Gamble King Chapter 16. Honest Work

Farming in the North was not, strictly speaking, farming as most people understood it.

In the southern kingdoms, agriculture was a matter of timing and weather patterns. You planted when the ground thawed, tended through the warm months, and harvested before the first frost. A predictable cycle that had sustained civilizations for centuries. Simple enough that even the most ale-addled peasant could manage it if he put in the effort.

The North operated on entirely different principles.

Here, where temperatures dropped to minus fifteen on what qualified as a pleasant day, and where winter could stretch for eight months without apology, farming was less agriculture and more organized warfare against nature itself. The growing season lasted roughly four months if you were lucky, three if you weren't, and the difference between a good harvest and starvation often came down to a week's worth of unexpected frost.

Which was why northern farms looked nothing like their southern counterparts.

Instead of the sprawling fields of grain that dominated places like Valdris or Astoria, northern settlements clustered around what the locals called "sun traps"—carefully engineered clearings positioned to capture and hold every available ray of sunlight. The abundant sunshine that somehow managed to penetrate the frigid air was the region's single greatest agricultural asset, and northerners had spent generations learning to exploit it.

Every farm featured at least one greenhouse—not the delicate glass structures found in southern gardens, but sturdy stone-and-timber buildings with thick walls designed to absorb heat during the day and release it slowly through the night. The windows were positioned with mathematical precision to track the sun's movement across the sky, and many included polished metal reflectors to redirect light deeper into the growing space.

The crops themselves had been selected through centuries of trial and error. Root vegetables dominated: turnips, carrots, potatoes, onions—anything that could be stored underground through the long winters. Hardy grains like winter wheat and barley were planted in the brief autumn window, allowed to establish roots before the first snow, then harvested early the following year. Cabbage, kale, and other cold-resistant greens grew in the protected greenhouse spaces.

Livestock served dual purposes. Cattle, sheep, and goats provided meat, milk, and wool, but just as importantly, they generated heat. Barns were built directly adjacent to living quarters, with shared walls that allowed animal body warmth to help heat human homes. Pigs were kept in pens beneath the main house during winter, their presence providing warmth and their waste contributing to the compost that would fertilize next year's crops.

Every family maintained extensive root cellars—underground storage chambers that remained just above freezing year-round. These housed not only the harvest, but also preserved meats, fermented vegetables, and the countless other preparations necessary to survive eight months when nothing grew and hunting became a matter of life and death.

Water management was equally crucial. Wells had to be dug deep enough to reach below the frost line, and every settlement included communal spaces where fires could be maintained to melt snow and ice for daily use. Cisterns captured and stored summer rainfall, while carefully designed drainage systems prevented flooding during the spring thaw.

The result was communities that operated more like military outposts than traditional farming villages. Every resource was precious, every decision calculated for maximum survival benefit, every family dependent on their neighbors for the labor-intensive work that kept everyone alive.

Which explained why Garrett's family farm, when it finally came into view, looked less like a pastoral homestead and more like a fortified compound designed by someone who took food security very seriously indeed.

Max guided Flash along the narrow trail, grateful that the horse seemed to know where they were going even if he didn't. The morning sun hung low in the crystal-clear sky, providing enough light to see clearly despite the bitter cold. His breath came out in white puffs that dissipated quickly in the dry air.

"There," Garrett said, pointing ahead. "That's home."

Max looked where Garrett was pointing and saw a cluster of buildings arranged around a central courtyard. The main house was built low and wide, with thick stone walls and a roof steep enough to shed snow. Smoke rose from multiple chimneys, suggesting the place was well-occupied despite the early hour.

Adjacent to the house stood a large barn, its walls sharing construction with the residence in a way that suggested shared heating. Beyond that, Max could make out what looked like greenhouse structures, their south-facing walls catching and reflecting the morning sun.

"How many people live there?" Max asked.

"My parents, my two younger brothers, my sister, and my grandfather." Garrett smiled. "Plus whoever might be visiting. We tend to take in travelers during the worst months. It's... practical."

As they approached, Max began to hear voices—children's voices, specifically, engaged in what sounded like either an elaborate game or a small war. The sounds were coming from behind the barn, accompanied by occasional barking from what was presumably the family dog.

"That'll be my brothers," Garrett said. "They're probably supposed to be doing chores."

The voices grew louder as they drew closer, resolving into words that suggested the elaborate game was actually both a game and a small war.

"You can't just say you win!" one voice shouted. "That's not how it works!"

"I can if I killed you first!" another voice responded.

"You didn't kill me! I dodged!"

"You can't dodge a dragon!"

"I can if I'm really fast!"

Garrett sighed. "And that would be Willem and Marcus. They're... energetic."

As if summoned by their names, two boys came tearing around the corner of the barn at a dead run. The first looked to be maybe ten years old, with Garrett's blonde hair and the kind of boundless energy that suggested he'd been awake for approximately five minutes and was already prepared to conquer the world. The second boy, perhaps a year younger, was in hot pursuit, wielding what appeared to be a stick shaped vaguely like a sword.

They spotted the approaching riders and skidded to a halt in the snow.

"Garrett!" the older boy shouted. "Garrett's back!"

Both boys immediately abandoned whatever conflict they'd been engaged in and ran toward the horses, apparently forgetting about dragons, dodging, and the fundamental question of who had killed whom.

"Hello, Willem. Hello, Marcus." Garrett's voice carried the particular tone of someone who was genuinely happy to see family members while also bracing for whatever chaos was about to unfold. "This is Lord Harek Vanheim. He's training with Sir Gregory now. He's his squire."

The boys skidded to a stop and stared up at Max with wide eyes.

Willem, the older one, recovered first. "Are you really a lord?"

"I am," Max said.

"Do you have a castle?"

"I live in one."

"Is it true you killed a giant?" Marcus chimed in.

Max blinked. "Where did you hear that?"

"Everyone knows about it," Willem said matter-of-factly. "You killed a giant at Eastwatch and then you got magic powers and now you're training to be a knight."

"It wasn't exactly a giant—"

"How big was it?" Marcus interrupted.

"Can you show us your magic?" Willem added.

Before Max could answer either question, a third voice interrupted from the direction of the house.

"Willem! Marcus! Get away from those horses before you spook them!"

A woman emerged from the main house, wiping her hands on a cloth apron. She was blonde like Garrett, which was unusual enough in the North that Max noticed it immediately. Most northerners had darker hair—deep browns, blacks, the occasional auburn. Blonde hair was more common in the southern kingdoms, or among the coastal settlements where trade brought different bloodlines together.

Her accent confirmed it when she spoke. "I said get away from those horses! You'll have them rearing up and someone will get hurt."

There was something softer about her vowels, a particular way she shaped certain words that suggested origins somewhere warmer than Frosthold. Max found himself mentally patting himself on the back for picking up on regional differences so quickly. Reading the family histories had definitely helped with understanding these cultural nuances.

The boys reluctantly stepped back from the horses, though they continued staring at Max with unabashed curiosity.

Max dismounted from Flash, giving the boys more space while Garrett swung down from his own horse. The woman approached, and Garrett immediately moved to embrace her.

"Hello, Mother."

"Look at you," she said, holding him at arm's length after the hug. "I swear you're getting bigger by the day. When I saw you two days ago, you weren't nearly this broad through the shoulders."

"I'm nineteen winters already," Garrett laughed. "I'll probably stop growing soon."

"You better not. I like having a son who can reach the high shelves." She turned her attention to Max, and her expression shifted to one of recognition mixed with something that might have been mild disbelief.

"My lord," she said, offering a respectful nod.

Max nodded back, trying to project the kind of polite formality he'd observed from other nobles without overdoing it. "Lady...?"

"Just Meredith, my lord. Meredith Thorne." She smiled, though there was something slightly nervous about it. "When we received Garrett's message yesterday about Lord Vanheim himself coming to work on the farm, we had a bit of trouble believing it, to be honest."

"I can understand that," Max said.

"Not that we doubted Garrett's word," she added quickly. "Just that it seemed... well." She paused, clearly trying to find a diplomatic way to express her concerns. "We hope this arrangement won't cause any... difficulties. For your house, I mean. Great lords don't typically—"

"It won't be a problem," Max interrupted gently. "I'm here to learn, and Garrett assures me there's plenty to learn."

Meredith's smile became more genuine. "Oh, there certainly is. Especially if you've never worked a farm before."

"I haven't."

"Well then." She glanced between Max and Garrett. "I suppose we'd better get you both fed before we put you to work. Willem! Marcus! Go tell your father and grandfather that Garrett's brought a guest."

The boys ran off toward the barn, already shouting about lords and magic and probably embellishing the story with each step.

"They're excited," Meredith observed. "We don't get many visitors this far out, especially not during winter. The farm's a fair distance from the castle, and most folks don't make the trip unless they have specific business."

Max mentally calculated the distance they'd covered—about two hours on horseback, maybe four or five on foot. The route had been slow and narrow, winding through a steep, stone-cut pass known locally as The Throat.

It was the only reliable way in or out of the farming valley, especially once the snows came. Far enough that casual visits were impractical, and just remote enough that most people simply didn’t bother making the trip unless they had a reason.

Max looked around, noticing for the first time the other buildings scattered across the landscape. In the distance, he could see smoke rising from several other chimneys, suggesting this was part of a larger farming community rather than an isolated homestead.

"How many families live out here?"

"Seventeen farms in the valley," Meredith said with evident pride. "We're Frosthold's primary food source—what keeps the castle and the surrounding settlements fed through the long winters. There are a few smaller farms closer to the fortress, but they mainly provide fresh vegetables during the growing season. We're the ones who produce the grain stores, the preserved meats, the root vegetables that see everyone through until spring." She gestured toward the distant farmsteads. "Each family specializes in certain crops, but we all work together during planting and harvest. Share resources when someone's running short, coordinate our storage to make sure nothing goes to waste. It's the only way to feed that many people this far north."

She started walking toward the house, gesturing for them to follow. "Come inside and warm up. The morning's cold enough to freeze the breath in your lungs."

As they walked, Max caught Garrett's eye. The younger man was grinning, clearly pleased to be home and apparently enjoying Max's slightly overwhelmed expression.

"Don't worry," Garrett said quietly. "She's just being cautious. Mother worries about propriety when it comes to dealing with nobility."

"Can't say I blame her," Max replied.

"She will once she gets used to you," Garrett assured him. "Give it a bit of time."

From inside the house came the sound of voices—more family members being alerted to their arrival, Max assumed. He was about to meet an entire farming family as Lord Harek Vanheim, and he still had no idea how to milk a cow.

This was going to be interesting.

***

Max approached Flash and gave the horse's neck a gentle pat. "Stay close, but don't wander off. I'll need you later."

Flash snorted once and shifted his weight, ears twitching in what Max had learned to interpret as acknowledgment. The horse stepped away toward a patch of cleared ground near the barn, already scanning for anything edible beneath the snow.

Meredith watched this exchange with raised eyebrows. "That's a magnificently dressed beast you have there, my lord. Beautiful lines, excellent conditioning. You've clearly spent considerable time on his training."

"Actually," Max said, "I didn't train him at all."

She looked skeptical. "My lord?"

"We just... understand each other." Max realized how that sounded the moment it left his mouth. He could see Meredith's polite confusion, Garrett's barely suppressed grin, and the two boys staring at him like he'd just claimed he could fly.

This was getting weird fast.

"My mother was an elf," Max said, deploying the explanation like a man playing his last card.

"Ah." Meredith's expression immediately shifted to something more understanding. "Of course. That would explain it." She paused, her voice growing softer. "Lady Elsa was... she was a remarkable woman, by all accounts. Known throughout the North for her mercy and gentleness. Her beauty too, though they say her kindness was what people remembered most." Meredith touched her chest briefly. "I pray for the rest of her soul."

"Thank you," Max said. It wasn't that he did not feel anything about Harek's mother. But... she wasn't his mother. And so, he felt quite hypocritical when feigning sadness at the mention of her name. Plus, he had complicated feelings about mothers in general.

"They say she had a way with all living things," Meredith continued. "Horses especially. Animals seemed to simply... know what she wanted from them. There are stories about her calming wild stallions with just a word, or convincing injured creatures to let her help them."

Willem piped up. "So you can talk to horses because you're part elf?"

"Something like that," Max replied.

"Can you talk to other animals too?" Marcus added.

"I haven't tried."

"What about dragons?"

"There aren't any dragons around here to talk to."

"But if there were?"

Max looked at the boy's earnest face. "I honestly have no idea."

"Willem, Marcus," Meredith said firmly, "that's enough questions for now. Lord Vanheim didn't come here to satisfy your curiosity."

From the direction of the barn came the sound of approaching footsteps, accompanied by voices. Two men emerged from behind the building, both carrying tools and looking like they'd been interrupted in the middle of actual work.

The first was clearly Garrett's father--same face, same general build, though broader through the shoulders and with the kind of weathered hands that spoke of decades of manual labor. The second was older, his hair gone mostly gray.

"Father," Garrett said. "Grandfather. This is Lord Harek Vanheim."

Both men approached and offered respectful nods. The father stepped forward first.

"My lord. I'm Erik Thorne. This is my father, Edmund."

"Pleased to meet you both," Max said.

Edmund squinted at Max for a long moment, then let out a bark of laughter. "Well I'll be damned. Look at you, boy. Gone and gotten fat, haven't you?"

Meredith went rigid. "Father--"

"What? I know this one." Edmund grinned, completely ignoring his daughter-in-law's obvious horror. "Used to sneak into our fields when he was, oh, maybe fourteen winters? Steal turnips and carrots, whatever he could stuff in his pockets. Then he'd take them to town and bet them in dice games at the taverns."

The entire family went silent. Willem and Marcus stared with wide eyes. Erik looked like he was trying to disappear into the ground. Garrett's mouth had fallen open slightly.

"I remember your father riding out here in a fury when he found out," Edmund continued, apparently enjoying himself immensely. "Lord Tredor beat the shit out of you right there in our front yard. You couldn't sit down for a week."

Max felt every eye on him, probably waiting to see how he would react.

He considered his options for exactly half a second.

"Well," Max said, "at least I had good taste. Your turnips were always worth the beating."

The silence stretched for another heartbeat.

Then Edmund threw back his head and roared with laughter. Erik chuckled despite himself. The boys started giggling. Even Meredith's terrified expression cracked into a reluctant smile.

"There's the boy I remember," Edmund said, wiping his eyes. "Still got some spine in you after all. Good. We've got work to do, and I don't have time to coddle some soft lordling who can't take a bit of honest talk."

He turned and started walking back toward the barn. "Come on then. Let's see if you can still bend over to pick vegetables, or if that gut of yours gets in the way."

A few minutes later, Max found himself dressed in what could generously be called functional winter wear. The thick woolen trousers were scratchy against his legs, the heavy shirt smelled faintly of whoever had worn it last, and the leather boots were at least two sizes too large. But everything was warm, sturdy, and designed for people who expected to spend their day doing actual work.

Edmund looked him up and down with a smile. "Better. Now you look like someone who might survive more than a few breaths outside."

Erik, Garrett, and the two boys had gathered around, clearly preparing to witness whatever came next. Max had the distinct feeling he was about to become entertainment.

"So," Edmund said, settling into what appeared to be his natural teaching stance—arms crossed, feet planted, expression suggesting he'd seen everything twice and been unimpressed both times. "My grandson tells me you want to get stronger. Leaner."

"That's the idea," Max said.

"Good. Because you're soft as butter right now, and about as useful." Edmund gestured toward the fields beyond the barn. "Winter farming means root storage, equipment maintenance, and preparing for spring planting. All of it hard work. The kind that builds muscle whether you want it to or not."

Erik shifted uncomfortably. "Father, perhaps you should remember that Lord Vanheim is—"

"Is what?" Edmund fixed his son with a look that could have frozen water. "The High Lord's son? You think I give a damn about that?"

"You should show proper respect—"

"I'm eighty winters old this year, boy. I've lived long enough to stop caring what people think of my manners." Edmund's grin was sharp as winter wind. "What's the worst they can do? Kill me? Ha! Don't threaten me with a good time."

Max couldn't help himself. He laughed.

Edmund's grin widened. "See? He gets it. Now then." He turned back to Max. "You want strength training? Real strength training? Not whatever prancing about they do up at the castle?"

"I do."

"Right then. Root cellar needs emptying. Barrels of preserved vegetables, sacks of grain, cured meat hanging from the rafters. All of it needs to come up, sorted, and moved to the storage shed." Edmund pointed toward a low building near the barn. "Some of those barrels weigh more than you do. Some of the grain sacks are heavier than that."

Max looked toward the root cellar entrance—a heavy wooden door set into what looked like a small hill. "All of it?"

"All of it. By hand. Up a ladder that's slick with ice. In weather that's cold enough to freeze your breath before it leaves your mouth." Edmund's tone suggested this was exactly as pleasant as it sounded. "Think you can manage that, my lord?"

Garrett was watching with obvious concern. The boys looked fascinated. Erik appeared to be calculating how much trouble the family would be in if Max collapsed and died on their property.

Max looked at the cellar, then back at Edmund. "When do we start?"

***

The root cellar was a special kind of hell.

Max descended the ladder into what felt like an underground freezer designed by someone with a grudge against human comfort. The air was so cold it turned his breath into fog clouds, and the rungs were slick enough that he had to grip each one like his life depended on it.

Which, considering the drop, it probably did.

"Careful now," Edmund called from above. "Erik once spent two days digging Garett out of the snow bank. I'd rather not spend another two digging you out of my cellar floor."

The bottom was worse than the climb down. Barrels lined the walls, each one roughly the size and weight of a small horse. Grain sacks sat stacked like particularly vindictive monuments to agricultural excess. Strips of cured meat hung from the rafters, swaying slightly in the draft and creating shadows that made the whole space feel like a butcher's fever dream.

Max approached the nearest barrel and tried to lift it.

It didn't budge.

He tried again, bending his knees this time and attempting something that might charitably be called proper lifting form. The barrel shifted perhaps an inch before his back informed him that this was a terrible idea and he should stop immediately.

"Having trouble?" Garrett called down.

"No," Max grunted, wrapping his arms around the barrel and trying to muscle it upward through sheer determination. "Everything's fine."

The barrel remained exactly where it was.

"Right," Edmund said. "Come back up. Let's try something smaller."

Max climbed back up the ladder, his pride somewhat bruised but his spine still functional. Edmund handed him a grain sack that looked manageable.

"Start with this. Work your way up to the barrels."

The grain sack was not fucking manageable.

Max got it halfway up the ladder before his grip gave out and the entire thing tumbled back down into the cellar, spilling grain across the floor in a cascade that sounded like very expensive rain.

"Well," Edmund observed. "That's coming out of your wages."

"I don't have wages."

"You do now. And they're negative."

Garrett appeared at Max's shoulder. "Here. Let me show you something."

For the next quarter hour, Garrett demonstrated the apparently complex art of lifting heavy objects without immediately destroying either the object or yourself. It involved techniques Max had never considered, like using your legs instead of your back, maintaining proper grip, and not attempting to lift things that weighed more than you did.

Revolutionary concepts, apparently.

The second attempt went better. Max managed to get a grain sack up the ladder without dropping it, though by the time he reached the top his arms were shaking and his breathing sounded like a bellows with a leak.

"Progress," Edmund said. "Only forty-seven more to go."

Max stared at him. "Forty-seven?"

"Give or take. I stopped counting after the first dozen."

The work settled into a rhythm that could generously be described as grinding persistence interrupted by brief moments of complete exhaustion. Max would descend into the cellar, wrestle something up the ladder, carry it to the storage shed, then repeat the process until his body began filing formal complaints.

By the tenth trip, his legs were trembling. By the twentieth, his hands had developed blisters. By the thirtieth, he was moving with the careful deliberation of someone whose muscles had declared a work stoppage but whose brain was too stubborn to acknowledge it.

"You can rest," Garrett offered after Max nearly collapsed while carrying a particularly vindictive barrel.

"I'm fine."

"You're shaking."

"I'm cold."

"You're shaking from exhaustion."

Max wiped sweat from his forehead with a hand that was, admittedly, shaking. "I said I'm fine."

Edmund watched this exchange. "Let him work, boy. He's finally starting to look like he might be worth the food he eats."

The barrels were the worst part.

Each one required a carefully orchestrated effort involving leverage, prayer, and a disturbing amount of faith that his back wouldn't simply give up and leave him permanently bent at a ninety-degree angle. Max developed a technique that involved rolling them to the base of the ladder, then somehow maneuvering them up one rung at a time while trying not to think about what would happen if he lost control.

Twice, he nearly fell.

Once, he did fall, landing hard on his back with a barrel rolling toward his head before Garrett managed to stop it.

"Perhaps we should—" Garrett started.

"No," Max said, getting back to his feet with the careful movements of someone whose body was no longer entirely trustworthy. "I can do this."

And somehow, improbably, he could.

Not well. Not efficiently. Not without looking like someone had beaten him with a stick and then asked him to perform manual labor. But he could do it.

The sun had moved considerably across the sky by the time they finished. Max stood in the storage shed, surrounded by barrels and grain sacks and strips of cured meat, feeling like he'd just survived some kind of medieval CrossFit nightmare.

His clothes were soaked with sweat despite the cold. His hands were raw and bleeding. His back ached in ways he didn't know were possible. Every muscle in his body felt like it had been individually insulted and was now holding a grudge.

"Not terrible," Edmund said. "For a first day."

Max looked at him. "First day?"

"Oh yes. We'll be doing this every day until spring. Different tasks, of course. Chopping wood, hauling water, mucking out the barn, repairing equipment." Edmund's grin was entirely too pleased. "By the time planting season comes around, you'll either be strong enough to wrestle a bear or dead from the effort."

"Wonderful," Max said.

"Isn't it?" Edmund clapped him on the shoulder, which sent fresh waves of pain through his abused muscles. "Welcome to farming, my lord."

Suddenly, Willem and Marcus came running around the corner of the barn. It looked urgent enough to think it was either mortal danger or someone had promised them sweets. Given the expressions on their faces, Max suspected it wasn't sweets.

"Father!" Willem shouted. "Father, come quick!"

Erik appeared from behind the storage shed, carrying what looked like a broken harness. "What's all the shouting about?"

"The Hendersons sent their boy over," Marcus said, breathless from running. "The wolves are back. They're attacking the Millers' farm and the Hendersons' place too."

Erik and Garrett exchanged a look that contained several conversations' worth of information.

Edmund sighed. "How many this time?"

"The boy said maybe six or seven," Willem replied. "Big ones. They already got some of the Millers' sheep."

"Damn." Edmund looked at Max. "We've sent a dozen requests to the High Lord about the predator problem. Maybe more. Letters, riders, even asked passing merchants to carry word. Not a single reply."

He gestured sharply toward the tree line. "We used to have hunters stationed out here—three of 'em. It wasn't enough, but it helped. Kept the worst of the bastards away. Then, middle of the season, they were pulled. Just like that. No warning, no replacements. Said they were needed for training drills near Frosthold."

He barked a short, humorless laugh. "Training. While wolves drag sheep off in broad daylight and children can't walk to the next farm without a blade in hand."

The old man's eyes locked on Max. "We feed the whole damn fortress through winter. You'd think that would count for something. You'd think someone up there might give half a damn whether we live or die. But it's like we don't exist until the grain wagons show up in spring."

Max felt a stab of guilt. "I'll speak to my father about it."

"Bit late for that now." Erik was already moving toward the house. "We'll have to handle it ourselves."

Garrett followed him, both men reaching for weapons . Erik grabbed what appeared to be a modified farming tool—something that might have started life as a scythe before being repurposed for more violent ends. Garrett drew his sword.

Max put two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply.

Flash appeared around the side of the barn within moments, as if he'd been paying attention to the conversation. Max's bow and quiver were still secured to the saddle where he'd left them.

"You coming?" Edmund asked.

Max looked down at his trembling hands, felt the ache in his back, considered the fact that he could barely lift a grain sack without falling over. "Well. It is my territory. Natural to help protect it."

"They won't refuse an extra hand," Edmund said. "But be careful. These aren't ordinary wolves. They're bigger, more aggressive. We lost a boy and half a dozen cattle last month."

Another pang of guilt.

"How far?" Max asked, checking his bow.

"Half a league north," Erik said. "The Miller farm's closer. We'll try there first."

They set out at a pace that made Max's protesting muscles sing new songs of pain. Erik and Edmund moved ahead. Garrett kept pace beside Max, occasionally glancing over with obvious concern.

"You sure about this?" Garrett asked quietly. "You look ready to fall over."

"I'm actually feeling better than I should," Max admitted. "Tired, but... functional. More than functional, really."

"Battle fever," Garrett suggested. "Some men get stronger when there's fighting to be done."

"Maybe." Max adjusted his grip on his bow. Though honestly, he did feel surprisingly good for someone who'd just spent the day moving barrels that weighed more than he did.

Gregory did say Fanga users recovered faster.

The trail led through a stand of pine trees, the snow crunching under their feet with sounds that seemed unnaturally loud in the cold air. Max found himself grateful for the borrowed clothes—they might smell like someone else's sweat– which was disgusting– but they were keeping him warm.

In the distance, he could hear shouting.

"That's Miller," Erik said grimly. "We're almost there."

Edmund picked up the pace, moving faster than a man his age had any right to. "Stay together. Watch the tree line. Wolves are smart—they'll try to separate us."

Max nocked an arrow. His body might be exhausted, but his mind was sharp, focused on the problem ahead.

As they crested the final rise, Max saw the Miller farm through the snow-laden pines. It wasn't what he'd imagined.

There was no desperate defense of a farmhouse, no organized resistance. Just chaos—pure, unfiltered panic spread across the clearing like spilled ink.

Wolves moved through the scene like shadows given teeth. Not the lean, cautious predators Max remembered from nature documentaries, but monsters—massive beasts with shoulders that stood waist-high to a grown man, jaws powerful enough to crush bone.

And above each one, floating like ghostly markers: 1, 2, 3, 2, 1.

Rerolls.

Max's eyes locked on the largest wolf—a scarred brute with fur the color of storm clouds. A glowing 4 hovered above its massive head as it circled the makeshift barrier where who Max assumed were Miller and his son were desperately trying to herd the remaining sheep into a pen.

"There," Max said, pointing. "The big one. With the scar across its muzzle."

"I see it," Garrett replied, drawing his sword. The blade caught the fading light. "The pack leader."

Erik gripped his modified scythe tighter. "We split up. Garrett, take the young lord and circle left. I will approach from the right. Don't let them flank us."

Max nocked an arrow, calculating distance, wind resistance. His fingers were still raw from the day's labor, but the familiar grip of the bow steadied him. "I count nine wolves. "

Seven with numbers.

"Go!" Erik shouted.

The wolves noticed them immediately. Three of the beasts broke off from harassing the sheep and turned toward the newcomers, hackles rising as they spread out in a practiced hunting formation.

Max tracked the nearest one—a rangy female with a number 2 floating above her head. He drew, breathed once, and released.

The arrow caught the wolf in the throat just as it began to lunge. The beast tumbled, momentum carrying it forward several more feet before it lay still, blood staining the snow crimson. The number above it vanished.

Then...

[NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 3]

A second wolf charged Garrett, jaws open in a silent promise of violence.

Garrett didn't flinch. He planted his feet, and Max watched as something shifted in the air around him—a sudden tension, like the moment before lightning strikes. Fanga.

The wolf leapt.

Garrett moved faster than seemed possible, sidestepping the attack. His sword flashed once, twice—opening the beast from shoulder to flank in a spray of red that painted the snow. The wolf collapsed mid-stride, dead before it hit the ground.

"Behind you!" Max shouted, already nocking another arrow.

A third wolf had circled around, using their distraction to approach from the side. Its jaws were inches from Garrett's leg when Max's arrow took it through the eye. It dropped without a sound, the number 1 above its head dissolving like smoke.

[NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 4.]

"Thanks," Garrett said, not even breathing hard. "Let's move."

Across the clearing, Erik and Edmund had reached the sheep pen. Edmund wielded a heavy woodcutter's axe with surprising efficiency. A wolf lunged at him; the axe came down in a brutal arc that split its skull like kindling.

Not bad for an old man.

Erik worked in tandem with his father, the modified scythe keeping wolves at bay while Edmund delivered killing blows. It seemed to be a practiced routine.

"Get inside!" Erik shouted to Miller and his son. "We'll handle this!"

Miller didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed his boy—a lad no older than ten—and made for the farmhouse, leaving the remaining sheep huddled in their makeshift pen.

The pack leader—the massive beast with the 4 above its head—hadn't joined the initial attack. It circled the clearing, watching, calculating. Its eyes found Max, and something like intelligence glittered in those yellow depths.

"It's coordinating them," Max said, tracking the alpha with his bow. "See how they're spreading out?"

The remaining wolves were indeed repositioning, two moving toward Erik and Edmund, three more circling to cut off access to the farmhouse where Miller and his family had taken shelter.

Max took aim at the pack leader. Distance: seventy yards. Wind: slight from the east. Target: moving.

He released.

The arrow flew true, but the alpha was faster than it had any right to be. It twisted at the last moment, the arrow grazing its flank instead of finding its heart. The beast snarled, baring teeth like daggers.

"Damn it," Max muttered, already reaching for another arrow.

"We need to help father and grandfather," Garrett said, pointing to where the two men were now facing four wolves. One of the beasts had circled behind them, preparing to attack.

Max nodded, changing targets. "Go. I'll cover you."

Garrett charged across the snow, sword held low. Fanga surged around him like heat shimmer, making the air warp and bend. The wolves sensed the danger too late.

Garrett's first strike separated a wolf's head from its body in a single fluid motion. Its head still wore the shocked expression when it hit the snow three feet away, blood jetting from the stump of its neck. His backswing caught another in the shoulder, the blade cleaving through muscle and bone with terrible efficiency. The beast howled once before Garrett's follow-through silenced it permanently.

Max supported from a distance, each arrow finding vital targets with uncanny precision. Throat. Eye. Heart. The wolves fell one after another, numbers fading as their bodies stilled.

[NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 5.]

[NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 6.]

A scream from the farmhouse snapped Max's attention. A woman stood in the doorway, pointing frantically toward the far side of the property where a smaller building—a smoke house, perhaps—stood.

"My boy!" she shrieked. "Henrik! The wolves have Henrik!"

Max spotted the child immediately—a small boy, perhaps four or five, who had somehow ended up outside during the chaos. He was backed against the smoke house door, frozen in terror as two wolves approached from opposite sides.

Erik tried to break away from his own fight, but a wolf blocked his path, jaws snapping at his legs. "Someone help him!"

Max was already moving, counting arrows as he ran. Four left. He'd need to make them count.

The first wolf reached the child just as Max fired. His arrow struck the beast in the spine, dropping it mid-lunge. The number 1 above it vanished.

[NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 7.]

The second wolf paused, reassessing this new threat. Max nocked another arrow, but before he could fire, the alpha appeared from behind the smoke house—a gray shadow of death bearing down on the child.

"Henrik, run!" Max shouted.

The boy tried, but panic made him clumsy. He stumbled, fell to his knees in the snow.

Max's next arrow caught the second wolf in the throat, but the alpha was already moving, massive jaws closing around the child's coat. Henrik's scream pierced the air as the wolf began dragging him toward the treeline.

"No!" The mother's cry was raw with desperation.

Garrett spun, already moving to intercept, but two more wolves blocked his path. His sword flashed, Fanga making each movement a blur, but it would take precious seconds to break through.

Erik and Edmund were similarly engaged, fighting desperately against the remaining wolves that had them pinned down near the sheep pen.

Max made his decision in an instant. "Flash!" he called.

The warhorse responded immediately, charging across the snow. Max swung into the saddle without breaking stride, bow still in hand.

"Go!" he urged, and Flash needed no further command. The horse thundered after the alpha, hooves kicking up plumes of snow as they raced toward the darkening woods.