Gamble King Chapter 18. Perceiving the Source

Max's boots echoed against the stone floor as he made his way through the castle's western corridor. His muscles still ached from the farm work and wolf hunt, but he moved with purpose, his mind focused on the conversation ahead.

"Hey there, where might I find the High Lord?" he asked a passing servant, a woman carrying linens who nearly dropped them when she realized who was addressing her.

"In his study, m'lord," she replied, bobbing a quick curtsy. "He's been there since midday."

Max nodded his thanks and continued on. The castle was quieter than usual, the evening meal concluded, most of the household already retiring to their chambers. Torch flames danced in their sconces, casting long shadows across tapestries depicting hunts and battles from times long past.

He climbed the spiral staircase to the eastern tower, where his father—no, Tredor, he reminded himself—kept his private study. Two guards flanked the heavy oak door, their expressions unchanging as Max approached.

"Is he busy?" Max asked.

"He said not to disturb him," one guard replied, then added, "except for you, my lord. If you came looking."

Max knocked twice, firmly.

"Enter," came the reply, the voice deep and measured.

Max pushed open the door and stepped inside. Tredor's study was exactly what one would expect of the North's High Lord—austere, functional, with none of the ostentatious decoration favored by southern nobles as described in the novel.

A massive oak desk dominated the center, its surface covered with maps, letters, and a scattering of small carved figurines representing military units. A fire crackled in the hearth, fighting against the perpetual chill of the stone walls. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes on warfare, governance, and northern history.

Tredor himself sat behind the desk, a quill in hand, looking up as Max entered. When he saw Max, the severe lines of his face softened slightly.

"Harek," he said, setting aside his quill. "I'd begun to wonder if you'd forgotten where my study was."

"Father," Max replied, inclining his head slightly. "I've been... occupied."

Tredor gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "So I've heard. Sir Gregory speaks highly of your progress." A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Sit. Tell me about your day."

Max took the offered seat, considering how to begin. "I visited the farming valley. Spent time with the Thorne family."

"Edmund Thorne's clan?" Tredor raised an eyebrow. "The old man must have had choice words for you."

"He remembered me. Mentioned something about stealing turnips and getting beaten for it."

Tredor actually chuckled at that. "You were always resourceful, even in your mischief." His expression grew more serious. "What did you learn there?"

"How to move barrels that weigh more than I do. How to haul grain sacks up an icy ladder without breaking my neck." Max paused. "And that there are no hunters or guards stationed in the valley."

Tredor's hand, which had been reaching for his goblet, stopped mid-motion. "No guards?"

"None," Max confirmed. "Not for the past three moons, according to Edmund."

"That's not possible." Tredor's voice remained calm, but his eyes had hardened. "I assigned a full rotation. Six men, switching every fortnight."

"They're not there now. The farmers have been defending themselves."

Tredor's jaw tightened. "How many?"

"How many what?"

"Deaths, boy. How many people have died?"

Max hesitated. "Two children and a woman in the past three moons. Almost lost another boy today—Henrik Miller. Wolf tore his leg off."

Tredor stood abruptly, moving to a side table where a pitcher and several goblets sat. He poured something dark into two cups, handed one to Max, then drained his own in a single swallow.

"You're certain there were no guards? No hunters?" He stared into the empty cup as if it might contain answers.

"None," Max repeated. "Did you think there were?"

Tredor set his cup down. "I didn't think, I knew. I established the rotation myself after the first attacks last summer. Lord Peyter oversees the guard assignments personally."

Max frowned. Peyter. The name should have meant something to him, but he couldn't place it. Better to just listen.

"And this Peyter, he told you the guards were in the valley?"

Tredor moved to another table where a large ledger sat. He flipped through it rapidly, stopping at a page covered in neat columns of writing. His finger traced down the entries.

"Guard Captain Darrow, Guardsmen Thell, Ellis, Micken, Gorin, and Borren," he read aloud. "Assigned to valley protection from last rotation until..." He flipped to the next page. "Until the next rotation, five days from now." He looked up. "According to this, they're there."

"According to what? Or who? Peyter?"

"Yes." Tredor tapped the ledger. "My seneschal handles the administration. Guard rotations, supply distributions, tax collections." His voice grew quieter. "Every week he reports the guard movements. Confirms the men are where they should be."

"Well, someone's lying," Max said flatly. "And it isn't the farmers with dead children."

Tredor closed the ledger with a sharp snap and moved to the window, staring out at the darkness beyond. "No," he said softly. "It wouldn't be."

"What happens now?"

"Now?" Tredor turned, and there was something cold in his eyes that reminded Max why the North followed this man. "Now I find out where my guards have been for the past three moons, and why Lord Peyter felt the need to lie to his High Lord."

Max saw calculation in his father's face—not anger, not yet, but the assessment of a man accustomed to threats and betrayals.

"The valley needs protection," Max said. "Today, not after you've sorted this out."

Tredor nodded once. "It will have it by morning. I'll send Sir Randall with twenty men. The wolves won't touch another child."

He returned to his desk, already reaching for parchment and quill. "You did well to bring this to me directly."

"I gave them my word," Max said simply.

"And a Vanheim keeps his word." Tredor paused, looking up from the parchment. "These wolves... tell me about them."

Max shifted in his seat. "Unnaturally aggressive. Hunting in daylight. Targeting children specifically."

"And you fought them?"

"Yes. And their pack leader, too. Arrow to the eye, then another to the throat."

Tredor's expression was unreadable. "Nothing unusual about the hunt?"

Max hesitated. The image of the wolf cowering, the small white spider descending on its thread, flashed through his mind.

"There was... a spider."

Tredor's quill stilled. "A spider?"

"Yes. Small. Pure white. The wolf—this massive beast that had just tried to tear my throat out—it saw this spider and started cowering. Pissing itself in fear." Max leaned forward. "It was like nothing I'd ever seen."

Tredor set down his quill entirely. "Where exactly was this?"

"The Miller farm. Eastern edge of the valley, near the pine grove."

"A white spider," Tredor muttered, his fingers drumming on the desk. "We'll need to investigate. If something has taken root in our territory..."

"You think it could be a monster?" Max asked, surprised at how serious Tredor looked.

Tredor's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why do you look so surprised?"

"I, uh—I'm not. I just rarely see monsters here."

"Hmm." Tredor stood, moving to warm his hands by the fire. "I was ten when I encountered my first monster. Younger than you were."

Max leaned forward, curious.

"It was during the Frost Moon Festival. The northern clans had gathered at Lake Whitewind for the ceremonies." Tredor's voice took on a rhythm, as if he'd told this story many times before. "I'd slipped away from the celebrations—much like you were always doing at that age. Found a cave in the cliffs overlooking the lake."

He turned, firelight casting half his face in shadow. "Inside was a creature with the body of a man and the head of a stag. Its antlers scraped the ceiling of the cave. It was skinning a fox, using a blade made of what looked like black ice."

"What did you do?"

"What any foolish ten-year-old would do. I drew my training sword and challenged it to combat." A wry smile touched Tredor's lips. "The creature looked at me for a long moment, then laughed. Not a human laugh—more like ice cracking on a frozen river."

"Then?"

"It accepted my challenge. Said if I could land a single blow, it would grant me a boon. If I failed, it would add my skin to its collection." Tredor's eyes grew distant. "We fought for what felt like hours. My training sword couldn't even scratch its hide. Eventually, I lost my grip on the sword, and it clattered across the cave floor."

Max found himself genuinely invested. "What happened when you lost your sword?"

"Elsa saved me." Tredor said it simply.

"For real?" The words slipped out before Max could stop them.

Tredor turned, brow furrowed. "For real? What manner of speech is that?"

"It's, uh, something people are saying now. New way of talking."

"For real," Tredor repeated, testing the phrase. "For real. Hmm. Yes, for real. Your mother saved me."

Max blinked, trying to reconcile this with Harek's memories. "I don't remember her being... like that."

Tredor's expression softened. "No, I suppose you wouldn't. She maintained much of her spirit even after we were married and had you boys, but she showed a different side to her children." He smiled. "Did you know I thought she was a boy for nearly three years?"

"What?"

"She was the second son of Clan Ravenheart, or so everyone believed. She hid her ears, kept her hair short, wore boys' clothing, trained with sword and bow." Tredor's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Her father had wanted sons, so that's what she gave him, until she grew too much for the deception to continue."

"Wait. I thought she was a king's daughter? Why was she hiding?"

"King Sylas Solaryon of the Dhards. You grandfather. The elven king was forging relationships with the Vanheim, and they visited regularly. That's how we came to know each other. He wantedd her to meddle with humans without prejudice, as is common with elves. So she became a boy."

"I see." Max struggled to process this. "So... you two were best friends before you knew she was a woman?"

"Yes. Inseparable from age seven."

"And then when she could no longer hide she was a woman, you... fell in love with your best friend?"

"Yes." Tredor said it simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Okay. Just making sure." Max nodded, oddly touched by the story. "I mean, it's awesome. Surprising, but awesome."

A smile ghosted across Tredor's face. "You shouldn't say that. After all, you mistook Princess Aelara, your betrothed, for a boy the first time you met."

Max frowned. He had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Was this some sort of Vanheim tradition?

"Wait." He said, just realizing something. " How did she save you? Were you both not the same age?"

"She saved me by screaming for help," Tredor added. "The knights came running. She never let me forget how idiotic I was for not even trying to call for help. 'Why do humans always forget they have voices?' she used to say." His smile turned wistful. "Dhardian wisdom. Practical to the end."

"Huh. She had a point. You could have just screamed."

Tredor chuckled. "Now, back to the matter at hand. I'll have Sir Randall's men search for any sign of your white spider when they secure the valley." He picked up his quill again. "Perhaps it's nothing. Perhaps not. The North holds many secrets, even from those born to it."

"I should let you work," Max said, rising.

"Yes." Tredor dipped his quill in ink. "We'll speak more tomorrow. I'm sending a man to fetch Peyter at first light."

Max nodded and turned to leave.

"Harek," Tredor called as Max reached the door.

Max paused, looking back.

"You did well today. Your mother would be proud."

This one took Max by surprise. "Oh, well... thank you, Father."

Tredor smiled at him.

He closed the door quietly behind him, mind tired from the day's events.

***

Max lowered himself into the steaming bath with a groan that started in his toes and worked its way up through every sore muscle. The water enveloped him like a hot, wet hug from a clingy friend—uncomfortable at first, then suddenly the only thing you want in the world.

"God," he muttered, sinking deeper.

Dirt, sweat, and what might have been a bit of Henrik's blood swirled away from his skin. Three servants had hauled the water up the tower stairs, bucket by bucket. Max felt vaguely guilty about this until he remembered his lower back muscles, which were currently sending formal complaints to his brain about moving barrels.

He'd completed both the big and small commissions before the bath—finding the privy and dealing with bodily needs that couldn't wait. Medieval plumbing continued to be the worst part of this entire fantasy-novel-turned-reality situation. Max would have traded his fancy lordling boots for a working toilet and some hand sanitizer.

Twenty minutes later, cleaner than he'd been in days and dressed in sleeping clothes that felt impossibly soft against his skin, Max collapsed onto his bed. The mattress wasn't memory foam, but the straw-stuffed monstrosity had a certain rustic comfort to it. Thick furs piled on top trapped his body heat, creating a cocoon of warmth in the perpetually drafty stone room.

What he wouldn't give for a cold, creamy protein shake right now. Maybe some Netflix. Definitely some Advil.

Max stared at the ceiling, watching shadows dance from the dying fire in the hearth.

Sleep refused to come.

His mind replayed the day's events on an endless loop. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Henrik's face--pale, blood-streaked, eyes wide with pain and terror as Wulfric pressed the red-hot iron against his leg.

The boy would live. That was something. But he'd live as a cripple in a world that had no patience for weakness.

Max shifted under the furs.

He was now thinking about what Henrik's life would look like now. In a modern world, the kid would get a prosthetic, physical therapy, maybe even go on to compete in the Paralympics. Here? Here he'd be lucky to avoid starvation.

A one-legged boy couldn't work the fields. Couldn't defend his family when the wolves came back. Couldn't join the guard or learn a trade that required standing for long periods. In the North, where survival depended on physical capability, Henrik had been transformed from a future farmer into a permanent burden.

His parents would care for him, of course. Feed him, shelter him, love him. But resources were limited. Every mouth to feed mattered, and now they had a mouth that couldn't contribute.

Max rolled onto his side, pulling the furs higher. The fire in the hearth had now burned down to glowing embers, enveloping the room in a reddish twilight that did nothing to improve his mood.

The worst part was knowing it didn't have to happen.

If he'd been there earlier. If he'd arrived at the farm before the wolves attacked instead of after. If Tredor had sent guards weeks ago instead of today.

If, if, if.

But he had a way to fix it. Eleven rerolls sat in whatever cosmic inventory managed his strange existence. He could go back, prevent the attack entirely, save Henrik's leg. All he had to do was die.

Simple, right?

Max sat up in bed, running his hands through his hair. The problem wasn't the dying part--well, it was a problem, but not the main one. The main problem was that he'd used his last death berry during the expedition. His convenient suicide method was gone.

Which meant he needed another way to kill himself.

The thought of asking someone for help with that particular task made him cringe. "Hey, Father, could you stab me through the heart? It's for a good cause, I promise." That conversation would go well.

He could throw himself from the tower, but the idea of experiencing another violent death made his stomach churn. It was genuinely miraculous that he hadn't developed some kind of trauma response to dying horribly. Maybe the reroll system came with built-in psychological protection, or maybe he was just naturally resilient to existential horror.

Either way, he wasn't thrilled about adding "death by falling" to his growing list of extremely unpleasant experiences.

But Gerth might have something. The man dealt in all sorts of questionable substances. Surely he had something that could kill quickly and painlessly. A poison that worked fast, maybe. Something that would let Max die with dignity instead of screaming.

Max swung his legs out of bed, feet hitting the cold stone floor. He wasn't going to sleep anyway. Might as well see if the castle's resident drug dealer was still awake.

He dressed quickly in the dark, pulling on clothes. The corridors would be mostly empty at this hour, which suited his purposes. The last thing he needed was to explain to a curious guard why he was visiting Gerth in the middle of the night.

Max opened his door carefully, listening for sounds in the hallway. Nothing but the usual castle noises--distant snoring, wind through the stones, the occasional creak of settling timber.

Time to go shopping for a dignified death.

The western tower housed the castle's secondary quarters--servants, retainers, and those whose positions required proximity to the lord's family without the privilege of guest chambers. Max now knew the layout well enough.

Two guards stood at the intersection where the corridor split toward the servant quarters. They straightened as Max approached, hands moving reflexively to sword hilts before recognizing him.

"My lord," the elder guard said, inclining his head. "Late to be wandering the halls."

"Couldn't sleep," Max replied. "Thought I'd check on someone."

The guards exchanged a glance but said nothing. Max didn't need to explain his movements, especially not in his own castle. They stepped aside, allowing him to pass.

The servant quarters occupied the lower level of the tower, accessible via a narrow stone staircase that spiraled downward into increasing darkness. Max descended carefully, one hand trailing along the rough-hewn wall. The air grew warmer as he went deeper, heated by the kitchen fires and the press of many bodies sleeping in small spaces.

Unlike the lord's quarters above, these corridors were narrow and practical. Doors lined both walls, each leading to chambers barely large enough for a bed and personal belongings. Some doors bore small carved symbols indicating their occupants' roles--a hammer for the blacksmith's assistant, a quill for the castle's scribes, a mortar and pestle for...

Max paused before a door marked with the healer's symbol. Soft light leaked from beneath it, suggesting someone was still awake. He raised his hand and knocked softly.

"Who disturbs me at this hour?" came a voice from within--gravelly, tired.

"It's Harek," Max said quietly.

A pause. Then the sound of footsteps, a bolt sliding back, and the door opened to reveal an Gerth. He wore a simple woolen robe over his sleeping clothes, and his hands bore the permanent stains of someone who worked with herbs and tinctures.

"Well, well," Gerth said, looking Max up and down with the critical eye of someone who'd seen him naked and crying. "Look what the cat dragged in. You look like hell, boy."

"Thanks, Gerth. Always such a charmer."

"Don't you 'thanks Gerth' me. What are you doing skulking around my quarters at this ungodly hour? And don't tell me you couldn't sleep. I've been mixing sleeping draughts since before you could walk without pissing yourself."

Max paused, considering. If this were just about the death berries or finding some gentle poison, he could have waited until tomorrow. Could have asked Gerth during normal hours, or even visited the castle's library--scriptorium, they called it here--to research alternatives himself.

But it wasn't just about dying conveniently.

Harek's memories showed him scattered images of Gerth over the years. The old man had no magical ability himself, but he knew more about the subject than most. He'd served noble houses for decades, treated everything from common ailments to curses, dealt with bound mages and hedge witches and traveling miracle workers.

Kellor was brilliant, certainly, but the Archmage made Max feel like every question might reveal some fundamental ignorance that would mark him as an impostor. With Gerth, he could ask stupid questions, get judged for them, and somehow not feel diminished by the experience. Old men like this were walking libraries of practical knowledge.

"Could I come in?" Max asked.

Gerth studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and sniffed.

Max blinked. "What are you doing?"

"You're not drunk, are you?" Gerth asked, still examining Max's face.

"What? Why would I be drunk?"

"Are you alright, boy?" Gerth's expression had shifted to something softer, more concerned.

Then Max remembered. In Harek's memories, there were nights--particularly bad ones, usually involving too much wine--when the young lord would stumble down to these quarters seeking someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn't judge him for his failures, his fears, his inability to live up to his father's expectations. Gerth had been that person more than once.

Seeing the old man's expression now, it was clear he'd misunderstood Max's late-night visit entirely.

"I'm not drunk," Max said quickly. "And I'm... well, I'm alright. This isn't about that."

Gerth's eyebrows rose slightly, but he stepped aside to let Max enter.

"Well?" Gerth said, settling into a chair opposite Max and gesturing impatiently. "Go on, out with it."

"Jeez, you're impatient," Max muttered, sinking into the offered seat.

Gerth frowned. "What in the seven hells does 'jeez' mean?"

Max ignored the question, looking around the chamber instead. The room was actually as large as his own quarters--apparently being the castle's primary healer came with decent accommodations. Shelves lined the walls, packed with clay pots, dried herbs hanging in neat bundles, and leather-bound journals. A workbench dominated one corner, covered with mortars, distillation equipment, and instruments Max couldn't identify. The whole place smelled like a combination of dried lavender and something vaguely medicinal.

"Boy." Gerth's voice cut through his examination. "I didn't invite you in to admire my herb collection."

Max refocused on the old man. "Right. You know I'm starting to learn magic, right?"

Gerth's frown deepened--which was impressive, since Max was beginning to think the old man only had multiple variations of the same expression. All of them involving frowning.

"Magic," Gerth repeated, leaning back in his chair. "Archmage Kellor's been teaching you?"

"Yeah. I mean, we only did one session so far. But I'm having trouble finding my Source." Max shifted in his seat. "I was hoping you might be able to help with that."

"So," said Gerth, crossing his arms. "What exactly do you understand about the Source?"

"Honestly? It's supposed to be like this mystical river of energy flowing under everything. I'm supposed to reach out with my mind and feel it, then draw power from it to cast spells." Max shrugged. "Kellor said it feels different for everyone. Some people describe it as warmth, others as singing in their bones. For him, it's like standing near a waterfall."

Gerth snorted. "A mystical river. Of course that's what he told you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're parroting the same romantic nonsense every mage spouts when they can't explain how something actually works." Gerth's expression was dismissive. "Mystical rivers, ethereal energy, communion with forces beyond mortal understanding. All pretty words to dress up the fact that they don't know what they're doing."

Max rolled his eyes. "Alright, laugh it up. Are you going to help me or just sit there being smug?"

"Oh, I'll help you. But first, you need to forget everything the archmage told you about mystical experiences and focus on what can actually be observed." Gerth stood and moved to one of his shelves, running his finger along the spines of several leather-bound journals. "The Source isn't mystical. It's a natural phenomenon that we simply don't understand yet."

"Then what is it?"

"I just told you. I don’t know."

Max blinked, then nodded slowly. "...Right. That was a dumb question."

Gerth gave a glance that confirmed it was.

"But I know it's not magic in the way most people think of magic." the old man hesitated, his hand hovering over one particular journal. "Look, the reason mages describe it differently isn't because it's some ethereal force that speaks to their souls. It's because they're all trying to put words to a mental state they don't understand."

Max frowned. "A mental state?"

Gerth was quiet for a long moment, then pulled down a worn leather journal. He held it against his chest, looking uncertain.

"I spent fifteen years in Evrador," he said quietly. "Studying under the Conclave. Not as a mage—I was tested and found to be completely normal. But I wanted to understand how magic actually worked."

"Fifteen years?"

"From age sixteen to thirty-one. I observed hundreds of mages, took notes on their techniques, their successes, their failures." Gerth set the journal on the table but didn't open it. "And you know what I learned? The greatest difference between powerful mages and mediocre ones isn't how much energy they can draw. It's mental discipline."

"What kind of mental discipline?"

"Their ability to achieve a particular state of consciousness on command." Gerth finally opened the journal, revealing pages covered in neat, precise handwriting. "Every successful mage I observed had learned to enter what I came to call the 'quiet state'—a condition where their normal thinking processes were... stilled."

Max leaned forward. "Stilled how?"

"Think about when you're completely absorbed in a task. So focused that you lose track of time, forget where you are, stop being aware of yourself as separate from what you're doing." Gerth's finger traced along one of the pages. "That's the state. But it has to be precise. Not meditation, not relaxation—focused intensity without conscious effort."

"That's..." Max paused, thinking. "That actually makes sense. Like when you're completely in the zone."

"The zone?" Gerth looked up.

"Yeah, like... brain go brrr. You know?"

Gerth stared. "No."

"Right. Sorry. Please proceed."

"Anyway. But here's what most mages don't understand—they think this state is some mystical gift, that it just happens when you're spiritually ready." Gerth's voice carried old frustration. "They spend years practicing meditation, trying to commune with cosmic forces, when what they're actually doing is training their minds to achieve a specific condition that allows them to perceive something they're already connected to."

Max blinked. "You think it's that simple?"

"Simple to understand, maybe. Not simple to do." Gerth flipped through several pages. "Look at this. Magister Aldara of House Serren—took her three months to reach the Source consistently. You know what finally worked for her?"

Max shook his head.

"She was practicing late one evening, getting frustrated as usual. Started organizing her spell components while muttering about how impossible the whole thing was. Halfway through sorting her materials, she accidentally cast a perfect light spell. Without thinking about it. Without trying."

"She cast while doing something else?"

"She cast while her mind was occupied with a simple, repetitive task. Her conscious attention was focused on organizing, leaving her deeper mental processes free to access what was already there." Gerth found another page. "Here's another one. A young mage from Norvaine who could only access the Source while copying religious texts. The moment he stopped writing and tried to access it directly, the connection vanished."

Max was starting to see a pattern. "So it's not about feeling mystical energy. It's about getting into the right mental state to perceive what you're already connected to."

"Precisely. But the mages refuse to see it that way. They insist it's about spiritual enlightenment, about being chosen by forces beyond understanding." Gerth's voice carried bitter amusement. "They make it mystical because mystical sounds more impressive than 'I learned to stop thinking so hard.'"

"And you figured this out because...?"

Gerth was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming on the journal's cover. "Because I spent years trying to access the Source myself. Testing theories, experimenting with different mental exercises, different states of consciousness." His voice grew quieter. "I never felt anything. Not even a whisper. Because I'm not a born mage."

"But you still think you understand how it works?"

"I think I understand the mechanism better than the mages who can actually use it." Gerth's expression was matter-of-fact. "They succeed in spite of their methods, not because of them. They stumble into the correct mental state through trial and error, then attribute it to mystical forces because they don't understand what they're actually doing."

Max stared at the journal. "So when mages talk about feeling warmth or hearing singing..."

"They're describing the subjective experience of accessing something their minds aren't designed to perceive directly. Their brains are trying to make sense of information they don't have proper categories for." Gerth closed the journal. "The warmth, the music, the sense of flowing water—that's just how their consciousness interprets the act of connecting to the Source."

"But if it's just a mental state, shouldn't it be easier to teach?"

"You'd think so. But the mental state required is precise and fragile. The moment you start thinking about whether you're in it, you break it. The moment you try to force it, you lose it." A pause. "It's like trying to fall asleep by concentrating really hard on falling asleep. The effort defeats the purpose."

Max felt something click in his head. "Okay, so the key isn't trying to access the Source directly. It's learning to enter the mental state where the Source becomes perceptible."

"Now you're thinking like a scholar instead of a mystic." Gerth smiled. An actual smile. Without a frown. "The Source doesn't hide from you—you're already connected to it. Your own mental activity hides that connection from you. Every time you wonder if you're doing it right, every time you reach for it consciously, you activate exactly the mental processes that block your perception."

"Well, that's incredibly frustrating."

"Welcome to the study of magic, boy. Fifteen years of my life spent proving that mages succeed despite their training, not because of it." Gerth stood and moved back to his shelf. "But you? You might actually be able to use this knowledge properly. If you can learn to achieve the quiet state reliably..."

"I'll be able to perceive the Source I'm already connected to."

"More than that. You'll understand why it works. And understanding is the difference between a hedge mage who gets lucky sometimes and a true scholar of the Art. The mages in Evrador think I'm a failed student who couldn't accept his limitations. They have no idea that I mapped the territory they're all stumbling through blindfolded."

Max looked at the worn journals scattered across the table. "Where do I start?"

***

Max stared at the empty clay bowl on his bedside table, a few black streaks of gooey residue clinging to its sides like tar. The taste in his mouth was somewhere between burnt licorice and what he imagined motor oil.

He'd drunk it all about three minutes ago. According to Gerth, he had maybe seven minutes before his heart stopped.

Max settled back against his pillows, hands folded across his stomach, and tried not to think about whether this particular death would hurt. Gerth had assured him it would be peaceful—like falling asleep, he'd said.

With the spell in his room inactive, the morning light filtered through his chamber's window. Outside, he could hear the usual sounds of castle life beginning—servants moving through corridors, guards changing shifts, the distant clatter of kitchen work. Normal sounds for what was about to be a very abnormal morning.

Last night had been productive, in a morbid sort of way.

After Gerth had explained his theories about the Source—which made infinitely more sense than Kellor's mystical waterfall nonsense—Max had spent another hour trying to achieve what the old man called the "quiet state."

It hadn't worked. Not even close.

But for the first time since arriving in this world, Max actually understood what he was supposed to be doing. Gerth's description of focused intensity without conscious effort was basically what Max had always called "being in the zone." That hyper-focused state where everything else faded away and you operated on pure instinct.

Max knew that feeling well. In his previous life, it had been essential for survival in the marketing world. When facing a impossible deadline with a campaign that needed to be brilliant, innovative, and delivered yesterday, he'd learned to enter a particular mental state. Usually it required about three cups of coffee and the right kind of background music—something with a steady rhythm that his conscious mind could latch onto while his creative processes went to work.

He'd lock himself in his office, put on noise-canceling headphones, and just... disappear into the work. Hours would pass without him noticing. Ideas would flow like water. Solutions to problems he'd been wrestling with for days would suddenly seem obvious.

The key was occupying his analytical mind with something just engaging enough to keep it busy but not so complex that it demanded his full attention. Usually that meant organizing his workspace while listening to music, or doing simple sketches while letting his subconscious work on the real problem.

The similarities to what Gerth was describing were impossible to ignore.

Max's chest felt slightly heavy now. That was probably the poison starting to work.

The hardest part of last night hadn't been understanding Gerth's theory. It had been convincing the old man to help him commit suicide without actually explaining why he wanted to die.

That conversation had required some creative storytelling.

"I need something that can kill a man quickly," Max had said, after they'd finished discussing magic theory.

Gerth had given him a look that could have frozen wine. "And why, exactly, would you need such a thing?"

"I'm going on my proving year in three months. There's a good chance I'll end up in situations where death might be preferable to capture." Max had tried to sound casual about it. "Better to be prepared."

"Prepared to kill yourself rather than face whatever enemies might capture you?"

"Prepared to have options."

Gerth had stared at him for a long moment. "You know there are easier ways to die in battle than poison, right? Like just not blocking the sword aimed at your head."

"I want something reliable. Something I can control the timing of."

"Control the timing of your own death."

"Yes."

"Because you're concerned about being captured."

"Yes."

"By enemies who would presumably want you alive for information or ransom."

"Right."

"Enemies you don't currently have, since you haven't left for your proving year yet."

Max had felt the conversation slipping away from him. "I like to plan ahead."

"You like to plan ahead for your own suicide."

"It's not suicide if you're about to be tortured to death anyway. It's just... expediting the process."

Gerth had rubbed his temples like he was developing a headache. "And you want to learn to make this poison yourself because...?"

"Because I want to understand alchemy. Useful skill for someone about to spend a year wandering around strange places."

"Alchemy for the purpose of efficient self-murder."

"Among other things."

The conversation had continued in that vein for another twenty minutes, with Gerth growing increasingly suspicious and Max growing increasingly desperate. Finally, the old man had thrown up his hands.

"Fine. But if you poison yourself by accident before your proving year, I'm not explaining to your father why his heir died playing with deadly herbs in my chambers."

"Fair enough."

What Gerth had taught him was elegantly simple. Blackwort root, crushed and mixed with winter honey and a pinch of salt. The honey masked the bitterness, the salt helped it dissolve properly, and the blackwort did the actual killing.

"Blackwort stops the heart," Gerth had explained while grinding the root into powder. "Takes about as long as it would take to shoe a horse, depending on how big you are. The honey slows it down a bit, makes it more predictable."

"How predictable?"

"Predictable enough that you'll have time to arrange yourself comfortably before you lose consciousness. Unpredictable enough that I wouldn't recommend drinking it unless you actually want to die."

Max had practiced making the mixture three times under Gerth's supervision, until he could prepare it correctly without guidance. Then he'd taken the remaining ingredients back to his chambers.

The poison was surprisingly easy to make. Crush the root, mix with honey until it formed a thick paste, add salt, stir until smooth. The result looked like something a horse might cough up, but it went down easily enough.

It might have seemed strange for Gerth to so readily provide poison to Harek, but the proving year was a well-known death sentence where nobles ventured alone into the Deeper North—and every experienced man understood that sometimes a clean death was vastly preferable to what the cannibals and monsters out there did to their captives.

Max's breathing was definitely getting shallower now. He could feel his heart slowing, each beat more deliberate than the last.

He closed his eyes and thought about Henrik Miller. The boy would wake up this morning with both legs intact. Would run around his family's farm without limping. Would grow up to be a farmer instead of a burden.

That made this worth it.

His chest felt very heavy now, like someone had placed a warm stone on his ribcage. His fingers were starting to tingle.

Not long now.

Max wondered if Lord Peyter had made it far enough from Frosthold to feel safe. According to the servant who'd brought his breakfast, the man had fled during the night, taking two horses and whatever gold he could carry. Smart of him. Tredor hadn't seemed like the forgiving type when it came to lies about missing guards.

But fleeing like that—it reeked of guilt. A loyal seneschal might have stayed to explain the mistake, to defend his actions. Only someone with real secrets ran in the middle of the night. Max made a mental note: when he came back from this reroll, Lord Peyter's sudden departure was definitely worth investigating.

The tingling had spread to his toes. His vision was getting blurry around the edges.

Max managed one last coherent thought before the blackwort pulled him under: this had better work.

Then the world faded to black, and everything stopped.

[NUMBER OF REROLLS LEFT: 10]