up at Tredor with red-rimmed eyes. "I don't know why I did it. I don't know why I convinced myself those people didn't matter as much as..." He gestured helplessly. "I was wrong. So terribly wrong."

His voice broke completely. "Please, my lord. I beg your mercy. Not for myself—I know what I deserve—but for my family. They trusted me to protect our house, and I've failed them as completely as I failed those poor souls in the valley."

The sobs came then, raw and broken, echoing through the silent hall. A grown man, a lord who had commanded respect for decades, reduced to weeping like a child before his liege. The sound was the only thing that existed in that moment—everything else had been swallowed by the weight of his confession.

Lady Wynmont's own sobs joined her husband's, but softer, muffled by her handkerchief. Their children sat frozen, watching their father's complete collapse with the hollow-eyed shock of those witnessing the end of everything they'd ever known.

The hall remained silent except for those broken sounds of grief.

That silence stretched on, and on, and on. Max watched Tredor's face, trying to read the calculation behind those stone-gray eyes.

This was it. The moment that would define everything that came after.

Max could see the pieces on the board as clearly as if they were laid out before him. Peyter was guilty—no question, no defense, no room for doubt. The man had admitted everything, broken down completely in front of the entire North's power structure.

The people of the valley wanted justice. They'd traveled through the night to see it served, their faces hard with the kind of anger that came from watching children die while protection was denied. They wouldn't be satisfied with empty words or political maneuvering.

But House Wynmont wasn't just any bannerman. Fifteen generations of loyalty. Control of the eastern passes. Strategic marriages that bound them to many noble houses in the North. Execute Peyter, and every lord in the realm would start wondering if their own loyalty meant anything at all.

Max's eyes moved across the assembled nobles. He could see the tension in their faces, the careful way they watched Tredor. They were all calculating the same equation: if Vanheim could execute one of their most loyal ally for a crime of negligence, what safety did any of them have?

And yet... the pact demanded justice. Protection of the people above all else. That was the foundation of Vanheim power, the source of their legitimacy. Without it, they were just another house with a big army.

Tredor needed to thread the needle. Show strength without breaking the system. Deliver justice without starting a civil war.

The High Lord finally stirred, his voice cutting through the silence.

"Lord Peyter Wynmont," he said. "You stand convicted by your own admission of dereliction of duty, falsification of records, and criminal negligence resulting in death."

Peyter's head snapped up, terror naked on his face.

"The law is clear," Tredor continued. "The penalty for such crimes is death."

Lady Wynmont's sob echoed through the hall. Several nobles shifted uncomfortably.

"However," Tredor said, and the single word seemed to drain all the air from the room. "Justice must serve the living, not merely punish the dead."

Max felt his breath catch. Here it was.

"You will be stripped of all lands, titles, and authority. House Wynmont will pass to your eldest son, should he prove worthy of the responsibility you abandoned. You will be exiled from the North, never to return under penalty of death."

The hall erupted. Not in cheers or protests, but in a low murmur of voices as everyone processed what they'd just heard.

"Furthermore," Tredor's voice rose above the whispers, "House Vanheim will provide immediate compensation to the families of the valley. Gold for their losses, replacement livestock, and a permanent garrison to ensure this betrayal never happens again."

He stood slowly, his presence commanding absolute attention.

"Let all houses witness," he said. "Mercy is not the absence of strength. It is strength's highest form. But let no one mistake compassion for tolerance. The pact between House Vanheim and the people of the North is sacred. Those who break it will answer for their crimes."

Tredor's gaze swept the assembled nobles before settling on Peyter's broken form.

"Justice has been served."

Max felt a surge of relief wash over him as the guards moved to escort Peyter from the hall.

From what he'd heard in conversations around the castle, Tredor was widely regarded as the most effective politician among the High Lords—second in influence only to the King himself. A renowned knight and fighter in his younger days, though looking at him now, Max found that hard to believe. Where other knights like Gregory carried themselves with barely contained violence, Tredor had a much calmer presence.

This had been the perfect choice. Justice served, but the realm held together. The valley families looked satisfied—not happy, but satisfied that their lord hadn't forgotten them. The nobles seemed relieved that loyalty still meant something. Even Prince Keiran was nodding approvingly.

Peyter stumbled as the guards helped him to his feet, his chains clanking against the stone floor. His family rose as well, Lady Wynmont still clutching her handkerchief while their eldest son—the new Lord Wynmont, Max supposed—stood with a rigid posture as if he was trying not to break down in public.

The crowd began to disperse, conversations bubbling up as people processed what they'd witnessed. The valley farmers clustered together, discussing compensation and the promised garrison. The nobles formed their own groups, no doubt analyzing every word of Tredor's judgment.

Max spotted Gerth near one of the pillars, his distinctive gray robes making him easy to pick out among the crowd. The old man was already making his way toward the exit.

This seemed like a good time to talk about magic.

He made his way through the dispersing crowd, following the healer toward the door. Every few steps, someone intercepted him—a minor lord wanting to discuss the trial's implications, a merchant seeking audience about trade routes, a knight's wife complimenting his "maturity" in recent weeks.

"Lord Vanheim, such wisdom in your father's judgment—"

"Yes, absolutely," Max replied with what he hoped was an appropriate smile. "If you'll excuse me—"

"My lord, about the grain contracts for next season—"

"Ah, yes, important matters. Perhaps we could discuss this later—"

"Harek! Wonderful to see you looking so well—"

Max smiled awkwardly at a woman whose name he couldn't recall but whose face suggested she'd known him since childhood. "Thank you, my lady. Always a pleasure. I'm afraid I must—"

Each interaction cost him precious seconds as Gerth moved steadily toward the exit. Max finally extracted himself from a particularly persistent conversation about sheep breeding techniques and hurried after the old man.

"Gerth!" he called out as the healer reached the great hall's entrance. "Hey, Gerth!"

The old man turned, that familiar frown already settling across his features. His eyes took in Max's slightly disheveled appearance and obvious haste.

"What?" Gerth asked flatly.

Max caught up, slightly out of breath from pushing through the crowd. "Damn, at least act like you're happy to see me."

"I reserve happiness for occasions that warrant it," Gerth replied dryly. "What do you want, boy? I have herbs to gather for a brew that won't make itself."

Max couldn't help but smile at the old man's predictable grouchiness. "I felt it."

Gerth's frown deepened, if such a thing were possible. "Felt what?"

Max glanced around at the people still streaming past them, then leaned closer and murmured, "The Source. I felt the Source."

The transformation in Gerth's demeanor was immediate. His eyes sharpened, and suddenly Max had the old man's complete attention.

"Let us go somewhere private," Gerth said quietly.

Max's smile widened. "Ah, not so much in a hurry for those herbs now, huh?"

"Hush, boy," Gerth muttered, already turning toward a side corridor that led away from the main flow of traffic.

Gerth led Max through a series of narrow corridors until they emerged into one of Frosthold's smaller courtyards. In summer, it might have been a pleasant garden. Now it was a study in winter's artistry—bare branches heavy with snow, stone benches buried under white drifts, and pathways marked only by the occasional servant's footprints.

The cold hit them immediately, but the space was blessedly empty. High walls on all sides muffled the sounds from the great hall, creating a pocket of relative privacy in the heart of the castle.

Gerth turned to face Max, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. "Are you certain you felt it? Not imagined it, not convinced yourself you did—actually felt the Source?"

"Yes," Max said without hesitation. "I'm sure."

"How did you do it?" Gerth's eyes were intense now, studying Max's face as if he could read the answer there. "What exactly did you try?"

Max pulled his cloak tighter against the cold. "I did what you said. Instead of reaching for some mystical river or trying to commune with cosmic forces, I focused on achieving that mental state you described. The quiet state."

"And?"

"It happened when I was using my bow. During the wolf attack at the Miller farm." Max's voice grew more animated as he recalled the experience. "I was in the tree, taking shots, completely focused on the archery. And suddenly I wasn't thinking about wind drift or trajectory anymore. I was just... existing in the moment. Everything else fell away."

Gerth nodded slowly, stroking his beard. "Go on."

"That's when it hit me. Like falling—" Max paused, searching for words. "I found myself standing on a rocky shore, facing this massive ocean. But it wasn't peaceful like Kellor described. It was a raging tempest. Waves tall as buildings, lightning splitting the sky, the whole thing churning with raw power."

"Fascinating," Gerth murmured, his frown shifting to something approaching academic interest.

"I had an arrow in my hand in the vision. The urge to test this power was overwhelming, so I drew and released." Max shook his head at the memory. "The shaft just... disintegrated. Compressed inward, crushed by invisible forces before it traveled three feet. Wood and metal, gone."

"How very interesting," Gerth said, stroking his beard more deliberately now. His eyes had taken on the gleam of someone presented with an intriguing puzzle. "The arrow was destroyed by excess power, you think?"

"That's what it felt like. Like I'd drawn too much without knowing how to control it." Max shifted his weight, boots crunching in the snow. "When I snapped back to reality, there were actual splinters at the base of my tree. The vision had somehow affected the physical world."

Gerth was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant as he processed this information. Snow began to fall more heavily around them, dusting their shoulders and catching in the old man's gray beard.

"Very interesting indeed," he finally repeated.

Max frowned this time, crossing his arms against the cold. "Are you gonna keep saying 'interesting' and looking puzzled, or are you gonna teach me to do spells now?"

Gerth's eyes sharpened, fixing Max with a look that clearly said watch that mouth, boy.

"You should go to the Archmage for that," the old man finally said curtly. "Not to me, who isn't even a mage. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to receive direct lessons from Kellor? The man is one of the most powerful magic users in the realm."

Max shifted uncomfortably under Gerth's glare. "I don't feel like learning from the Archmage."

"Oh, you don't feel like it?"

"He's stern. And hard to talk to."

Gerth raised an eyebrow. "I'm stern and hard to talk to as well."

"Huh." Max blinked, genuinely surprised. "You're self-aware? And you still do it?"

"Tsk." Gerth made a dismissive sound. "I'm too old to change now."

"Well, anyway," Max said, undeterred, "I just understand it better when you teach me. Not the Archmage. So go ahead—teach me."

Gerth frowned at Max for a long moment, then made a decision that seemed to surprise even himself. "Let's do it."

Max blinked. "Here? I don't even have a proper cloak on. I'm cold."

Gerth just stared at him, frowning as usual.

Max sighed. "Alright, let's start."

"You will try to produce fire," Gerth said matter-of-factly.

"Sure. How do I do it?"

"I will guide you." Gerth moved closer. "First, you need to understand what you're asking the Source to do. Magic isn't about waving your hands and hoping for the best. It's about giving reality a precise set of instructions."

Max nodded, pulling his arms closer to his body against the cold.

"The archmage probably told you this already, but every spell requires what we call a Thoughtshape," Gerth continued. "Think of it as... a blueprint. You must account for every detail, every condition, every possible outcome. The Source doesn't fill in gaps or guess what you meant. It follows your instructions exactly as given."

"Yes, like coding," Max murmured.

Gerth frowned. "Like what?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"The point is, if you forget to specify that your fire shouldn't burn your own hand, it will. If you don't tell it how hot to be, it might be a candle flame or it might melt stone. If you don't give it fuel parameters, it might consume all the air around you." Gerth's expression was grim. "Magic is precise because imprecision kills."

Max felt a chill that had nothing to do with the snow. "Right. So I need to think through every detail."

"Exactly. Now, what is fire?"

Max's mind immediately went to the countless documentaries he'd watched in his previous life—rapid oxidation, chemical reactions, the fire triangle of fuel, oxygen, and heat. But he couldn't explain molecular chemistry to a medieval healer.

"Fire is..." Max paused, choosing his words carefully. "Fire needs three things to live. Something to burn, air to breathe, and heat to start it. Take away any one of those, and the fire dies."

Gerth stared at him with a surprised frown.

"What?" Max asked.

"Most people think fire is just... fire," Gerth said slowly. "They point at flames and say 'that's fire' without understanding what makes it work." He paused, still looking mildly astonished. "Those books in the library served a purpose, apparently."

Max decided not to correct him about where his knowledge actually came from.

"The flames we see are actually burning vapors rising from whatever's being consumed," he continued, sticking to observations Gerth could verify. "That's why different materials burn different colors—different vapors, different flames."

"Excellent. You understand the fundamental nature of what you're creating. Now, we build the Thoughtshape. I want you to create a small flame, hovering above your palm. Tell me the conditions that must be met."

Max closed his eyes, thinking it through systematically. "The fire needs something to burn. Since there's nothing in my hand, I need to create... vapors? Something combustible above my palm?"

"Creating vapors is simpler for a first attempt," Gerth confirmed. "What else?"

"Air to breathe. There's air all around us, but I need to make sure it doesn't consume all the air too quickly, or it might go out... or worse."

"Continue."

"Heat to start the fire. I need to specify how much heat to begin with." Max opened his eyes. "Then I need to define how big it should be, how hot, how long it should last, and most importantly—that it shouldn't burn me or spread beyond where I want it."

"And how do you ensure it doesn't harm you?"

Max thought about heat radiation and convection, but translated it into medieval terms. "I need to specify that the heat should rise up and spread outward, not down into my skin. Maybe... keep the air just above my palm cooler, like a barrier?"

"Excellent. Now, all of that is quite a lot to hold in your mind at once while also reaching for the Source. This is why mages use incantations—not because the words themselves have power, but because they serve as memory aids. Compress your Thoughtshape into words you can remember."

Max considered this, drawing parallels to code functions. Each function had a name that described what it did, with all the complex logic hidden underneath.

"How about: 'Small flame, fed by vapors, burn above my palm, warm but safe'?" he tried.

Gerth shook his head. "Too vague. 'Small' could mean anything. 'Warm but safe' doesn't specify how you're protected."

Max tried again, thinking more like a programmer defining parameters. "Controlled flame, two fingers high, fed by burning vapors, drawing air slowly, heat rises up, cool air beneath, burns until I dismiss it."

"Better, but that's a sentence, not an incantation. Compress it further."

Max thought about it, trying to find the essential elements. "Flame above, vapor-fed, heat-shielded, controlled burn."

"Much better. Simple enough to remember, specific enough to be safe." Gerth stepped back slightly. "Now, practice forming that complete Thoughtshape in your mind. Don't try to cast yet—just build the mental blueprint. Remember, you're not asking for magic. You're writing instructions for reality to follow."

Max closed his eyes again, methodically building the concept. A small flame, exactly two fingers tall. Fed by combustible vapors that would form just above his palm. Drawing air at a controlled rate. Initial heat to start the fire. Heat radiating upward, with cooler air protecting his skin. The flame would maintain itself through controlled vapor production until he consciously dismissed it.

"I think I have it," he said, eyes still closed.

"Good. Now compress it into your incantation and hold the complete Thoughtshape behind those words. Don't cast yet—just practice switching between the full concept and the compressed version until they feel like the same thing."

Max repeated his incantation silently: Flame above, vapor-fed, heat-shielded, controlled burn. Each word triggered a cascade of technical specifications in his mind. Like calling a function in code—simple on the surface, complex underneath.

"This is actually fascinating," Max murmured. "It's exactly like programming. You write complex instructions, but you execute them with simple commands."

Gerth looked puzzled but pleased. "I don't know what 'programming' is, but if it helps you understand the principle, use whatever analogies work."

Max opened his eyes, feeling more confident. "I think I'm ready to try."

"Not yet," Gerth said firmly. "Practice the Thoughtshape ten more times. Magic forgives nothing. When you reach for the Source with an incomplete or unstable blueprint, it doesn't just fail—it fails catastrophically."

Max nodded and closed his eyes again, methodically building and rebuilding his mental blueprint. Each repetition made the Thoughtshape clearer, more precise, more stable. By the tenth iteration, the incantation felt like it contained the entire concept naturally, without strain.

"Now I'm ready."

"Good," Gerth said. "Now we reach for the Source. Close your eyes. Remember what I told you—don't search for mystical energy. Enter that quiet state you achieved during the archery."

Max closed his eyes, letting his breathing slow. He tried to recapture that crystalline focus from the wolf hunt, that moment when everything else had fallen away.

"Don't think about the Source," Gerth instructed quietly. "Think about your Thoughtshape. Hold it steady. Let your mind settle around it like water finding its level."

Max focused on his incantation: Flame above, vapor-fed, heat-shielded, controlled burn. He felt his consciousness shifting, that familiar sensation of falling into perfect focus.

The transition hit him like a physical drop.

Suddenly he stood on that rocky shore again, facing the raging tempest. The ocean stretched endlessly before him, waves tall as buildings crashing against black stone. Lightning split the sky in branching veins of white fire, illuminating clouds that boiled and writhed like living things. The air tasted of copper and electricity, heavy with raw potential.

But this time, Max didn't reach for the power carelessly. Instead, he looked down at his hands—solid, real, perfectly formed. He held his Thoughtshape steady in his mind, the complete blueprint of controlled flame.

The ocean responded.

Energy began to flow toward him from everywhere at once. It poured from the churning waters, streamed down from the storm-wracked sky, rose up from the lightning-struck stone beneath his feet. Raw power gathered around his hands like liquid light, condensing into something he could actually hold.

Not the overwhelming torrent from before. This was precise, measured—exactly what his Thoughtshape required and no more.

"Good," came Gerth's voice from somewhere far away. "I can see it building. You're drawing evenly. Now shape it—carefully. Channel that energy into your blueprint."

Max felt the raw power settling into his Thoughtshape like water finding a mold. The chaotic energy took on structure, purpose, coherent form. His vision of controlled flame became more than imagination—it was becoming reality.

"Remember your conditions," Gerth warned. "Every specification. Don't let any detail slip."

Max held the shaped spell carefully, feeling the internal pressure stabilize. The energy wanted to manifest, to complete itself in the physical world. But he kept it contained, checking each element of his Thoughtshape one final time.

Small flame. Two fingers high. Fed by combustible vapors. Drawing air slowly. Heat radiating upward. Cool air buffer beneath. Controlled burn until dismissed.

"Now release it," Gerth whispered.

Max opened his eyes and spoke his incantation aloud: "Flame above, vapor-fed, heat-shielded, controlled burn."

The Source completed the shape.

A perfect flame appeared two inches above his palm, exactly as he'd envisioned. Yellow-orange fire fed by invisible vapors, drawing air at just the right rate. Heat radiated upward in a gentle cone while cool air cushioned his skin beneath. It danced with natural randomness but maintained its precise height and intensity.

Max stared at it, hardly believing what he was seeing. "I did it," he breathed.

Behind him, he heard Gerth's footsteps backing away across the snow. The old man had retreated several yards.

"Well, I'll be damned," Gerth said, his voice carrying a note of baffled laughter. "You actually did it. On your first attempt."

Max grinned, holding his hand steady as the flame continued to burn. "I'm a mage!" he said, excitement bubbling up in his voice. "I'm actually a mage!"

The flame responded to his emotional state, flaring slightly before settling back to its controlled parameters. Max quickly focused, bringing his excitement under control. The fire resumed its steady dance above his palm.

"Careful now," Gerth warned, though he was smiling despite himself. "Don't let emotion destabilize your Thoughtshape. That flame is real fire—it can burn you if you lose concentration."

Max nodded, sobering slightly but unable to completely suppress his grin. He was holding actual fire. Fire he had created from nothing but thought and will and precise understanding.

Magic really was awesome.

"How do I dismiss it?" he asked.

"Same principle. Form the intent clearly and release it through the Source connection."

Max focused on the idea of ending the spell, of releasing the energy back to its natural state. "Flame dismissed," he said simply.

The fire vanished instantly, leaving only a faint warmth lingering above his palm.

Gerth walked closer, shaking his head in amazement. "Fifteen years I spent in Evrador, watching mages struggle for months to achieve their first controlled casting. And you do it in one evening, in a bloody snowstorm, with nothing but theoretical understanding."

Max flexed his fingers, still feeling the echo of power that had flowed through them. "It's exactly like you said. Once I understood the mechanism instead of trying to force some mystical experience..."

"You have a gift, boy," Gerth said seriously. "Not just for magic—for understanding. Most mages never learn to think about what they're actually doing. They just repeat what worked before without knowing why."

Max looked at his hand again, remembering the sensation of shaping raw energy into precise form. "What's next?"

"Well, magic requires practice. So we will practice."