Ace_the_owl

Gamble King Chapter 43. How

Man, the Heightening made everything so much clearer.

Max could see the individual fibers in the witch's white robes as she moved, the way they caught and released the filtered gray light. He could see the texture of her skin, not smooth like he'd thought before, but covered in a network of fine lines, like cracked porcelain.

Her eyes weren't just bright. They had depth to them, layers of color that shifted as she tilted her head. Amber at the center, fading to honey at the edges, with flecks of something darker scattered throughout.

Her smile was the same, but now he could see how wrong it was. The skin at the corners of her mouth pulled too far back. The muscles underneath moved in ways that human muscles shouldn't move. And when her lips parted slightly, he caught a glimpse of what waited behind them.

Rows and rows of teeth. They weren't arranged like human teeth at all. They spiraled back into her throat, each one sharp and slightly curved, overlapping like the inside of a lamprey's mouth.

No mistake about it, the witch was still fast. Inhumanly so.

But with the Heightening active, Max could track the micro-movements he'd missed before. The slight shift of her weight onto her front foot. The way her shoulders rotated just a fraction, preparing to launch forward. The tension building in her calves, visible even through the drape of her robes.

She was coiling up like a spring.

Max's hand tightened on his knife. The Fanga burned through his veins, pushing his heart rate higher. His vision had that strange quality now where everything seemed just slightly slower than it should be, like the world was moving through honey.

He saw her pupils dilate. Saw the muscles in her jaw flex. Saw the tendons in her neck go taut.

She moved.

Her right foot came up first, toes pointing downward. Then her whole body compressed, knees bending deeper than they should have been able to. The movement was fluid, snake-like. Her arms came forward, fingers spread wide, and Max registered that her nails were longer than they'd seemed before. Not quite claws, but close.

She pushed off with both feet simultaneously, launching herself forward in a lunge that kept her low to the ground. Her trajectory wasn't straight at his head like he'd expected. She angled slightly to his left, her body twisting mid-air so that her right shoulder led.

The whole motion took maybe half a second.

Max's brain catalogued it all. The crouch. The launch. The angle of approach. The way she twisted to bring her mouth around toward his neck from the side rather than head-on.

But alas.

His body couldn't match what his eyes were seeing. He'd started to move his knife up and across, trying to intercept, but his arm was still rising when she reached him. The blade was maybe halfway to where it needed to be.

Her mouth opened wide as she came in, those spiral rows of teeth spreading apart. Her jaw unhinged like a snake's, far wider than any human mouth could manage.

Then she was on him.

Her teeth sank into the left side of his neck, just below his jaw. He felt them punch through skin and muscle, felt them scrape against bone. The pressure was immense. Her jaw clamped down with hydraulic force and his vision went white, then red, then black.

In the darkness, Max's mind was still working though.

She crouched first. Low. Launched from both feet. Came in from the left side at a downward angle. Mouth already opening mid-lunge.

Next time, he'd know. Next time, he'd be ready for that approach.

[NUMBER OF REROLLS LEFT: 9]

***

Max woke up with jerky in his mouth.

The taste registered first. Salt and smoke and something gamey. Then the warmth of stone against his back. The faint orange glow painting the cave walls.

He sat up.

Tarak scrambled backward, spear coming up. The kid's eyes went wide.

"Let's go," Max said, already on his feet.

"What?"

"Let's go. We're leaving now."

Max grabbed his pack and started for the cave entrance. Bro chittered softly on his shoulder, legs adjusting their grip.

Tarak stared at him for a long moment, then slowly lowered his spear. "You are very, very strange, Harek."

"Yeah. I know."

The descent went fast. Max didn't bother with careful handholds this time, just efficient ones. He knew exactly which rocks would hold and which wouldn't. Tarak stayed quiet on his back, but Max could feel the kid watching him.

When they reached the bottom, Max didn't wait for questions. He headed northwest, toward the Witch's Forest.

"The White Hands—" Tarak started.

"Will kill us on every other route. We're going through the forest."

The kid went quiet again.

Everything went normally after that. The sprint across the clearing with Bro taking out the raven early, the Blindrages stopping at the tree line, the arrows from the archer that Max dodged with his enhanced hearing already active. He'd taken the Heightening right after setting Tarak down in the forest, three drops under his tongue while the kid watched with concerned eyes.

And now they were here again.

The witch stood on her branch above them, white robes pristine, bare feet somehow finding purchase on the bark. That same gentle smile on her lined face.

"Well now," she said. "What have we here?"

Max set Tarak down. "Stay behind me."

He didn't bother with the conversation this time. Just pulled both his knives from his belt and settled into a fighting stance, weight distributed evenly, knees slightly bent. The Fanga was already burning through him at a steady simmer. His heart rate was elevated but controlled, sitting somewhere around one-forty.

The witch's smile widened. "Oh my. Someone's eager."

"Death battle," Max said. "I win, we go free. You win, you eat me. Those are the terms."

"Cutting right to it, are we?" She laughed that high, girlish giggle. "Very well. I accept."

She dropped from the branch.

The fall should have taken a second, maybe a second and a half. Instead she seemed to float down, her robes billowing around her like she was underwater. Her bare feet touched the snow without making a sound.

Max watched her weight shift onto her front foot. Watched her shoulders rotate. Watched the tension build in her calves.

Here it comes.

Her right foot came up first, toes pointing downward. Her whole body compressed, knees bending deep. Her arms came forward, fingers spreading wide, nails catching the light.

She pushed off with both feet, launching herself in that same low lunge. Her body twisted mid-air, right shoulder leading, angling to his left side.

But this time, Max was already moving.

He threw himself to the right, away from her approach vector. His enhanced perception made the movement feel smooth, almost leisurely, even though he knew he was moving as fast as his body could manage. The world slid past him in that honey-slow way.

The witch's trajectory carried her past him. Her mouth was already open, those spiral rows of teeth spread wide, but they closed on empty air where his neck had been.

She landed in a crouch about ten feet past him, her robes settling around her.

Max came up in a fighting stance, both knives ready.

The witch turned to face him, and that gentle smile was gone. In its place was something sharper and more interested.

"Oh?" she said softly.

She straightened up, brushing snow from her robes with one hand. "Well now. That was quite good."

Max's heart was hammering. The Fanga burned hotter in his veins. He kept his knives up, and his weight balanced.

"You actually saw it coming," the witch continued, tilting her head. "How delightful. Most don't manage that."

"Why thank y—" Max started before the world exploded in pain.

He looked down and saw her hand buried in his chest. Up to the wrist. Her fingers had punched through his sternum like it was paper, and he could feel them inside him, wrapped around something vital. His heart, maybe. Or his lungs. Hard to tell through the agony.

Blood filled his mouth. Hot and copper-tasting. It spilled over his lips when he tried to breathe.

"HAREK!" Tarak's voice, high and terrified.

The witch was laughing. That same girlish giggle, but louder now. More genuine.

Max wanted to say something. In fact, he wanted to call her a bitch. But his lungs were full of blood and all that came out was a wet gurgling sound.

His vision was darkening at the edges.

The last thing he saw was the witch's face, still smiling and laughing, her hand still inside his chest.

Then nothing.

[NUMBER OF REROLLS LEFT: 8]

***

Max woke up with jerky in his mouth.

He spat it out, rolled to his feet, and grabbed his pack in one motion.

"Let's go," he told Tarak, who found him strange.

The rest blurred together. The descent, the sprint across the clearing, Bro and the raven, the arrows he dodged, the forest that swallowed them. Max took the Heightening as soon as Tarak was down, three drops that hit his system like lightning.

And now the witch was dropping from her branch again, floating down like a ghost, her bare feet touching snow without a sound.

"Death battle," Max said before she could speak. "I win, we go free. You win, you eat me."

Her smile widened. "Very well. I accept."

She coiled. Right foot up. Body compressed. Arms forward.

She launched.

Max threw himself right. The witch's open mouth sailed past where his neck had been, teeth snapping on empty air. She landed in a crouch, then straightened.

"Oh?" she said softly. "Well now. That was quite good."

She brushed snow from her robes. "You actually saw it coming. How delightful. Most don't manage that."

"Why thank y—" Max started.

Her hand came at his chest.

But Max had already coiled himself, muscles tensed and ready. The moment her arm extended he twisted hard to the left, her fingers missing his sternum by inches.

Her arm was still extended, fully committed to the strike.

Max screamed and swung Dusk in a vertical arc.

"YOU BITCH!"

The short sword cut through her forearm like it was made of water. No resistance at all. Just a clean slice that separated hand from wrist, wrist from forearm.

Blood sprayed.

Not red. Something darker. Almost black in the gray forest light. It splattered across the snow in thick ropes, across Max's face and chest, hot and viscous.

The witch's scream was nothing like her laugh. It was a raw, animal sound. She stumbled backward, clutching the stump of her arm. More of that dark blood pumped out between her fingers.

For the first time since he'd met her, that smug smile was gone.

Her face twisted with shock. With pain. With something that might have been fear.

Max felt a savage satisfaction bloom in his chest.

"So you can bleed, huh?" he said.

The witch's head snapped toward him. Her gentle features warped, her jaw extending, her teeth becoming visible. A sound came from her throat. It was low and rumbling. A growl that sounded nothing like a human and everything like a big cat about to pounce.

She started to circle him.

Her movements were different now. Lower to the ground. Her remaining hand flexed, nails catching the light. The stump of her right arm had stopped bleeding, the wound sealing itself with something that looked like black ice.

"How," she hissed. Her voice had changed. Deeper. With an echo underneath it. "How. How. How. How did you do that?"

She kept circling, and kept repeating that word. Her head tilted at angles that weren't quite right. Her eyes never blinked.

"How. How. How. How—"

Max kept his feet planted, rotating to keep her in front of him. His knives were up, Dusk still dripping with her blood. Every instinct screamed at him to attack, to press the advantage while she was hurt.

But he knew better.

She was too fast. Even injured, even with one arm gone, she could close the distance before he could react. If he committed to an attack now, she'd kill him. He was certain of it.

Better to wait and let her come to him. Whatever move she made next, he'd learn it. He'd die learning it, probably, but then he'd know. And next time he could counter it. Next time he could find the opening for a fatal strike.

The pain would be bad. He knew that. The hand through the chest had been agony. But whatever she did to him now would be over fast. He hoped.

"You little insect," the witch snarled. Her voice kept getting lower, kept picking up more of that echo. "You pathetic, crawling thing. I'm going to pull you apart. I'm going to eat you piece by piece while you scream."

Max forced a grin. "Big talk from someone who just lost an arm."

Her growl became a roar.

Her body coiled. Not like before. This was different. Her spine curved backward, her shoulders hunching forward. Her remaining hand pressed flat against the snow. Her legs bunched beneath her like a cat about to spring.

Her eyes went completely black. No whites, no iris, no pupil. Just solid darkness that seemed to drink in the light.

Max adjusted his stance. Knees bent. Weight balanced. Ready to move in any direction.

The witch launched.

There was no twist this time, and no angle either. She came straight at him in a direct line, her body horizontal to the ground, her mouth already open wide enough that her jaw looked dislocated.

For once, Max had expected exactly that.

He dove forward and to the side, tucking into a roll that brought him under her trajectory. He felt the displacement of air as she passed over him, felt something brush the top of his head.

Then a tremendous crash.

Max came up from his roll in time to see the witch collide with a massive pine tree behind where he'd been standing. The impact was enormous. The tree trunk exploded in a shower of splinters and bark. The whole thing toppled, its roots tearing free from the frozen ground.

The witch was on the ground in the wreckage, partially buried in snow and broken branches.

She seemed stunned. Not moving.

This was it!

Max ran.

Dusk came up in both hands as he closed the distance. Five feet. Four. Three. He could see her back, and the perfect spot between her shoulder blades where the blade would go.

Two feet.

Her remaining hand shot out.

It shouldn't have been able to reach him. He was behind her, she was on the ground, the distance was wrong.

But the bitch's arm extended. The limb stretched like taffy, or rubber, elongating impossibly fast. Her fingers wrapped around his throat before he could process what was happening.

She squeezed and there was a sound. Like a wet crack.

Then nothing.

[NUMBER OF REROLLS LEFT: 7]

***

Max woke up with jerky in his mouth.

He sat up and started laughing.

It wasn't a bitter laugh or a crazy one. It was genuine, the sort that came from deep in the chest and felt good coming out. In fact, it was so genuine it made Bro chittering on his shoulder seem almost concerned, the spider's legs doing that little uncertain shuffle they did when Max did something unexpected.

"Morning, Bro," Max said, reaching up to scratch under the spider's mandibles. The chittering turned pleased, and Bro settled back down into his usual spot.

Across the fire, Tarak was staring at him with wide eyes, spear already gripped in both hands like he thought Max might have lost his mind overnight.

"What?" Max grinned at him, still riding that strange high. "You think I'm strange, don't you?"

The kid's mouth worked for a moment before he managed to get words out. "Very, very strange, yes."

Max's grin widened as he started gathering his things, movements quick and efficient. "Yeah, well. I find myself strange too these days."

Which was true, and that was maybe the strangest part of all, because surprising himself, he was actually liking this.

Not the deaths themselves, obviously. Getting his head bitten off had been horrifying, drowning in his own blood while trying to curse had been worse, and having his neck snapped had at least been mercifully quick even if the crack of his own vertebrae would probably haunt him later. None of that was pleasant. In fact, he was shocked at how he wasn't completely traumatized by the experience so far, how he could wake up and laugh instead of curling into a ball and refusing to move. Maybe he was still in shock from it all. Maybe the trauma would hit him later, all at once in some quiet moment, and he'd break down completely and never be the same.

But right now, in this moment, all he could feel was that odd satisfaction thrumming through his veins alongside the fading traces of Fanga.

He'd cut her arm off. He'd made her bleed that weird black ichor that splattered hot across the snow. He'd seen actual fear flash across her face, seen that smug gentleness crack and shatter into something raw and animal and desperate. She'd growled at him like a cornered predator, circled him like he was dangerous instead of prey, and that felt better than it probably should have.

And more importantly, he'd learned her patterns. The low lunge angling from his left side. The chest strike that came when he dodged the first attack. The straight-line charge when she was angry enough to abandon tactics. The arm extension when she was desperate and he thought he had an opening.

Max ran through the calculations in his head while he checked Duck and Dawn and made sure his pack was secure. He had seven rerolls left, which meant seven more chances to figure out the puzzle of how to kill something that could extend its limbs and move faster than he could track even with the Heightening burning through him.

The elongating arm was the real problem, he was realizing. She could extend her reach when she needed to, which meant that mid-range fighting was a trap. He needed to either get in very close where she couldn't generate the force for a killing blow, or stay far enough back that even a full extension couldn't reach him. But both of those options had their own problems, because getting close meant being in range of those spiraling teeth, and staying back meant never landing a hit of his own.

Still, he'd seen her stunned after the tree impact. Seen her on the ground with broken branches scattered around her, disoriented enough that she hadn't immediately attacked. That was a window, even if it was a small one. The question was how to exploit it without getting grabbed by that impossible elastic arm.

Next time he could bait the charge again, dodge it the same way, but instead of rushing in for what looked like an easy kill, he could create some distance. Let her recover just slightly but stay cautious about his positioning. Learn what she did when she was hurt and wary instead of hurt and desperate. See if she had any other tricks he hadn't discovered yet.

Or maybe, if he was smart about it and lucky enough, he could finish it this run. If he anticipated the arm extension before it happened, if he positioned himself at just the right angle, if he was fast enough with the counter strike when the opportunity came—

Yeah. This run or the next one. He was getting close now. He could feel it.

"Finish your food," Max told Tarak, already moving toward the cave entrance with Bro secure on his shoulder. "We're leaving."

The kid blinked at him, a piece of jerky still halfway to his mouth. "But I just started eating—"

"Eat while we walk. Come on."

Tarak looked at the jerky in his hand, then at Max's back as he headed for the exit, then sighed in that long-suffering way that suggested he was seriously reconsidering his choice of traveling companion. "Very, very strange," he muttered again, but he got to his feet and started gathering his things.

Max was already at the cave mouth, looking out at the gray morning light filtering through the trees. Seven tries left, maybe fewer if he got it right.

He was going to kill that witch. And honestly, he was starting to look forward to it.

Chapter 192. Shadow

Hey everyone,

Sorry about the absence lately. I finally had to get that surgery I'd been avoiding for way too long.

So apparently the RSI had built up enough pressure in both my arms that my doctor basically gave me an ultimatum: either I get it taken care of now, or I'd be looking at permanent nerve damage down the line. Fun times, right?

I learned a lot of medical terms, too. The procedure itself is called a carpal tunnel release, or more specifically in my case, a bilateral carpal tunnel decompression since they had to do both arms. While it sounds pretty fearsome (at least it did to me, especially since I already had surgery earlier this year for my leg, yeah, it's been a tough year), it's actually not that complex as far as surgeries go.

Basically, what happens is there's this ligament in your wrist called the transverse carpal ligament, and it forms the roof of the carpal tunnel where your median nerve passes through along with a bunch of tendons. When you've got chronic RSI like I do from typing for hours every day, inflammation builds up in there and the whole space gets compressed. That puts pressure on the median nerve, which is what causes all the numbness, tingling, and pain that shoots up your arm and makes it feel like your hand is constantly asleep.

The surgery involves making a small incision in the palm and cutting through that ligament to release the pressure. Once it's cut, the ligament eventually heals back, but it heals longer than it was before, which gives the nerve and tendons more room and stops the compression. The whole thing takes maybe fifteen minutes per arm, though they did mine on separate days to make recovery easier.

Recovery's been slow but steady. I've been doing a lot of dictation software work and only using my arms when I absolutely have to, which has been an adjustment. But honestly, my brother has been doing the colossal work of helping me write the chapters during this whole recovery period. He was even willing to make many, many drafts of the same chapters until he got my style and tone right, going back and revising scenes over and over until they felt like something I would have written myself. I'm really grateful for that. I couldn't have kept the story going without him.

But the good news is that I'm doing much better now. The doctor said everything looks good and that it should be okay from now on as long as I'm more careful about not overdoing it.

Anyway, I'm back now and working on getting chapters out at a more regular pace. Thanks for your patience, and thanks for sticking with the story.

More coming soon.

*****************************************************************************

Well, this was... awkward.

The Chancellor clasped hands with Gaius one final time, still beaming like they'd just concluded the most pleasant afternoon tea instead of what had actually happened. He moved to Merlin next, gripping his shoulder with that easy familiarity that somehow felt both genuine and calculated at the same time.

"Always a pleasure," Mephtilem said.

Merlin nodded. "Lord Chancellor."

Then came Beth's turn.

The Chancellor extended his hand toward her, and Adom watched with a kind of detached fascination as Beth just stood there with her arms crossed, staring at him with the kind of flat expression that would make most people wither on the spot.

She didn't take his hand.

Mephtilem laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that sounded genuinely amused rather than forced, like her refusal was somehow endearing rather than the insult it clearly was.

"Still the same, I see," he said, dropping his hand without any visible offense. "I've known Beth for fifteen years now, and I don't think she's smiled at me once. Not even once."

"Sixteen years," Beth corrected, her tone flat enough to freeze water.

"Sixteen, then." The Chancellor's smile didn't even flicker. "My mistake."

He turned to Magnus, who was waiting by the door with that same satisfied expression he'd been wearing since Peregrine was introduced, and the two of them exchanged a few words that Adom couldn't quite make out from where he stood.

Being the empire's best diviner gave Beth certain privileges that others didn't get, a kind of leeway that came with being irreplaceable. She could be hostile to the Chancellor himself and it would be overlooked, excused as eccentricity or the burden of her gift. Prophets and seers had always occupied strange positions in hierarchies—too valuable to punish for their rudeness, too unsettling to fully embrace as allies.

And Beth leaned into that permission hard, in a way that Adom respected about her.

The Chancellor paused at the doorway and glanced back one more time, his gaze sweeping across all of them—Gaius, Merlin, Beth, Adom, Eren—before settling on Adom for just a beat longer than it had rested on the others.

Then he smiled again, that warm, disarming smile that made you want to trust him even when every instinct screamed not to.

"Take care, Magus Sylla. I look forward to hearing of your continued successes."

"Thank you, Lord Chancellor."

And then he was gone, with Magnus following behind him, the general's boots clicking against stone in that precise military rhythm. The door closed behind them with a heavy, final sound that seemed to echo in the sudden silence. Adom moved to the window because he needed something to do with his hands, something to focus on that wasn't the weight of what had just happened.

He watched them cross the courtyard below, watched the pegasus cart descend from wherever it had been waiting—massive white wings cutting through the air with surprising grace for creatures that size, hooves touching down on cobblestone with a delicacy that seemed almost impossible. The Chancellor climbed in first, still talking to Magnus about something and smiling like nothing in the world could disturb his good mood. Magnus said something in response, gesturing with one hand, and the Chancellor laughed.

The cart lifted off moments later, the pegasi's wings beating in perfect synchronization as they climbed. Up and up, higher and higher, banking east where the sunlight caught their white coats and made them look almost ethereal. Within moments they were just a speck against the sky, and then they were gone entirely.

Adom exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders as much as he dared with Peregrine standing somewhere behind him.

Tomorrow night, there would be the meeting with the Silvandrosi Queen and the timing couldn't be worse. It was an important meeting, critical, even, the kind that could tilt the scales significantly when they finally made their move for the throne. Having the Elven kingdom's support would lend Morgana legitimacy in ways that gold and promises never could, and would tie her to one of the oldest and most respected sovereign powers in the world.

They couldn't afford to botch it, and now he had to figure out how to attend a secret meeting with the elven queen while being shadowed by an imperial operative whose entire job was to watch his every move.

He glanced to his right without fully turning his head.

Peregrine Hook stood a few paces behind him and slightly to the side, positioned in that way professional guards always seemed to position themselves—not hovering, exactly, but present. And aware. Her posture was relaxed but ready, weight distributed evenly, hands loose at her sides like she could move in any direction at a moment's notice.

She met his gaze without flinching when he looked at her, her expression neutral and completely unreadable.

He looked away first, which annoyed him more than it should have.

There were two other Shadows in the room now, and Adom realized they must have entered while he'd been distracted by the Chancellor's departure. Both men, both carrying themselves with that same professional stillness. One was positioned near Beth, the other near Merlin, and they managed to be simultaneously invisible and impossible to ignore.

Adom's mind started cycling through options almost automatically, the way it always did when he was backed into a corner.

Magical means, obviously. A well-placed illusion could make her think he was somewhere he wasn't, or he could try memory alteration if he could get close enough and she dropped her guard long enough for him to work. A bounded field that scrambled perception might work, or there were those spells that created false sensory input, made you see and hear things that weren't really there. There were dozens of approaches that could, theoretically, let him slip her observation long enough to do what he needed to do.

But she'd be trained for that, wouldn't she?

Had to be. The Shadows didn't guard the imperial family and the Chancellor by accident, they were the best, which meant they'd have countermeasures. Enchanted items that detected magical interference, maybe. Mental discipline techniques to resist illusions. Protocols for recognizing when magic was being used against them, alarms they could trigger if they suspected anything.

And even if he managed it once, even if he pulled it off perfectly, it would raise flags. She'd report it in her next debrief. They'd adjust their approach, send someone better, or send two people, or implement some new policy that made things even harder to work around.

How did the reporting even work, anyway?

Did she file daily summaries with her superiors? Hourly updates? Was there some kind of magical relay she could activate in emergencies, or did she just memorize everything and debrief in person at scheduled intervals? He needed to know the structure of it, the timing, where the vulnerabilities were in their system.

He needed—

"I'm quite tired now."

Gaius's voice cut through Adom's thoughts, and he turned to see the Archmage straightening from where he'd been leaning against his desk. He stretched in a way that looked almost theatrical, like he was performing the concept of exhaustion rather than actually experiencing it.

"The meeting's no longer happening," Gaius continued. "We'll schedule it for tomorrow. For now, you're all dismissed."

Merlin nodded once and turned toward the door without a word. His Shadow followed behind him like a second, quieter version of himself, matching his pace exactly.

Beth lingered a moment longer with her eyes still on the window, her expression unreadable, before she finally moved as well. Her Shadow trailed behind her with that same professional distance they all seemed to maintain.

"Eren," Gaius said, and his tone shifted slightly, became a touch warmer. "Come with me."

Eren, who'd been standing near the back of the room trying very hard to be invisible this whole time, straightened immediately like he'd been waiting for permission to exist again. "Yes, master."

Gaius's gaze shifted to Adom then, just for a second, and it was one of those looks that said absolutely nothing and everything at once.

Later, that look said. We'll talk later, when we don't have an audience.

Adom gave the smallest nod in response, barely a movement at all.

Gaius's expression didn't change, but he turned and walked toward the side door, the one that led deeper into his personal chambers rather than out to the main corridor. Eren followed, glancing back once at Adom with an expression that might have been concern or confusion or both before disappearing through the doorway behind the Archmage.

The room emptied out in less than a minute, and then it was just Adom standing by the window with Peregrine Hook somewhere behind him.

She still hadn't moved from her position, still standing there in that professional guard stance, still watching him with that neutral expression that gave away absolutely nothing.

Adom turned back to the window and stared out at the empty sky where the pegasus cart had disappeared, trying to figure out his next move.

He took a deep breath then turned back toward Peregrine.

She stood exactly where she'd been when the others left; a few paces behind him, hands clasped at the small of her back, posture perfect. Watching.

"Well," he said. "This is a little awkward silence, right?"

"I was not bothered by it, my lord." Her tone was even and professional. "Please be at ease around me."

Adom stared at her. The formality was like armor. Every word measured, every syllable in its place.

"Do you always speak like—" He caught himself. "I mean, it's not a bad thing. I'm just curious."

"I was trained for years to communicate efficiently," Peregrine said. She didn't blink. "This manner of speech serves that purpose."

A pause.

"Would you prefer I have more personality, my lord?"

Adom felt his eyebrows climb. "You can do that on command?"

"My task is to ensure your safety and comfort. If adjusting my demeanor would contribute to either, I am capable of doing so."

He tried a smile. Tried to find some crack in that professional veneer. "So what you're saying is, you're so good at your job that you can pretend to be bad at it if it makes me feel better?"

"If that is how you would like to interpret it, my lord."

The smile didn't work. She just looked at him with those steady eyes, waiting for his next move like she was calculating three steps ahead.

Adom gave up. "Well. I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

"I have well-defined eating hours, my lord."

"What are those?"

"Fourteen hundred hours for seven minutes. Nineteen hundred hours for four minutes."

Adom understood the format, his father still used military time out of habit from his knight days. Two in the afternoon, seven at night. The Imperial military counted hours from midnight in a full cycle to avoid confusion during night operations or shift changes.

But the windows themselves..."Wait. What do you eat that takes four minutes?"

Peregrine reached into her coat. Drew out a small wrapped package and held it up. It looked like... bread?

Yes. That's what it was. The bread inside was flat, gray-brown, about the size of her palm. Adom recognized it then: waybread, the old military ration from the Great Famine two centuries back. Alchemically preserved grain compressed with enough nutrients to sustain a soldier for a day. The Imperial Army had refined the recipe over generations, and it had saved thousands of lives during sieges and hard times.

It was also, by every account Adom had ever read, absolutely vile.

"You can't possibly tell me that's all you eat."

"I drink water as well, my lord."

"Peregrine, that's—" He stopped. Looked at her standing there with her terrible ration bar, her four-minute meal window, her entire life compressed into efficient blocks of time.

He gave up.

"Come with me. We're eating real food."

"That is not necessary, my lord. I am adequately—"

"It would make me feel very safe," Adom said, "if you would do that. As my protector, you need to be well-fed and satisfied with your food so that you're able to protect me properly. Right?"

The logic was garbage and they both knew it. But Peregrine's training wouldn't let her argue with his stated preference for his own safety, even if the reasoning was flawed.

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "As you wish, my lord."

"Great!" Adom felt something almost like victory. "You like meat pies?"

*****

They walked through the district until the scent of baked pastry and roasted meat grew thick in the air. Old Mary's sat on a corner, its weathered sign creaking in the evening breeze. This location was smaller than the one near the market, just a window counter and a handful of wooden tables set up outside.

The vendor was a young man, maybe a few years older than Adom, with flour dusted across his apron and forearms. He looked up as they approached, and his face split into a grin.

"Ghost! Haven't seen you in a while."

"Been busy," Adom said. "Three meat pies, please."

The vendor's eyes flicked to Peregrine, and the grin faltered for just a second. Then came back stronger. "Of course. And for the lady?"

Adom glanced at her.

"I do not mind anything served to me," Peregrine said.

The vendor straightened a little. Cleared his throat. "Well, our star flavors tonight are duck with cranberry glaze, seasoned beef with root vegetables, and krawler; that's dungeon meat. Texture's a bit dense, chewier than regular meat, but it's got this gamey taste to it. Bit like lamb, if lamb had a wild edge to it. Popular with the adventurer types."

Peregrine gave no reaction.

Adom watched her for a moment, thought he caught the slightest shift in her posture when the vendor mentioned the krawler. "One of each, then."

"Three pies." The vendor was already moving, pulling the golden-crusted pies from the heated shelf behind him, wrapping them in parchment. He worked fast, but his gaze kept drifting back to Peregrine. "You, uh... you new to Arkhos?"

"Yes," Peregrine said.

"Thought so. Would've remembered seeing you."

She said nothing to that.

The vendor set the three pies on the counter, then hesitated. Reached back and grabbed a fourth, wrapped it quickly, and added it to the pile.

Adom stared at it. "What's that?"

"Duck's on the house tonight."

"I always pay here," Adom said. This location was the only one of Old Mary's places where they actually let him. Everywhere else, the Ghost didn't pay, Old Mary's standing order. But this vendor had always accepted his coin, which was exactly why Adom kept coming back to this particular spot.

"Old Mary says the ghost doesn't pay." The vendor grinned, but his eyes were still on Peregrine. "Boss's rules."

Adom looked at the fourth pie. Then at the vendor's face. Then at Peregrine, who stood there like a statue.

Right. The duck wasn't about Old Mary's policy.

"Appreciate it," Adom said, gathering up the pies.

"Come back anytime," the vendor said, still looking at Peregrine.

She didn't seem to notice. Or care.

Adom led them to one of the wooden tables and set the pies down. Peregrine remained standing.

"Please sit," Adom said.

She sat.

He unwrapped the krawler pie—the one he'd thought he'd seen her react to—and slid it toward her. Kept the beef for himself, left the duck and the extra for later.

"Eat."

Peregrine looked at the pie. Then at him.

"That's not a request for your safety," Adom said. "I'm just asking you to eat. Try it. The first bite."

She picked up the pie carefully, like it was a piece of equipment she was evaluating. Took a bite.

Adom watched.

She chewed. Swallowed. Her expression didn't change at all. No surprise, no pleasure, no disgust. Just the same measured calm.

"It is good," she said. "Thank you for the food, my lord."

"Don't mention it."

She took another bite. Still no reaction. Like she was consuming water, not food.

Adom bit into his own pie and tried not to feel disappointed that he couldn't tell if she actually liked it or not.

The silence stretched between them.

Adom was gauging her. He knew what Shadows were, everyone in the capital did, at least in theory. The Emperor's personal operatives, trained young in facilities no one talked about. They underwent conditioning that would break most people. Physical training that turned them into weapons. Mental conditioning that made them unshakeable, unreadable, utterly loyal.

And they were all mages. Every single one had a mana core and could weave spells. That was the difference between Shadows and regular soldiers or even Imperial Knights. They were the only mages in the entire Empire who answered solely to the Emperor and his inner circle, completely outside the Magisterium's authority.

The Magisterium had the Magi, the Archmage, all the infrastructure of magical education and regulation. But the Shadows? They belonged to the throne alone.

Which made Peregrine's assignment to him even more of a problem.

Adom needed to set up his meeting for tomorrow. The one with the queen. The plan had been simple before: slip out, meet in secret, negotiate an alliance. But now he had a Shadow watching his every move.

He couldn't dismiss her without a valid excuse. She'd been assigned by the Chancellor himself, and refusing her protection would be seen as either foolish or suspicious.

He couldn't subdue her either. That would be an attack on an Imperial Shadow, and it would give the Chancellor exactly the excuse he needed to move against Adom openly.

What to do... what to do indeed.

Adom took another bite of his pie. The beef was good, seasoned well, the pastry flaky. He chewed slowly, thinking.

Peregrine finished her krawler pie and set the parchment aside, her hands returning to rest on the table in perfect symmetry.

Across the street, a group of children ran past, shrieking with laughter and playing what appeared to be a game of tag. One boy tagged a girl and immediately sprinted away, her indignant yell following him as she gave chase.

An idea sparked in Adom's mind, one that involved a changeling.

If he could get one of them to impersonate him, just for the duration of the meeting... The changeling could stay with Peregrine while the real Adom slipped away. By the time she realized—if she even did—it would be over.

He'd need to contact Valiant first. Set it up properly. But it could work.

Adom finished his pie and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Aah. I'm full."

Peregrine looked at him.

"Did you eat well?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord. Thank you. It was good."

"Better than waybread, I hope."

"Yes, my lord."

Adom smiled. "You know, I always feel a bit giddy after a good meal. Energized. Like I could run across the whole city." He stretched his arms above his head. "What about you? Do you feel different after eating real food?"

"I feel adequately nourished, my lord."

"Right. Of course." He dropped his arms. "Speaking of running... you're pretty fast, aren't you? Shadows are supposed to be incredibly quick."

"We undergo extensive physical conditioning, my lord. Speed and endurance are foundational."

"How fast are we talking? Like, faster than a horse?"

"Over short distances, yes, my lord."

"And strong too, I'd imagine."

"Strength training is part of our regimen, my lord."

Adom leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His tone was light, almost playful. "Stronger than me?"

Inside, his mind was working. He needed to evade her long enough to go see Valiant right away, and set up the changeling plan.

Peregrine's expression didn't change. "I could not say, my lord. I have not observed you in combat."

"Well, I'm a Magus," Adom said, grinning. "Magi are usually the strongest mages after the Archmage himself. It's just funny, you know? That they'd assign a Shadow to protect someone like me. Like sending a guard to protect a fortress."

He watched her carefully.

"Do you think you could beat me, Peregrine?" he asked, still smiling and casual, but there was an edge to the question now. A challenge underneath the friendly tone.

Peregrine was quiet for a moment. Then: "My job is not to fight you, my lord."

Damn right it's not, Adom thought. Because you're here to spy on me, not protect me.

He didn't say that.

"Of course not," he said instead. "But for me to feel safe, I need to know the capability of my protector. I need to understand what you can do. How you operate."

"I am trained in close combat, ranged combat, infiltration, tracking, and several forms of—"

"How about a game?" Adom interrupted.

Peregrine stopped.

"A game of tag," Adom said. "All over Arkhos. You try to catch me in under twenty minutes."

She stared at him. "My lord, I do not believe—"

"Think about it," Adom continued, his enthusiasm building in a way that seemed genuine but was entirely calculated. "Tag tests everything. Your agility, because you'll need to navigate the city at speed. Your strength, because you might need to vault over obstacles or break through barriers. Your endurance, because twenty minutes of pursuit across Arkhos is no small feat." He leaned back, spreading his hands. "And I'll even let you use magic. No limitations. Do your absolute best. Use whatever spells you want, whatever techniques you've been trained in. Show me what a Shadow can really do."

He paused, letting that sink in, then continued with a more serious tone. "Because if you can't keep up with me—if I'm faster than my own protector—then I'd have to request a replacement Shadow. Think about it: if there's a threat targeting a mage of my caliber, and you can't even catch me in a controlled environment, then in a real crisis, I'd be the one protecting you instead of the other way around. You'd become a weight instead of a protector. And I can't have that."

For the first time since he'd met her, something flickered across Peregrine's face. It was small, barely there, just a slight tension at the corner of her jaw. But it was something.

She could be provoked, it seemed. That was good. That was useful.

"My lord," she said, and her voice was still controlled but there was a thread of something underneath it now, "I am not certain this is an appropriate use of—"

"Are you saying you can't catch me?" Adom asked, tilting his head with an innocent expression that was absolutely deliberate.

Another flicker. Her posture shifted by perhaps an inch, her shoulders drawing back just slightly.

"I did not say that, my lord."

"Then prove it," Adom said. "I need to know my protector can keep up with me if something goes wrong. If we're attacked and I need to move fast. If we get separated in a crowd. This isn't just a game; it's a legitimate test of your capabilities in a realistic scenario." He paused, then added with a grin, "Unless you think I'm too fast for you?"

Peregrine's eyes narrowed. Just a fraction. Just enough.

"I will catch you, my lord," she said, and there was the faintest edge of certainty in her voice now, professional pride breaking through the perfect composure.

"Twenty minutes," Adom said, standing up. "Starting now."

He reached out and tapped her shoulder.

"Tag."

And then he vanished.

Chapter 191. Official Visit .Final Part

The Gamble King's chapter is coming in a few hours, too! Sorry for the late chapters, they were meant to be uploaded in the afternoon, but I had to take care of an unexpected event today. Hope the chapter's enjoyable!

A vain, proud, and hypocritical man. The kind who'd lecture you about duty while stepping on everyone below him to climb higher.

That was what Arthur had said about the general when Adom asked him what kind of man Magnus was.

And Adom wasn't sure if that was the reason he didn't like him right now, but he didn't like the man.

If killing intent, or just bad intent, was perceptible the way some people claimed—some kind of sixth sense that let you feel danger before it arrived—Adom had no doubt this man would be reeking of it. His mouth was saying things his eyes didn't seem to agree with. The smile didn't reach past his teeth. The handshake had been too firm, held a beat too long, like Magnus was testing him. Seeing if he'd flinch.

Adom hadn't.

And now he was testing Magnus right back.

The general stood there, one hand still raised in that apologetic gesture, waiting for Adom to back down. To smile. To say something like, Of course, General, I understand. Eren can wait outside.

Adom didn't say that.

He just watched Magnus's face. Waited for a reaction. Any reaction.

The silence stretched.

Behind him, Eren had gone completely still. Adom could feel the boy's anxiety like a physical weight pressing against his back.

The guards at the gate were watching. The knights who'd parted for Magnus were watching. Even the air seemed to be holding its breath.

Magnus's smile didn't move. But something shifted behind his eyes. Just for a second. A flicker of something that might have been surprise. Or calculation. Or anger wrapped in so many layers of discipline that it barely made it to the surface before getting buried again.

There it is.

Adom felt a small, petty satisfaction at seeing it. At knowing he'd gotten under the man's skin, even if only for a heartbeat.

Because yes, it was petty. Incredibly so. He was old enough to accept that side of himself and use it when he deemed it fit.

And right now, he deemed it very fit.

Because Magnus had no right to dismiss Eren. Not without Adom's permission. Not when they'd clearly arrived together. Not when Eren was standing two steps behind him like any apprentice would stand behind their mentor in an official setting.

The general knew that. He had to know that. But he'd tried anyway, probably expecting Adom to defer to his authority, his rank, his age and experience and the forty years he'd spent serving the empire.

Expecting everyone to remember their place.

Except Adom's place, according to the token he carried and the hierarchy the empire itself had established, was higher than Magnus's. A magus outranked a general. Not by much. Not in most practical situations. But in matters of protocol? In situations where respect and deference mattered?

A magus had the edge.

So this was a test. Not just for Magnus, but for Adom. To see how the general would react when a magus—who was higher in the hierarchy than even him—contested a thing he'd said. To see if Magnus would respect that hierarchy when it didn't suit him. Or if his courtesy was only for show.

Adom had a feeling he already knew the answer.

Magnus was clearly in the emperor's faction. Had been for years. In fact, he'd been one of the people who'd pushed hardest for Arthur's early retirement after everything that happened with the crown prince. He'd tried to isolate Arthur first, sending him north to command a fort in the middle of nowhere. When that hadn't worked—when Arthur had somehow thrived there anyway, turned the posting into another accomplishment instead of the punishment it was meant to be—Magnus had pulled incredible strings to force the commander of the Iron Wolves into retirement before he'd even grown a shred of silver hair.

Adom remembered the look on his father's face when he'd come home that final time. He wasn't angry. Just tired. Like he'd finally accepted something he'd been fighting against for years.

I'm done, son. It's over.

What do you mean it's over?

I mean I'm not going back. They won. I mean... I'm done.

Adom understood that if there was going to be a change in power—from the current emperor to Morgana—he would eventually have to face men like Magnus. Men who'd spent decades building their positions in the current regime and who wouldn't let go easily.

So maybe fighting him here would be the safer option. Hurting the man enough now that he wouldn't be able to oppose them later.

It was cold. But Adom was sure Magnus would be a problem.

Not one he couldn't deal with, though. Not even right now.

In a pure physical fight? Maybe he'd be slightly inferior. Magnus had forty years of combat experience, discipline, training and real battles.

But with magic?

With magic, he could take care of Magnus easily. Right here. Right now.

The thought settled in his chest with a strange kind of calm. He could kill Magnus in this courtyard if he needed to.

He wouldn't. Obviously. That would be insane. Murdering a general in broad daylight in front of dozens of witnesses would turn Adom into exactly the kind of threat the emperor's faction claimed mages were.

But he could.

And some part of him wanted Magnus to know that. The general's smile widened slightly.

"Of course," he said. His voice was warm and accommodating. "I should have assumed. The Archmage's disciple would naturally be included in discussions involving his master. My mistake."

He turned and started walking again, gesturing for them both to follow.

Just like that.

No argument. No pushback. No sign that anything had just happened beyond a minor miscommunication.

Adom didn't buy it for a second.

He glanced back at Eren. The boy looked like he'd just watched someone juggle knives while blindfolded and had no idea if he should be impressed or terrified. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.

Adom gave him a small nod. It's fine. Come on.

They fell into step behind Magnus. Adom matched his pace easily as Eren scrambled to keep up.

The hallway they entered was wide and well-lit. Arched ceilings. Stone walls with veins of some mineral running through them that caught the light from the glow-stones embedded at intervals. Their footsteps echoed.

Magnus didn't speak.

Didn't look back.

Just walked like he assumed they'd follow him anywhere he led.

And Adom realized, with a kind of distant amusement, that this was going to be the game. This was how Magnus operated. Smiling. Courteous. Agreeable on the surface. Never giving anyone an excuse to call him out. Never showing his hand.

But testing. Always testing. Pushing just hard enough to see what you were made of. Retreating smoothly when you pushed back. Filing away everything he learned for later use.

Fine. I could play that game.

Magnus pushed the door open.

Adom had been expecting the full Council of Magi. Twelve chairs arranged in a semicircle, robes in different colors representing different branches of magical study, stern faces ready to judge whether he was worth their time.

Instead, Merlin leaning against a bookshelf like he'd been waiting for hours and was bored of it. Beth standing by the window with her arms crossed and the Archmage in his usual spot.

And for the first time in this life, the man himself.

Lord Mephtilem.

The Chancellor.

They all turned to look as the door opened. All except Beth, who kept her gaze on whatever was outside.

Adom's body moved before his mind caught up. Right fist over his heart. Left arm stretched behind him, hand flat, fingers together. Head bowed just enough to show respect without groveling.

The salute reserved for the Chancellor alone.

He held it for three seconds, then shifted to salute the Archmage—right fist to chest, left at his side this time, a shallower bow.

"At ease," the Chancellor said.

His voice was warm. Actually warm, not the fake warmth people in power practiced in mirrors.

He smiled—bright, genuine—and stood.

Adom had always been impressed by the man's height. No matter how normalized it had become over the years, no matter how many times he'd seen images of the Chancellor at state functions or addressing crowds, the reality of it hit different. Well over seven feet. Tall enough that when he moved, the space around him seemed to rearrange itself to accommodate.

Dark cloak, the sort that looked like it cost more than most people's yearly income but somehow didn't seem pretentious on him. Brown hair that fell in a way that made Adom think of a lion—wild but controlled, like it had been styled to look unstylable. One eye amber. The other brown, but not the kind of brown you saw on anyone else. Reddish in a way that shouldn't exist, like someone had mixed pigments that didn't belong together and somehow made it work.

Imposing wasn't the right word. Imposing implied he was trying.

And the smell.

Not overpowering, but close. Rich. Layered.

The Chancellor crossed the room in a few long strides and grabbed Adom by the shoulders.

Both hands. Firm grip.

Then he did the accolade: right shoulder, left shoulder, both again.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet the famed Magus Sylla."

Adom blinked.

"I've heard so many things about you," the Chancellor continued. He was still smiling and holding Adom's shoulders like they were old friends. "I've been following you for a very, very long time."

"Is that so?"

The Chancellor laughed like Adom had said something delightful.

"Yes. I was even a fan of yours during your 'ghost' years as a krozball player. Brilliant. In every way."

"You flatter me, my lord."

"Nonsense." The Chancellor's grip tightened just slightly. "A man should be given his flowers without having to feel shy about it. You deserve it. Take it with pride."

Adom smiled. "Thank you."

The Chancellor let go, stepped back, and his gaze shifted to Eren.

He looked at him for a long moment. Then turned to the Archmage. Then back to Eren.

"Gaius," he said. "Is this your disciple?"

"That would be him," the Archmage said.

Eren was still saluting. Stiff. Perfect form.

The Chancellor walked over and did the same for him—shoulders, accolade, smile.

"An honor," he said to Eren.

Eren's voice came out steady. "The honor is mine, Lord Chancellor."

"Where are the other magi?" Adom asked.

"The meeting was cancelled," Gaius said. "We had an official visit from the Chancellor."

The Chancellor laughed. "I'm sorry for that."

"You're lying." Gaius's tone was flat. "You're enjoying this."

The Chancellor laughed harder.

Adom wasn't surprised by the way Gaius talked to him. The Archmage was ranked the same as the Chancellor in the empire—two pillars holding up different parts of the structure. The Chancellor handled taxation, provincial governance, military logistics, trade agreements, all the grinding bureaucratic machinery that kept an empire from collapsing under its own weight.

Gaius handled everything magical. Dispatch and management of mages. Research approval. Regulation of artifacts. Anything that involved channeling power through a human body or object went through him eventually.

So, no surprise that Gaius didn't bow and scrape.

But the rchmage, for all his moods and quirks, rarely looked this sour in front of someone this cheerful.

Adom knew Gaius didn't like the Chancellor. He'd say there was always something "wrong" with the man. Wouldn't elaborate. Just "wrong," like he could sense a frequency no one else heard.

You'd understand if you spent enough time with him, he'd said.

And even to Adom, the Chancellor was a mystery.

In his past life, after the empire fell, the man had vanished. No corpse. No rumors. No sightings in some far-off kingdom under a new name. Just gone. Adom had assumed he was dead—warlords didn't usually let the previous regime's leadership retire peacefully—but now he had doubts about that.

No reason for the doubts. Nothing concrete.

Or maybe it was because he'd started seeing the Chancellor as an enemy he'd have to deal with eventually.

To his knowledge, the man wasn't a mage. Just a human with an incredible intellect and the charisma to weaponize it.

"This was an official visit," the Chancellor said. He was still smiling, but his tone shifted just enough. "And as much as I'd like to keep sitting and talking, it seems it's time for me to go now. I was only passing through." He glanced at Adom. "You missed some good tea I brought, though. I had it sent to your office earlier, a special blend. I was told you liked tea, so I thought you might appreciate it."

"Thank you, Lord Chancellor." Adom said as he eyed the Archmage, trying to communicate. You told him?

Gaius shrugged, the gesture barely perceptible.

The General's jaw tightened just so. Beth was still silent, looking at the window. Merlin was just sitting there, he wasn't really the kind to talk when he didn't need to.

"Don't mention it," Mephtilem cut in. "It was from an old acquaintance of yours, too."

That made Adom pause.

"The Guildmaster of the now-dissolved Crimson Scale," Mephtilem continued. "Tresh Mavarin. She's in the Duchy of Ghilverin now. Quite a successful venture with special blends of tea, from what I hear." He looked at Adom like he was waiting for something. "I was told your family's merchant guild—the Wangara—put the Crimson Scale out of business a while ago?"

Adom kept his expression smooth. "It was simply the laws of the market."

The Chancellor laughed. "Madam Mavarin said the same thing."

And there it was.

The thing under the surface.

This man had gone back years. He'd tracked down Tresh Mavarin—someone Adom hadn't thought about in years, someone who'd been a footnote in the Wangara's expansion—and he'd done it casually enough to bring up tea like it was a fun little anecdote.

He did not just look into his recent work or just read reports from the academy or asking Gaius what kind of person he was.

No, the chancellor had been going back. Meeting people. Connecting dots.

And now he was here, smiling, making it clear without saying a word: I'm watching you.

Adom smiled back. "Thank you. I'll enjoy the tea."

The Chancellor looked satisfied. Like he'd gotten the reaction he wanted.

"Oh," he said, turning toward the door. "Before I forget—"

He snapped his fingers.

The door opened.

Adom turned.

Not toward the door they'd entered through. The other one—carved wood, heavy hinges, positioned opposite the window where Beth still stood with her arms crossed.

It opened.

The Chancellor's voice followed him as he moved. Still warm and conversational.

"You're aware, of course, of the recent legislative developments." Mephtilem gestured vaguely. "The Senate convened three times in the past month. Emergency sessions. Very productive, all things considered."

A woman stepped through the doorway.

Adom watched her enter while the Chancellor kept talking.

"The war effort has necessitated certain… adjustments. Protections, really. For our most valuable assets."

She was short.

Notably so, barely came up to Adom's shoulder. But the way she carried herself made her seem like she took up more space than she actually did. An elf. The ears gave it away, though she'd clearly tried to minimize them by pulling her blonde hair back tight against her skull. Functional clothing: leather, reinforced at the joints, designed for movement. No visible weapons, but that didn't mean anything.

"Farmus has been making troubling alliances," the Chancellor continued. His tone stayed light and unconcerned. "The elves in the Qínglóng Empire have formally committed troops. The orc clans in the Ashridge territories as well. We're estimating an additional forty thousand soldiers on their side by spring. Possibly more if the centaur tribes decide to break neutrality."

The woman stopped three paces inside the room.

She looked at Adom.

Then she bowed lightly. A brief inclination of the head, nothing more. She held it for exactly three seconds.

"Our magi are the backbone of the empire's magical strength," Mephtilem said. He was walking now, slow circuit around the room. Hands clasped behind his back. "Without them, we'd be defenseless against enemies who wield magic against us. With them, we maintain superiority. But that makes them targets. High-value targets. You understand."

Adom caught it.

Just for a second.

The ghost of a smile on Magnus's face.

It wasn't smug, not quite. But satisfied. Like someone who'd just watched a trap snap shut exactly the way he'd designed it.

"Magus Sylla," the Chancellor said. He stopped beside the woman. "This is Peregrine Hook."

The woman didn't move or speak.

She just stood there, waiting.

"Miss Hook is a specialist," Mephtilem continued. "Trained in the Imperial Academy's special operations program. Graduated top of her class. Served in the Shadows for six years before this assignment."

Shadows.

Adom knew what that meant.

The empire had maybe three dozen of them. Elite operatives assigned exclusively to the imperial family and the Chancellor himself. They didn't guard buildings or patrol borders. They guarded people. Stuck close enough to intervene in an assassination attempt.

Or, in the case Adom was suspecting, close enough to hear every conversation. Always aware of where their charge was, every second of every day.

"The Senate passed legislation formalizing the Magus Protection Initiative two days ago," the Chancellor said. "Every registered magus is to be assigned a dedicated guardian. For their safety. Given recent events, your attack in Arkhos, for example—"

Adom looked at him.

The Chancellor smiled. "I was told you dealt with them quite efficiently. I'm not certain whether they're still alive or dead. If they survived, I'd be happy to take them for interrogation."

"I killed them," Adom said. He was already regretting not taking them down somewhere more private.

"How unfortunate." The Chancellor's expression didn't change. "And their bodies?"

So you want your homonculi back, don't you? Adom thought. He probably wanted to repurpose them, study them, use them for something else.

"I incinerated them," Adom said.

The general's face darkened. "You had no right to—"

The Chancellor raised a hand, cutting him off and laughed. "Ruthless. I appreciate that, Magus Adom. Truly. After an attempt on your life, you had every right to eliminate the threat completely. I understand."

Adom nodded.

"Which is exactly why," the Chancellor continued, smile fading back to neutrality, "we felt it was prudent to implement the program immediately."

There it was.

Adom felt it click.

The reason Gaius looked like he'd been chewing glass all afternoon. The reason Beth was staring out the window instead of participating. The reason the Chancellor had come here personally instead of sending a messenger.

They were monitoring him.

No.

They were monitoring all the magi. Officially. Legally. With Senate approval and imperial backing.

But it was for him.

He was sure of it.

The timing was too convenient. The Chancellor showing up personally was too pointed. Magnus's expression was too smug.

They knew something. Or they suspected something. And this was their solution, wrap surveillance in legislation, call it protection, make it impossible to refuse without looking suspicious.

"I'm honored by the empire's concern for my safety," Adom said.

His voice came out smooth. Calm.

"Of course you are." The Chancellor smiled. "I knew you'd understand. Miss Hook will accompany you everywhere from this point forward. Classes, meals, personal appointments. She's been briefed on your schedule and your habits. She'll remain unobtrusive, naturally. You won't even notice her most of the time."

Peregrine Hook's expression didn't change.

"And if I decline?" Adom asked.

The Chancellor's smile widened. "The legislation doesn't allow for declination, I'm afraid. It's mandatory. For all magi. The Senate was very clear on that point."

"How considerate of them."

"We care deeply about our magi, Magus Sylla. Surely you can appreciate the empire's desire to keep you safe. Especially given your recent brush with danger." Mephtilem tilted his head slightly. "Unless you have some reason to prefer being unguarded?"

And there was the trap.

Refuse, and he looked like he had something to hide. Like he didn't want protection because protection meant observation. Accept, and he had a trained imperial operative shadowing him constantly, reporting back to whoever held her leash.

Adom smiled. "Of course not, Lord Chancellor. I'm grateful for the concern."

"Wonderful." Mephtilem clapped his hands together once. "Then it's settled. Miss Hook, you're dismissed to familiarize yourself with Magus Sylla's quarters and routine. I'm sure the Archmage's staff can provide you with any necessary access credentials."

Peregrine bowed her head. Still silent.

She turned and left through the same door she'd entered.

The room felt heavier after she was gone.

Adom glanced at Gaius. The Archmage was staring at the ceiling like he was trying to burn a hole through it with his mind.

Magnus was still smiling.

They finally made a bold move, huh?

Chapter 190. Official Visit .Part II

So this was the famous Adom Sylla.

Magnus had heard plenty about Arthur's son over the years. The prodigy. The youngest magus in living memory. The boy who'd accomplished in five years what took most mages three decades, if they managed it at all.

He'd expected someone smaller.

The tales always made powerful mages sound like wizened scholars hunched over spell books, or thin-limbed academics who spent their days locked in towers studying theory. Good mages rarely had anything that could be called muscles. Their power came from runes, spell weaving and complexity, elaborate nonsense dressed up as strength. Not from their bodies. Not from real discipline.

But Adom Sylla stood almost as tall as Magnus himself.

That was the first surprise. The second was the way he carried that height. Not hunched or apologetic about it, not trying to make himself smaller the way some young men did when they were still growing into their frames. He stood straight. Shoulders back. Feet planted, like someone who knew exactly where he was and had every right to be there.

Typical mage arrogance.

Magnus started forward, his boots striking the stone with an authority fit for a man of his stature. The knights parted for him without needing to be told.

Nineteen years old.

The thought just did not make sense. The boy was nineteen, and he'd already climbed higher than officers Magnus had known who'd given forty years to the empire. Officers who'd bled for their ranks, earned every promotion through sweat, sacrifice and loyalty that didn't waver when things got difficult. Some of them had learned to swing a sword before they could write their own names.

This boy had taken five years.

Five!

Tracing symbols and weaving energy while real soldiers did the actual fighting. And somehow that was supposed to be impressive. Somehow, that made him important enough that generals were expected to defer to him.

It was an offense to nature itself.

Magnus had never understood why the empire tolerated them. Mages. They were parasites, really, when you stripped away all the flowery language about magical theory and ancient tradition. Born with something they didn't earn, something they didn't deserve, and they spent their whole lives acting like it elevated them above normal men.

A soldier trained for years. Decades. Built his body into a weapon through discipline and pain, learned to move and fight and kill with nothing but his own two hands. That was honest. That was real.

But mages? They just drew their little pictures in the air, wove their little patterns, traced their runes, and the world bent for them. No effort required beyond memorizing symbols and formulas. Just an accident of birth that let them bypass everything that made a man worth something.

And they looked down on everyone else for it.

Magnus let his gaze travel over Adom as he approached, taking inventory the way he would with any potential threat. The way he'd been trained to assess an enemy across a battlefield before the fighting started.

Tall, yes. Broad enough in the shoulders that he clearly wasn't starving himself over books, though Magnus would bet his commission the boy had never held a real weapon in his life. Never felt the jar of steel meeting steel. Never stood in a shield wall with men depending on him to hold his position or watch them die.

Never earned a single thing with his body.

Just his magic. His gift. His undeserved power that he probably thought made him superior to every knight standing here.

His clothes were well-made but not ostentatious—practical choices, though Magnus had no doubt they cost more than a soldier's monthly wage. Dark hair. Caramel skin that marked him as his father's son before he ever opened his mouth.

And those eyes.

Magnus saw them clearly as he closed the distance. Watching him. Steady and unwavering in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of Arthur Sylla standing in a council chamber almost twenty years ago, refusing to back down from a position the Emperor had made very clear he wanted abandoned.

The same glare.

The same self-righteous certainty that he knew better than the empire he'd sworn to serve.

Of course he had his father's eyes. Arthur Sylla had been a soldier once—a real one—before he'd forgotten what that meant. Before he'd let his association with mages corrupt him, before he'd chosen Soren over his duty.

And now here was his son. Not even pretending to be a soldier. Just a mage through and through, standing there like the world owed him deference.

The apple hadn't fallen far from the tree.

A renegade's son, and from what the reports suggested, a renegade-to-be himself. Magnus had always seen the boy's ascension to Magushood as a final insult to the empire. Arthur Sylla turns his back on his oaths, arrests the crown prince, and his son gets rewarded with the highest distinction in the Magisterium. Nepotism dressed up as merit. Had to be. Nobody rose that fast without someone pulling strings behind closed doors.

The mages always protected their own. They sat in their towers, looking down on the soldiers who actually kept the empire safe, acting like their ability to draw glowing symbols in the air proved some kind of superiority.

It made Magnus's blood simmer. The way they were given everything: respect they hadn't earned, positions they didn't deserve, authority over men who were worth ten of them.

And the worst part? They believed it. Every last one of them thought they were better. Thought their magic was proof of some inherent superiority rather than what it actually was—a quirk of fate. An accident. Something that should have made them humble, grateful even, but instead only made them insufferable.

They were unnatural.

That was the word Magnus's father had used, and the old man had been right. Magic wasn't like strength or skill or intelligence. Those things came from effort, from choice, from the content of a man's character.

Magic was just... there. In some people. For no reason anyone could explain. Like a disease, except society had decided to treat it like a blessing.

The Chancellor had his suspicions about what the boy was planning. Magnus had his orders about what to do if those suspicions proved correct.

But first, he had to see for himself what kind of man—no, what kind of boy—stood behind all those stories. Had to look this mage in the eye and see if there was anything worth respecting underneath all that unearned power.

He stopped directly in front of Adom. Close enough that he could see the exact shade of blue in those eyes. Close enough to make it clear this wasn't a conversation between equals, despite what the boy's token said about his rank.

Because they weren't equals.

Magnus had spent forty years serving the empire. Forty years of sweat and blood and sacrifice. He'd earned every scar on his body, every commendation, every rank. He'd built himself into what he was through sheer force of will and discipline.

This boy had been born with power and spent five years learning how to use what he'd been given for free.

Adom didn't step back.

Didn't even blink.

Just stood there, meeting Magnus's gaze without flinching, without the nervous energy most young men showed when a general in full regalia planted himself in their path. Waiting for Magnus to speak first.

Insubordinate. Arrogant. Everything Magnus had expected from a mage who'd been told he was brilliant since he could barely walk, who'd probably never been challenged in his life. Never had a commanding officer scream in his face when he made a mistake. Never had to learn the hard way that respect was earned, not given.

Never had to earn anything at all.

They were all like this. Thought their magic excused them from the rules that governed normal men. From duty, honor and the chain of command that held an empire together.

Despicable mistakes of nature, the lot of them.

And this one was worse than most. At least the older mages had the decency to look the part—frail, scholarly, removed from the real world. You could almost forgive them for thinking they were special when they looked so obviously different from real men.

But this boy? He looked like he could have been a soldier. Should have been a soldier, with that frame and that bearing. Instead, he'd chosen the easy path. The coward's path.

Magic instead of steel.

Runes instead of discipline.

Magnus held the moment longer than he needed to. Let it stretch. Watched for any sign of weakness, any crack in that calm exterior that he could file away for later use.

Nothing.

The boy just stood there like he had all day. As if this was his empire, his Magisterium, his world to command.

As if... Magnus was the one who should be nervous.

The audacity of it made something cold settle in Magnus's chest. This was what they produced, these mage institutions. This arrogance. This certainty that they were above everyone else.

This disease.

Fine.

Magnus let his expression shift. Softened it into something that might pass for warmth if you weren't looking too closely.

He extended his hand.

"Magus Adom Sylla," he said, letting his voice carry just enough weight to remind everyone listening exactly who was offering this handshake. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he said them anyway.

Because that was what real discipline looked like. Real control. Not waving your hands and bending the world to your will like some kind of god, but mastering yourself. Your emotions. Your disgust.

Doing what needed to be done, even when every fiber of your being wanted to do something else.

That was the difference between them.

And it always would be.

Adom smiled.

Just a slight upward curve at the corners of his mouth, natural and easy, and he reached out and took the general's hand without hesitation.

"General," he said. His voice was warm. "The pleasure is mine."

Magnus felt the grip. It was firm and steady. The boy's hand was larger than he'd expected. Not soft, either. There was some kind of work in those hands, though Magnus would bet his pension it wasn't the kind that mattered.

"Oh?" Magnus let his eyebrows rise, friendly surprise. "You know about me?"

"My father talked about you quite a bit."

Of course he did. Magnus kept his expression pleasant while his mind supplied a dozen different contexts for that statement, none of them flattering. Arthur Sylla sitting around whatever dinner table he shared with his mage son, poisoning the boy's mind against honest soldiers who'd done nothing but serve the empire faithfully.

"Kindly, I hope?" He let himself laugh as he said it and reached up and clapped the boy on the shoulder while at it.

Adom didn't move.

Didn't shift his weight or lean away or give any of the small tells most people gave when someone bigger invaded their space. He just stood there with that slight smile still on his face, like Magnus's hand on his shoulder was exactly where it should be.

Magnus let his hand drop. His laugh tapered off naturally.

Interesting.

Either the boy was genuinely unafraid—which would make him dangerously naive—or he was better at controlling his reactions than Magnus had given him credit for. Neither option was particularly appealing.

His gaze drifted past Adom to the other young man standing a few paces behind him. A bit smaller in frame. Dressed in academy. Black hair. Pale skin. Amber eyes. The sort of face you'd forget five minutes after meeting him.

And the moment Magnus's eyes landed on him, the boy flinched.

Not much. Just a tiny hitch in his breathing, a fractional widening of his eyes.

Good.

Magnus felt something settle in his chest. This one, at least, understood how things worked. Knew his place in the world. That a general's attention wasn't something to meet with casual confidence but with appropriate deference.

"And who might you be?" Magnus kept his tone light and pleasant.

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked briefly at Adom like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to answer.

"This is Eren Raubtier," Adom said before the silence could stretch too long. "He's the Archmage's disciple."

Magnus kept smiling.

The Archmage's disciple.

Of course he was. Of course this nervous, flinching child who had done absolutely nothing to earn his position beyond being noticed by the right person at the right time was connected to the most powerful mage in the empire.

These people were destroying the nation.

That was the thought that flashed through Magnus's mind, clear and cold. Not with anger but with certainty. This was what the Magisterium produced: boys who got handed opportunities based on who they knew instead of what they'd earned. Nepotism dressed up as mentorship. Favoritism called tradition.

The empire was supposed to be better than this.

But he kept smiling. Kept his voice... warm.

"Eren." He stepped forward and offered his hand to the boy the same way he'd offered it to Adom. "A pleasure."

Eren took his hand. His grip was weak. Clammy.

"G-General," he managed. "The honor is mine."

At least he knows how to grovel, Magnus thought. Small mercies.

He released Eren's hand and let his smile widen a fraction. "You're in excellent company. The Archmage doesn't take on students lightly."

"I—yes, sir. General. I'm very fortunate."

Fortunate. That was one word for it.

Adom shifted slightly, drawing Magnus's attention back to him. "General," he said. "May I ask what brings you to Arkhos?"

There it was.

The question Magnus had been waiting for since he'd walked through the gates. Direct. Almost pointed. Like the boy thought he had a right to question a general's movements.

Magnus let out a small laugh.

"Why would we not be here?" He spread his hands, the picture of openness. "Arkhos is part of Sundar, is it not? The Chancellor likes to see all corners of the empire with his own eyes from time to time. Makes sure everything is running smoothly. Shows the people that their leaders care about them, even in the smaller cities, let alone Arkhos."

He let that sit for a moment. Watched Adom's face for any reaction.

"Of course," the boy said. "You're absolutely right."

His expression hadn't changed. Still that same calm, slightly pleasant look.

Look at him, Magnus thought. Standing there like he's got nothing to hide.

But he did have something to hide.

That was why Magnus was here. That was why the Chancellor had sent him to this backwater city in the middle of the ocean. Two agents had been assigned to watch Adom Sylla. To track his movements. To report on who he met with and what he did.

They'd disappeared.

Both of them. And both of them had last been seen in proximity to this boy, sending one of them in the sky, and knocking the other out.

The Chancellor's orders had been clear: investigate the disappearances. Assess whether Adom Sylla posed a genuine threat to imperial stability. And if he did...

Well. The Chancellor would decide what came next.

What a snake, Magnus thought, looking at Adom's calm face. These mages.

"The Chancellor just felt like coming," Magnus said aloud, keeping his voice easy.

Adom's slight smile didn't waver. "He's dedicated."

"That he is."

Magnus let another beat pass. Then he gestured back toward the Magisterium entrance. "But please. Don't let us keep you standing around. The guards were merely doing their duty, standard procedure for anyone entering a secure facility. I hope they didn't offend you?"

"Not at all," Adom said.

"Good. Good." Magnus nodded like that settled something important. "Why don't you come with me? We can talk more comfortably inside. The Chancellor will want to greet you properly."

He started walking without waiting for an answer, expecting Adom to follow.

The boy did. Magnus heard his footsteps behind him, steady and unhurried.

And then he heard a second set of footsteps.

Eren.

Magnus felt heat flash through his chest. Not on his face—he was too disciplined for that—but inside, where it could simmer without being seen.

How dare he?

Where did he think he was going? Did he think this was the academy, where apprentices and disciples could just wander into important meetings because they happened to be standing nearby when they started? Or that his position as the Archmage's student gave him the right to insert himself into conversations between a general and a magus?

These people had no sense of hierarchy. No understanding that some things were above their station. Important matters were going to be discussed. Matters of imperial security. Of loyalty. Of potential treason.

Why would a disciple—a mere student—be present for that?

Magnus stopped walking. Turned. Kept his expression pleasant.

Eren froze mid-step.

"Ah," Magnus said gently. He held up one hand, apologetic. "I should have been clearer. This will be a private meeting. Just me, the ten magi, the Archmage and the Chancellor for now."

Eren's eyes went wide. He looked at Magnus, then at Adom, then back at Magnus.

"Ah. Uh." His mouth worked soundlessly for a second.

Then he looked at Adom again. Not at Magnus. At Adom. Like he was waiting for permission and thought the magus could override what a general had just said.

As if Magnus's authority meant nothing if Adom—

"I'd like him to come, if you don't mind."

...What?

Magnus turned to look at him fully.

Adom met his gaze.

"If you don't mind," Adom repeated. Softer this time. Almost gentle.

But not yielding.

Gamble King Chapter 42. Her (Part II)

Max was sweating despite the cold.

He wiped his palm on his pants and felt the dampness there. His heart was doing something uncomfortable in his chest, a rhythm that didn't feel right.

Welp, he thought. There goes my reroll.

Because there was no way to get out of this alive. None. He could see it playing out already—the witch tearing him apart, Bro screaming as the bond snapped, Tarak watching it all happen. The kid would probably die next. Or the White Hand. Or both.

But if Max said no? If he tried to run?

She'd just kill them all anyway. Slower, probably. More painfully.

At least this way there was a chance. A tiny, microscopic chance that he could...

What? Win?

Against a witch who'd been playing with them for hours, who'd trapped them in her forest like mice in a maze?

Max almost laughed.

But he didn't.

"Sure," he said.

The witch's smile grew wider. It stretched across her face until it looked like it might split her cheeks open.

"Good," she said softly. "Very good."

She tilted her head, studying him with those too-bright eyes. "Shall we begin then?"

And that's when Max saw it.

A number appeared above her head. Floating there in the air like it had been waiting for him to notice.

15

Fifteen rerolls if he killed her.

"Holy shit," Max breathed.

Fifteen. That was... that was two weeks' worth.

"Harek?" Tarak's voice was small. Scared.

Max didn't look at him. He was still staring at that number.

"Don't do this," Tarak said. "We can—we can run. We can—"

"We can't," Max said.

His hands moved to his belt. To Dusk and Dawn. The blades slid free with a whisper of steel on leather.

They always felt good in his hands.

"This is just another wall," Max said.

He wasn't sure if he was talking to Tarak or to himself.

"Just a wall to get over. Like the other ones."

He'd climbed walls before. Lots of them. The wendigo had been a wall. The White Hands had been a wall. This was just one more.

Except this wall was staring at him with grandmotherly fondness and the promise of being eaten alive.

Max started forward.

"The little dragon cannot participate."

The witch's voice stopped him mid-step.

Max turned his head slightly. Bro was still clinging to his shoulder, hot enough now that Max's skin felt tight and uncomfortable where the spider gripped him.

"Bro," Max said quietly. "Get off."

The spider didn't move.

"Bro. Off."

The legs tightened. Bro made a sound—a high, chittering noise that Max had never heard from him before.

"I know," Max said. "But you can't help with this one."

The legs loosened. Slowly. One at a time.

Bro crawled down Max's arm and dropped to the snow. He skittered a few feet away, then turned to face them, all eight eyes fixed on Max.

Max looked at the witch.

"I'm ready."

"Excellent."

She smiled that gentle smile again.

"I will make this quick," she said. "I promise you will not suffer. It is the least I can do for one so brave."

She clasped her hands in front of her white robes. Her bare feet shifted in the snow.

"Come then, child. Show me what you can do."

Max didn't move.

Neither did she.

The forest was completely silent. No wind. No birds. Nothing but the sound of Max's breathing and the distant click of the White Hand's teeth and Tarak's quiet, hitching gasps.

Max tightened his grip on his swords. The leather wrapping on the hilts pressed into his palms. He could feel every ridge of it.

The witch watched him with those bright, too-aware eyes.

Max's heart kept doing that thing in his chest. His hands were slick. He wiped his right palm on his pants again, then his left, switching the swords between hands to do it. The movements felt mechanical. Like someone else was controlling them.

Move, he told himself. Do something.

But his feet stayed planted.

The witch tilted her head. Waiting.

Max shifted his weight. Just slightly. Testing. His boots crunched in the snow. The sound was very loud.

She didn't react.

He took a breath. Started to lift his right foot—

The witch moved.

Max didn't even see it happen. One moment she was standing about fifteen feet away, hands clasped, smiling. The next moment she was there. Right in front of him. Her mouth was open.

Max had time to see her teeth. Too many of them. Too sharp. Arranged in rows that went back into her throat.

Then he felt them sink into his neck.

There was no pain. Just pressure. A sense of something tearing. Wetness spreading down his chest, warm at first, then cold.

And then darkness.

Complete and absolute.

Max couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He tried to move his arms, to bring his swords up, to do anything, but his body wasn't responding. It was like his brain had been disconnected from everything below his neck.

I'm dead, he thought. The thought came from very far away. That's it. I'm dead.

The darkness pressed in from all sides.

And...

[NUMBER OF REROLLS LEFT: 10]

***

Max woke up with jerky in his mouth.

The taste registered first. Salt and smoke and something gamey. Then the warmth of stone against his back. The faint orange glow painting the cave walls.

He sat up.

Tarak scrambled backward, spear coming up. The kid's eyes went wide.

"Sorry," Max said. His hands came up automatically. "Just... remembered something."

Tarak stared at him for another few seconds before lowering the spear. One eyebrow went up. "You remember something and jump like bear is eating you?"

"Something like that."

Max stood and walked to the cave entrance. His legs didn't hurt. His shoulder was fine. No arrows. No blood. Just the memory of dying—twice now—fresh and sharp.

He reached up and touched his neck. The skin there felt normal. Smooth. No burns from where Bro had been heating up like a furnace in those final moments before the witch killed him.

A soft chittering sound made him look down.

Bro was approaching across the cave floor, legs moving in that careful, deliberate way he had. The small white spider stopped at Max's feet and looked up at him.

Max crouched down.

Bro climbed up his arm and settled on his shoulder. Max felt the familiar weight, the slight warmth that was normal for the spider. Not the burning heat from before. Just... Bro.

The spider's abdomen pulsed once. Orange light, soft and brief.

"Hey," Max said quietly.

Bro's legs adjusted their grip on his shoulder. Then the spider did something Max had never seen before. He crawled down Max's arm to his hand and tapped one leg against Max's palm. Three times. Pause. Three times again.

Max stared at the spider.

"Do you..." He stopped. "Do you remember?"

Bro glowed once.

Max's throat went tight. He lifted his hand so Bro could climb back up to his shoulder. The spider settled there and went still, but Max could feel a faint vibration running through the small body. Like Bro was purring.

Or trembling.

"Yeah," Max said. "Me too."

He stood up and looked out at the gray sky. Somewhere behind them, the White Hands were probably already organizing. Somewhere ahead, the witch was waiting in her forest.

He had ten rerolls left.

Going back further would put him in Wendigo territory again. That whole mess would take time to navigate, and if things went wrong—if the timing got fucked up somehow—he'd arrive at this point too late. The White Hands would have already moved. Or worse, they'd catch him and Tarak before they even reached the cave.

No. Forward was the only option.

The White Hands would kill them. That was certain. They'd proven it twice now. Fifteen warriors, coordinated tactics, Blindrages. There was no talking with them, no negotiating. Just arrows and death.

The witch, though.

The witch had talked. She'd offered terms. She'd been fast—reaction time under a second, faster than Max could move in his normal state—but she'd still taken the time to explain the rules.

That meant she could be beaten.

And if he beat her, he'd get her rerolls.

"Finish your jerky," Max said. "Then we go down."

Tarak picked up his piece of dried meat, watching Max with that same concerned expression from before. "You are strange, Harek."

"Add it to the list."

The descent was faster this time.

Max knew where every loose stone was, every handhold that would support weight and which ones wouldn't. He knew exactly when Tarak would shift his weight and how to compensate before it happened.

They reached the bottom in half the time.

"Where?" Max asked, already knowing the answer.

Tarak pointed east. "Through the trees. My village is—"

"We're not going that way. The White Hands will ambush us."

The kid's hand dropped. "How do you—"

"I know. Trust me." Max adjusted Tarak's weight on his back. "We're going through the Witch's Forest."

"But—"

"I know about the witch. One person per season, right? Except we don't know if that's actually true because nobody goes there to find out." Max started walking northwest. "But I know for sure the White Hands are waiting on every other route. So we go through the forest."

Tarak was quiet for a moment. "You are very strange, Harek. And... stupid."

"Hah. That one's new."

Tarak just stared at him. Puzzled.

Max's pace was measured and efficient. No wasted energy. He knew exactly how long they'd been walking when he stopped and looked up at Bro.

"Bro," Max said. "Go up. Find the raven. Kill it when I tell you."

The spider's wings sprouted and he launched into the air, rising through the canopy.

Tarak jerked slightly. "What kind of spider—"

"Special one," Max said, still walking.

When they reached the edge of the forest—the one that opened onto the clearing before the Witch's Forest—he stopped.

He could see it across the snow. Five hundred meters, maybe a bit less. The dark tree line waiting on the other side.

Max set Tarak down carefully.

"Listen," he said. "When I tell you to hold on, you hold on tight. Don't let go no matter what happens. Got it?"

"Yes, but—"

"The bark on your back will stop most arrows. Keep your head down." Max pulled the Fanga up from inside himself, felt it flood his system. His heartbeat jumped immediately. "Get on."

Tarak climbed onto his back.

Max stepped out of the tree line and nodded at Bro from the ground.

Fire bloomed in the sky above and behind them. The raven's caw came half a second later, cut short by a shriek.

The horn sounded.

Max took three running steps, then reached for everything the Fanga could give him.

The world sharpened. Colors brightened. His heart was a jackhammer, his legs pistons driving him forward across the snow. The weight on his back felt like nothing.

He didn't zigzag this time. Didn't waste energy on evasion.

He just ran.

The tree line of the Witch's Forest grew closer with each stride. Max's breathing was controlled, steady, even with his heart rate pushing past one-sixty. He'd done this before. He knew exactly how much Fanga he could burn and still function when he reached the other side.

Behind him, distantly, he heard the howls of Blindrages.

A thousand feet to the tree line.

He pushed harder. His boots ate up the ground, snow spraying behind him with each impact.

Six hundred feet.

The Blindrages were still far back. Too far. Max had gotten ahead of them early, hadn't let them close the distance before he started his sprint.

Three hundred feet.

An arrow whistled past, too far to the left to matter.

A hundred and fifty feet.

Max burst into the Witch's Forest at a dead run and kept going for another thirty feet before he finally slowed, then stopped.

He turned around, chest heaving but not gasping. His heart was fast but not dangerous. Not yet.

The Blindrages had stopped at the tree line, just like before. Their riders were struggling to control them. The warriors on foot were forming up behind them, but nobody crossed.

Max didn't wait for them to try. He pulled the Fanga back down to a simmer, just enough to keep his reaction time sharp, and turned deeper into the forest.

He stopped after about twenty feet.

"Hold on," he said, slipping Tarak off his back and setting him down carefully against a tree. The kid winced but didn't complain.

Max reached into his pack and pulled out the small vial.

The Heightening.

"What is that?" Tarak asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Something that'll help me hear her coming." Max pulled the cork with his teeth and spat it into the snow. "Hopefully."

"Is medicine?"

"Sort of." Max lifted the vial to his lips. "Sharpens the senses. Makes everything... more."

One. Two. Three drops under his tongue.

Max closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the world had changed.

The forest wasn't just gray anymore. He could see individual shades now—the darker gray of wet bark, the lighter gray of dry snow, the almost-white of ice crusted on branches. He could see the texture of Tarak's furs, each hair distinct and separate. He could see the tiny crystalline structure of snowflakes on the nearest tree trunk.

Sound came next.

His own breathing was suddenly loud in his ears. He could hear the air moving through his throat, past his vocal cords, filling his lungs. He could hear his heart beating, the rush of blood through his veins. Tarak's breathing was a rasp and wheeze that he'd been tuning out before but now couldn't ignore. And beyond that...

The forest.

The creak of branches settling under their burden of snow. The whisper of wind through needles. The soft patter of snow falling from a branch somewhere to his left, maybe forty feet away. The faint skitter of something small—a rodent, probably—moving through the underbrush to his right.

And then, cutting through it all—

The whistle of an arrow in flight.

Max's body moved before his brain caught up. He dropped, pulling Tarak down with him. The arrow passed through the space where his head had been and buried itself in a tree trunk with a solid thunk.

"Shit," Max breathed.

He looked back toward the tree line they'd just crossed.

The White Hands were there, still at the forest's edge. Not all of them—maybe five or six warriors, weapons drawn, standing in a loose line. They weren't moving forward. They were just... watching.

One of them had a bow raised.

Max's enhanced vision picked out the details. It was the one he had taken hostage last time.

The fucker was taking shots from the safety of the tree line.

Another arrow whistled through the air. Max jerked sideways, and it missed by inches, thudding into the snow behind him.

"Go," Max hissed, grabbing Tarak and hauling him up. "Move."

He got the kid on his back and started running, pushing deeper into the Witch's Forest.

Behind them, he heard voices. Quiet orders in a language he didn't understand. The rustle of movement through snow.

Max wove between trees, his enhanced senses picking up every detail. A root jutting up through the snow here—he stepped over it. A low-hanging branch there—he ducked under it. The ground sloped downward slightly and he adjusted his stride to compensate, keeping his balance even with Tarak's weight shifting on his back.

Max slowed to a jog, then a fast walk, his breathing controlled.

Every footstep was a crunch and squeak of compressed snow. Every breath from Tarak was a symphony of wet rasps and the click of his throat working. Bro's legs on his shoulder made tiny scratching sounds against the fabric of his shirt. Even the spider's breathing—if you could call it that—was audible, a faint rhythmic hiss.

Max kept moving, following the same path he'd taken before. Or trying to. It was harder to navigate without the panic driving him forward, without the witch's presence to guide him.

But his enhanced hearing picked up things he'd missed the first time.

The forest wasn't silent.

There were birds here, distant and high in the canopy. Small animals moving through the underbrush. The creak and groan of wood settling. Normal forest sounds.

Except...

Max stopped walking.

Tarak shifted slightly on his back. "What—"

"Shh."

Max closed his eyes, focusing on his hearing.

There.

Above them. Moving from left to right, maybe thirty feet up in the canopy. Something large. Something that made almost no sound.

The faintest whisper of displaced air. The softest creak of a branch taking weight. A sound so quiet that without the Heightening, Max would never have heard it.

His eyes snapped open and he looked up.

Nothing.

Just branches and needles and filtered gray light.

Max started walking again, slower this time, his head tilted slightly upward.

The sound came again. Ahead of them now. Moving parallel to their path. Branch to branch. So quiet it was almost imaginary.

Max's hand moved to his belt, fingers brushing the handle of his knife.

"Harek?" Tarak whispered.

"She's here," Max said quietly.

The movement stopped.

The forest went completely still.

No movement in the canopy. No displaced air. No creaking branches.

She was gone.

Or she was waiting.

Max took a slow breath and started forward again, faster this time. His boots crunched through the snow with a rhythm that felt too loud, too obvious. Every step announced their presence.

The sound came again.

This time from behind them. High up. Moving fast. Branch to branch to branch, the impacts so light they were barely audible even with his enhanced hearing.

She was circling.

Max's jaw tightened. He kept walking, following the path he remembered. The tree with the yellow snow at its base should be coming up soon. Maybe another five minutes at this pace.

Max's fingers tightened on Tarak's legs where they wrapped around his waist.

"When I tell you to get down," he said quietly, "you get down fast and stay down. Understand?"

"Yes."

The movement above them stopped again.

Max counted his heartbeats. Five. Ten. Fifteen.

Nothing.

He took another step forward.

A branch creaked directly overhead.

Max looked up.

The witch was there.

She stood in the same spot as last time, wearing the same white robes, the same gentle smile on her lined face.

"Well now," she said. "What have we here?"

Max set Tarak down without taking his eyes off her. "Stay behind me."

The witch's gaze moved past Max, scanning Tarak, then settling on Bro with that same intense focus.

"And who might this little one be?" she asked, pointing at the spider.

"His name's Bro," Max said. His hand moved to his belt, fingers closing around the knife handle. "And before you ask, no, you can't have him."

The witch's smile widened. "Oh my. Someone's been thinking ahead."

"I've had practice."

"Have you now?" She tilted her head, birdlike. "How interesting."

Max pulled the Fanga up another notch. His heart rate climbed. His vision sharpened further, the world slowing just slightly at the edges of his perception.

"You're going to offer me a death battle," he said. "Terms are: I win, we all go free. You win, you eat me and take Bro when I die. Right?"

The witch's smile never wavered, but something changed in her eyes. A spark of curiosity.

"My, my," she said softly. "You really have been thinking ahead."

"Do you accept my terms?" Max asked. "Or do I need to wait for you to explain them?"

The witch laughed. It was the same high, girlish giggle from before, but this time it didn't sound amused.

It sounded delighted.

"Oh, you are a strange one," she said. "Yes. I accept. Let's have our little dance, shall we?"

Max's fingers tightened on the knife handle. The Fanga burned through him, pushing his heart rate past one-eighty.

The witch took a step forward.

Max watched her bare foot touch the ground without making a sound.

Here we go.

Chapter 189. Official Visit .Part I

Adom looked at his father.

He was expecting something. Anger would have been fine. Shock. Disbelief. Even laughter, though that seemed unlikely given the circumstances. Arthur could laugh at a lot of things, but treason wasn't usually one of them.

Instead, his father just sat there.

Silent.

That look on his face.

Adom hated that look. Ironically, he'd inherited it—taken it straight from Arthur and made it his own without meaning to. He knew exactly what it meant because he wore the same expression himself when someone dropped a complicated problem in his lap and expected an answer. That particular blend of stillness and focus that came when your brain was working through something with too many variables and not enough good solutions.

It was the look of someone sorting through a mental checklist.

First: Is this information accurate? Check the source. Evaluate credibility. Arthur would already be past that step. Adom was his son. If Adom said the Emperor tried to have him killed, then the Emperor tried to have him killed.

Second: What are the immediate implications? Adom could almost see his father running through them. The political fallout. The military considerations. The fact that his son had just admitted to planning what could—depending on how you framed it—be called a coup.

Third: What are my options here? This was where it got harder. Where the variables multiplied and the good solutions became scarce. Arthur would be weighing loyalty to the crown against loyalty to family. Duty against pragmatism. The oath he'd sworn decades ago against the reality sitting across from him drinking cherry blossom tea.

Fourth: Can I find an alternative? Some other path that doesn't lead where this one clearly does?

That was the step Arthur was on now. Adom could tell by the slight furrow between his eyebrows, the way his jaw had set just a fraction tighter. His father was trying to find a way out. Some clever solution that would let everyone walk away from this without blood on their hands or crowns changing heads.

He won't find one.

Because Adom had already looked. He'd spent weeks running through alternatives, mapping out scenarios, war-gaming different approaches with Gaius and Kim. Every path that didn't end with the Emperor removed from power was a path that ended with more stolen research, more attempts on Adom's life or the lives of people he cared about.

The cherry blossoms kept falling around them. One landed in Arthur's abandoned tea cup, floating on the surface like a tiny pink boat.

Arthur had made his decision about three seconds after Adom told him. Maybe less. Adom knew that much. His father wasn't slow. The old commander of the Iron Wolves didn't need five minutes to assess a battlefield and choose his position.

But he was giving himself time anyway. Time to come to terms with what that decision meant. To accept that the world had shifted under his feet and wasn't shifting back.

Adom had been on the receiving end of this enough times to know how it worked. People came to him with impossible situations and he'd give them his answer almost immediately. Not because he was smarter than them, but because he'd usually been thinking about the problem longer. Then he'd watch them sit there, the same way Arthur was sitting now, trying to reconcile what they'd heard with what they'd hoped to hear.

As others did to him, so he would do to his father.

He'd give Arthur the time he needed.

But not forever.

"Father," Adom said.

Arthur's eyes refocused. Snapped back to the present, to the clearing, to his son sitting across from him with an empty tea cup and a declaration of treason still hanging in the air between them.

"How?" Arthur asked.

Just that one word. Quiet and direct.

Adom smiled.

He knew exactly what—or rather, who—the 'how' was inferring to. Morgana. His father had spent years believing Soren's daughter was dead, killed in whatever political purge or accident had removed her from the line of succession. And here Adom was, proposing to put a ghost on the throne.

"Well..."

It took three hours.

Three hours for Adom to lay it all out. How Morgana survived. The curse. Their encounter in the Undertow. Where she went after that, what she did, how she'd stayed hidden all these years while the world believed her dead.

He explained the Emperor's fratricide by extension. The brother no one talked about anymore. The convenient accident that had never been convenient at all.

The High Chancellor came up next. That particular explanation took longer than Adom would have liked because the more he talked about the man, the less he felt he actually knew. The Chancellor seemed to be much more than met the eyes. Layers upon layers, and Adom had only peeled back the first few.

The homunculi problem followed. Sundar's involvement through the Chancellor's machinations. The changelings. The coming mission to retrieve proof of the Emperor's and the Chancellor's treachery.

Arthur asked a few questions from time to time. His voice was even when he did, asking for clarification on a date here, a name there. He grunted at other parts, usually the parts where Adom described something particularly brazen or stupid that someone in power had done. But most of it, he only listened and nodded.

This had been the longest time Adom had talked in a single sitting. Three hours. His throat was getting dry by the second hour. His father noticed before he did and called for more tea.

They took a break. Drank and ate in silence. Cherry blossoms kept falling. The tea was still good even though Adom barely tasted it anymore. He was too focused on making sure he hadn't left anything out, that the threads all connected properly in his father's mind the way they did in his own.

Then they went at it again.

By the time Adom finished, the dungeon's sun had shifted position in the sky. The light coming through the cherry trees had changed color. More golden now. Afternoon sliding toward evening.

Arthur was silent again.

He suddenly got up. Walked a few steps, stopped, walked again. His hands went to his hips. Then one came up to rub at his jaw.

"My son," he murmured. Kept walking. "A coup. The Iron Wolves. Sundar. The Chancellor..."

He turned. Walked back the other way. The grass crunched under his boots.

Adom watched him. Waited.

Arthur stopped. Turned around. Their eyes met.

"This is a lot to take in."

"I know."

Arthur nodded once. Started pacing again. His hand came back up to his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then let his arm drop.

He came back after another minute. Sat down across from Adom again. The teapot was still between them. Neither of them reached for it.

"So the Emperor tried to kill my son." Arthur's voice was flat. Reciting facts. "Illegally killed my mentor. Failed to kill his daughter. All of that under the suspected aid of the Chancellor. Which means the Emperor clearly transgressed the laws of this nation."

"Yes."

"Which means he needs to be judged."

"Mm-hmm."

"I see." Arthur leaned back slightly. "When can you gather your proof?"

"I'm working on it right now. Things should be done in a few weeks."

"And you say the Magisterium supports you?"

"Yes."

Arthur was quiet for a moment. "Sundar has allies all over the world. Allies who won't sit idly watching as an empire that satisfies their interests changes its leader that way. Have you thought about that?"

Adom had. Many times. "I'm going to talk to the Queen of Silvandros. Soon. This very week, for an alliance. By extension, their allies as well. Plus the Magisterium. And more people the Silvandrosi could convince for us. It would even out the power. Especially with the Magisterium backing us."

"Good." Arthur reached for the teapot. Started packing things onto the tray. The cups. The small plate that had held the sweets. "You do that."

He stood with the tray in his hands. "I'll have to take the sword again. Summon my men. The Iron Wolves."

Adom looked up at him. "Are you sure they'll accept?"

"As long as there is immutable proof, yes." Arthur shifted the tray slightly. "I trust you will provide it?"

Adom wasn't sure what was going on.

Arthur's reaction was very different from what he'd imagined. He was calm. Taking it as such. It felt odd. Wrong, maybe. Or just unexpected.

But Arthur was finally treating him like an adult.

There was the same tone in his voice that Adom had heard him use with his men back when he was Commander. Not a father talking to a son. A soldier talking to another soldier. An equal.

This was good.

This meant he was aboard.

"I'll find the proof," Adom said.

"Good," Arthur turned around. "Let's go now. Don't you have classes to give tomorrow?"

Adom stood as well. Matched his father's casual tone with his own. "I do."

He followed Arthur back through the dungeon.

It was strange. All of it. The way his father had reacted. The way they were walking now, side by side, like they'd just discussed the weather or the state of the forge.

"I wonder what's for dinner tonight," Arthur said as they made their way through the stone passage. "Your mother mentioned something about lamb earlier. Or was it chicken? I wasn't paying attention."

"Probably lamb," Adom said. "She bought some from the market yesterday."

"Good. I could use a proper meal after all this."

They walked in silence for a few more steps. Their footsteps echoed off the walls.

"My pegasus will need new shoes," Arthur added. "I'll have to call the farrier."

"The one you left at the capital?"

"Yes. That one especially."

They reached the stairs leading up and out. Arthur started climbing first.

The Iron Wolves were basically on their side now.

Not that Adom had doubted it for one second.

But it still felt good to have the confirmation.

***

Adom finished writing the last rune on the board. His hand ached. It had been a long morning.

"And that," he said, setting the chalk down, "is why you never, ever attempt a binding sequence without checking the resonance threshold first. Unless you want to lose a hand. Or worse."

A few students in the front row looked appropriately horrified. Good.

"I'll see you all next week," Adom said. "Practice the exercises I assigned. Don't skip the line tracing components, it matters more than you think."

The classroom erupted into motion. Chairs scraped. Bags rustled. The usual chaos of students eager to escape.

Adom gathered his notes, slipping them into his satchel. He was halfway to the door when footsteps caught up behind him.

"Where are you going now?"

Adom glanced back. Eren fell into step beside him, slinging his own bag over his shoulder.

"Meeting with the other magi," Adom said.

Eren's eyebrows shot up. "Can I come?"

Adom paused. Considered it.

There wasn't anything that forbade it, now that he thought about it. Sure, the other magi didn't bring anyone else. But it had never been explicitly stated as forbidden. And Eren was the Archmage's student, so that checked out.

"Yeah," Adom said. "Sure."

Eren stopped walking. "Wait, really?"

"Why not?"

Eren had clearly expected a refusal. His mouth hung open for half a second before he recovered, breaking into a grin that was equal parts surprised and delighted. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Were you just planning to ask so you could complain when I said no?"

"Maybe." Eren's grin widened. "But this is better."

They walked down the corridor. Students pressed themselves against the walls as they passed, murmuring greetings.

"Magus Sylla."

"Good morning, Professor."

Adom nodded to each of them. Kept walking.

"How's your studentship with the Archmage going these days?" Adom asked as they descended a spiraling staircase.

"Much better," Eren said. "I'm actually controlling myself now. Not just—reacting. You know how it was before."

"I remember."

Adom had seen it a few times. But Bob had mentioned that Eren was quite powerful, when he'd witnessed what he did during the Crown Prince's arrest operation and Professor Kim's rescue. Which was already six years ago. Whew. Time flew.

This also reminded Adom to check on Bob. He'd hesitated to use the whistle for a while, but it had now been a year since they last saw each other. Perhaps he'd just visit during his expedition in the Fae realm instead.

"We should spar one day," Eren added.

Adom blinked. Stopped walking. Turned to look at him.

Eren laughed. "I'm not expecting to win, mind you. But I still want to measure myself against you. See where I stand."

"Sure," Adom said slowly. "One of these days."

"I'm looking forward to it."

They emerged from Xerkes into the streets of Arkhos. The floating towers loomed behind them, titanic structures suspended in defiance of gravity. Ahead, the Magisterium's own towers rose against the sky.

It wasn't far. Nothing in Arkhos was really far from anything else, not in the administrative district.

A young woman in apprentice robes stopped them at a corner. "Magus Sylla! I wanted to thank you for—"

"It's fine," Adom said. "Just keep up with the work."

"I will!"

Another student waved from across the street. Adom lifted a hand in acknowledgment.

"How's Sam?" Adom asked as they continued walking.

Eren's expression brightened. "Good. Really good, actually. I visited twice already since you last asked."

"Twice?"

"His mother knows about you now," Eren said, grinning. "Because of how much Sam talks about you."

Adom felt something tighten in his chest. "In good, I hope?"

Eren's grin widened. "Oh, absolutely. She thinks you're a wonderful influence. Very responsible. Not at all the kind of person who causes trouble everywhere he goes."

"I don't cause trouble everywhere—"

"The crown prince? The thing with the Undertow? That incident at the—"

"Those weren't my fault."

"Sure."

Adom shook his head. "When all this is done, I wish I had more time for things like this."

Eren glanced at him.

"I should go visit Sam's family soon," Adom continued. "Should have already done it by now, if not for..." He gestured vaguely. "Everything."

"They'll understand."

"Doesn't make it right."

The Magisterium's gates came into view. The towers behind them glittered in the afternoon light, each one dedicated to a different branch of magical management.

Adom slowed.

There was a carriage at the gates. Two pegasuses stood in harness, their white coats gleaming. Knights sat astride griffins nearby, their armor bearing imperial insignia.

Eren whistled low. "That's..."

"Imperial," Adom finished.

They both stared.

Griffins were usually reserved for imperial soldiers and messengers. Carriages with pegasuses went to imperial officials. High-ranking ones.

"Do you know what's going on?" Eren asked. "Since you're a magus. Was an official imperial visit planned for today?"

"Not at all," Adom said. "I'm just as surprised as you are."

They exchanged a glance.

"We should still go," Eren said.

"Yeah."

They approached the gates.

Two knights stepped forward, blocking their path. The one on the left raised a gauntleted hand.

"Halt."

Adom stopped.

Eren stopped beside him.

The knight on the left studied them, his eyes moving from their faces to their clothes to their empty hands in a slow, methodical assessment that felt more thorough than it needed to be. "Who are you?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

Not polite, exactly. But not hostile either. Just... flat.

Adom reached into his coat and pulled out his token. Silver, engraved with the seal of the Magisterium on one side and his own name on the other. He held it up between them.

"Magus Adom Sylla," he said. "I work here. I have a meeting with the other magi and the Archmage. Our usual council."

The knight leaned forward slightly, squinting at the token like he needed to verify every detail of the engraving. His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke again.

"You're Adom Sylla?"

Something shifted in the air. The other guards' attention snapped toward him all at once, and Adom felt the weight of it settle over his shoulders like a physical thing. Four men in imperial armor, hands drifting almost casually to rest on sword hilts, their stances just a fraction too tense to be natural.

Hostility.

A prickling awareness that crawled up the back of Adom's neck and made his heartbeat pick up tempo.

Eren glanced at him, eyebrows raised in confusion, and that more than anything confirmed it. If even Eren could sense something off, then Adom wasn't being paranoid.

He decided, right then, to assume the worst from here on out.

Adom straightened, meeting the knight's eyes with a level stare. His voice was calm when he spoke, or at least as much as it could in this moment. "Why are you here?"

A flicker of something crossed the man's face—not quite disdain, but close enough to it that Adom could taste the difference. The knight didn't look away, though. He was still following protocol, still answering to a superior. The Magisterium operated outside the military's command structure, but the Archmage and the magi held rank that superseded most commanders in the imperial hierarchy, a peculiar arrangement born from centuries of tradition and the simple fact that powerful mages couldn't be governed the way soldiers could.

In theory, this knight should defer to Adom the way he'd defer to a general. In practice, there was something in the way he held himself that suggested he was doing it grudgingly, like he was following orders he didn't quite agree with.

"Official business," the knight said. His tone was perfectly neutral and correct, and somehow all the more insulting for it. "Routine check-in. The Chancellor, Lord Mephtilem, and the Imperial General, Lord Magnus Kane, are inside."

He paused, just long enough for the silence to stretch into something pointed. Then added, "It's their empire. They don't need permission to be here."

Not outright disrespect. Nothing Adom could call him on without looking petty. Just subtext layered underneath the words, a reminder of where the real power lay and who this knight thought he owed his loyalty to.

Adom's mind turned the information over, examining it from different angles. The Chancellor was here. Mephtilem himself, in the Magisterium, with the Imperial General in tow and guards posted at the gates like they were expecting trouble.

The timing seemed very, very timely.

"I see," Adom said, keeping his voice even. "Then I'll go in."

He stepped forward, already anticipating what would happen next.

The knight moved to block him, one armored boot scraping against the stone as he shifted his weight. "We have orders not to let anyone in, Lord Magus."

There it was.

Adom stopped, looking at the man with something approaching patience. He could feel Eren tense beside him. "You're aware of our ranks," Adom said quietly, each word measured. "As a magus, it's not up to you to give me orders."

"I take my orders from the General and the Chancellor, sir." The knight's tone hadn't changed. Still that same flat, just-barely-respectful cadence that managed to convey so much without technically crossing any lines. "Your superiors. Their words were not to let anyone into this specific tower. If you were late, that's unfortunate, but we can't let you in."

Adom felt his heartbeat pick up, but not from fear. From possibility. From the sudden, sharp awareness that whatever was happening here might be the thing they'd been waiting for, the confrontation they'd been trying to orchestrate on their own terms. And now it was happening anyway, on someone else's schedule.

Biggins was in Arkhos. So was Adom himself, standing right here at the gates. He could take Mephtilem on if it came to that. In fact—and his pulse quickened just thinking about it, adrenaline starting to flood his system—he could ditch all the pretense and the clever plans if this was what they'd come here to do. End it all right here, right now, while having the perfect alibi of just trying to attend his scheduled meeting.

If that's what they came for, then so be it.

"I'm going in," Adom said, and walked forward.

The knights moved as one in a coordinated response. Hands went to swords. The others stepped closer, tightening their formation into something that looked less like a guard detail and more like a wall. One of them reached for Adom's shoulder, his gauntleted fingers stretching out to grab—

"Stand down."

The voice came from behind them, from somewhere inside the Magisterium's entrance, and it carried an authority that made the knights freeze mid-motion. The one who'd been reaching for Adom dropped his hand immediately, stepping back into line with the others like he'd been yanked on a string.

They all turned.

A man stood in the doorway, and Adom took him in with a single sweeping glance that tried to catalog everything at once.

Tall and broad-shouldered. His armor was different from the others', darker, more ornate, with engravings that caught the light along the pauldrons and breastplate. A cloak hung from his shoulders, deep red lined with gold, the kind of regalia that announced rank before a single word was spoken.

His face was scarred, one long line running from his left temple down to his jaw in a pale slash that looked old and well-healed. His hair was iron-gray, cropped short in a military style. And his eyes—pale, cold, assessing—were fixed directly on Adom with an intensity that felt like being weighed and measured and found wanting all at once.

Adom had never seen the man before in his life.

But just by what he'd heard about him, just by the way the knights had straightened and the way the air itself seemed to sharpen in his presence, he knew exactly who this was.

General Magnus Kane.

Gamble King Chapter 41. Her (Part 1)

Max shoved the man forward. "Move."

The warrior stumbled, catching himself against a tree trunk. His whole body was shaking, not just trembling, but full-body convulsions that made his teeth click together in a rhythm that had nothing to do with breathing. The sound was loud enough that Max could hear it over the crunch of snow under their boots.

It was cold, yeah. Very cold. The kind of cold that made your breath fog and your fingers ache. But this wasn't that.

This was fear.

Max felt something crawl up his own spine watching it. Some sort of recognition that the man's terror wasn't coming from the knife at his back or the hostile stranger dragging him deeper into the woods.

"Hey," Max said to Tarak, keeping his voice low. "Why are they so afraid of this place?"

Before Tarak could answer, the White Hand warrior spoke. His voice came out strangled, words tumbling over each other. "Because there's a witch! She eats people. She—she takes them and they don't—you can't—" He stopped, gasping. "Please. Please let me go back. I'll tell them to leave you alone. I'll say you went deeper. I'll—"

"I see," Max said.

He didn't ask any more questions after that. What was the point? The White Hands would have killed him. Or the witch would. Those were his options. He'd have to try escaping this place first, see how it went from there. Maybe the White Hands would turn out to be easier to deal with than whatever lived in these trees.

Maybe.

They kept walking. Max consulted his mental map every few minutes, tracking their progress toward the nearest marked shelter. Two hours, give or take. That's what it should take to reach it.

The trees here were massive. Ancient things with trunks so wide it would take four or five men holding hands to circle them. Their branches twisted overhead in patterns that seemed almost deliberate, blocking out most of the sky. The snow on the ground was pristine, undisturbed except for the tracks they were making now.

No animal prints. No bird calls. Nothing.

Just their breathing and the click of the warrior's teeth and the crunch of snow.

Max stopped.

Tarak shifted on his back. "Why you stop?"

Max stared at the tree in front of them. "I'm not quite sure, but..."

He trailed off, looking around. The placement of the rocks to their left. The way that fallen log sat at an angle, half-buried in snow. The shape of the clearing they'd just entered.

"We've been walking for two hours," Max said slowly. "Should've reached the shelter by now. I was sure—certain, even—that we'd get there."

Tarak waited.

Max pointed at the tree. "We passed this one before."

"Many trees look the same—"

"No. This one. I stopped here." Max walked closer, studying the base of the trunk. There, on the side facing away from where they'd just come from. Yellow snow. Frozen now, but unmistakable. "I had to take a piss. Right there."

Tarak leaned around Max's shoulder to look. His breath caught.

The White Hand warrior made a sound—half sob, half laugh. "She's onto us. She knows. She knows we're here and she's—oh gods, oh gods, she's playing with us. We're going to die here. We're going to—"

"It's not nighttime yet," Max interrupted. He checked the sky through the canopy. Still light, though the gray made it hard to tell exactly how much daylight remained. "There's plenty of time before that."

The man's laugh went higher, edging toward hysteria. "Who told you the witch only comes at night? Who—who told you that? This is HER forest. Day, night, it doesn't matter. This is her home. We're in her home and she's—"

"Ah," Max said.

He looked at the yellow snow again. At the trees around them. At the way the forest seemed to press in from all sides.

"That's a critical piece of information I lacked."

Tarak shifted against Max's back. "If she come," he said carefully, "we can always...give her the White Hand. Sacrifice. Yes?"

The warrior made a choking sound.

Max said nothing.

It wasn't that he was against it. Not really. If it came down to his life or this guy's, the choice was pretty simple. He'd made that choice before. A lot, actually. More times than he'd expected when he'd first arrived in this world. Men had died because Max had decided he wanted to live more than they did.

The strange part was how little it bothered him.

No nightmares. No cold sweats. No moments where he woke up seeing their faces. He should probably think about that at some point, why killing people here felt different than it had felt back home when he'd never killed anyone at all. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the constant threat. Maybe he was just broken in a way he hadn't noticed yet.

But this felt different.

Killing someone who was trying to kill him was one thing. Handing someone over to be eaten was another. There was something about human sacrifice that crossed a line. Even if the human in question had tried to murder him a few hours ago.

Earthling sentiments. That's all it was. The kind of moral framework that didn't translate well here.

Max kept those thoughts to himself and shoved the man forward instead. "Move."

The warrior didn't move.

"I said move."

"No." The man's voice was flat.

"No?"

"No. I won't."

Max grabbed the back of his collar. "Do you want me to tell my spider to roast you? Because Bro's getting pretty good at that."

He felt Bro shift on his shoulder, felt the warmth building in the spider's abdomen. Bro started to glow, a soft orange at first, then brighter, like a coal being breathed on.

The man looked at the light. Then he looked at Max. "It doesn't matter."

"What?"

"The witch is onto us. What's your plan now? Keep walking?" The warrior laughed, high and bitter. "We passed that tree some time ago. We'll pass it again. And again. And she'll play with us until she's ready to stop playing."

He met Max's eyes. There was something in them that looked almost like relief.

"Just kill me here. Slit my throat and be done with it. I don't want to be eaten alive."

Tarak made a sound, something between a scoff and a laugh. "A White Hand saying that?"

"Saying what?"

"You people eat your own dead, yes? Why afraid of being eaten?"

The man's face twisted. Not fear this time. Anger. "This is the North," he spat. "Famine isn't a stranger here. When the snows come and the hunting fails and the stores run empty, we do what we have to do to survive. We eat what the gods provide, even if it's our own. But we don't—" His voice cracked. "We don't like it. We're not animals. We're not—"

He stopped. His shoulders sagged.

"We only do it when there's no other choice."

Suddenly, a giggling started somewhere to their left.

Max's whole body went tight. He'd been listening to the forest for about two hours now, waiting for something wrong, and here it was. Except it wasn't the sound he'd been expecting. Not footsteps or the crack of a branch or even the whisper of wind through the trees.

It was laughter.

High, light and completely out of place.

The White Hand's breathing stopped. Max heard it happen, heard the way the man's lungs just seized up mid-inhale.

"Holy shit," Max breathed.

The giggling came again, and this time it seemed to float through the trees from a different direction entirely, like it was circling them. Max's eyes darted left, then right, scanning the shadows between the pines. Nothing moved. The forest had gone completely still.

Then he saw her.

She was standing a few feet ahead of them, just off to the side of the path they'd been walking. She hadn't been there a second ago. Max would have sworn to it. He'd been looking at that exact spot, and it had been empty, and now it wasn't.

She was old. That was the first thing his brain managed to process. Old in a way that made it impossible to guess her actual age. Seventy? Eighty? Older? Her face was lined deep, creases running from the corners of her eyes and mouth, and her hair hung long and gray past her shoulders, loose and unbrushed.

She wore white robes that looked far too clean for someone who lived in a forest, and her feet were bare. Completely bare. No boots, no wrappings, nothing. Just pale skin against the snow and pine needles and small stones that covered the ground.

Max stared at those feet. They should have been filthy. Cut up. Calloused at the very least. But they looked soft. Clean. Like she'd just stepped out of a bath.

She giggled again, and the sound made something cold crawl up Max's spine.

The White Hand hadn't moved. He was frozen in place, his whole body locked up like someone had turned him to stone. His eyes were wide and fixed on the old woman, and his mouth was hanging open just slightly, like he'd been about to say something and forgot how.

"Tarak," Max said quietly, keeping his eyes on the woman. "Get down."

The kid slid off his back without a word. Max felt the absence of weight immediately, the way his shoulders dropped and his balance shifted. Bro's legs tightened against his neck.

The woman was still smiling. It was a gentle smile, the type an old lady might give you when you helped her carry groceries or held a door open. Except her eyes didn't match it. They were bright and sharp and far too aware.

She tilted her head, and when she spoke, her voice had that quality, rough and worn like someone who'd spent decades smoking cigarettes.

"Well now," she said. "What have we here? Travelers in my wood?"

She giggled again.

Max's heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. Bro shifted on his shoulder, and Max felt the warmth radiating from his body increase. Not burning, but definitely hotter than usual.

He tried to pull himself together. Back on Earth, when you met an old person, you were polite. You smiled. You offered to help. You didn't just stand there staring at them like they were about to murder you.

Except this wasn't Earth, and Max was pretty sure she absolutely could murder him.

"Uh," he started, then cleared his throat. "Hi. My name's Harek."

His voice came out steadier than he'd expected. He gestured to Tarak, who was standing just behind him now, pressed close against his leg. "This is Tarak."

The witch's eyes followed the gesture, tracking from Max to the boy. Her smile widened just a fraction.

Max glanced back at the White Hand. The warrior was still frozen, still staring. Max realized he didn't know the man's name. In all the hours they'd been walking, it had never come up.

"And...this is White Hands," Max finished.

It sounded stupid the moment he said it, but it was all he had.

The witch looked at the warrior. Her head tilted the other way now, birdlike. "White Hands," she repeated slowly, like she was tasting the words. "What an odd name."

Then her gaze shifted. Down. To Max's shoulder.

Her smile changed. It went softer, more genuine, and somehow that made it worse.

"And who might this little one be?" she asked, lifting one finger to point.

Max followed her gaze and saw she was pointing at Bro.

"Oh," Max said. He looked at his spider. Bro's legs were clamped tight against his neck now, all eight of them pressed hard enough that Max could feel each individual limb. "Him? That's Bro. He's a spider."

The witch took a step closer. Her bare feet made absolutely no sound against the forest floor. Not even the faintest whisper of skin against dirt.

"Oh, he's far more than just a spider," she said softly.

Her eyes stayed locked on Bro. Just on him. Like Max and Tarak and the White Hand had ceased to exist entirely. She was staring at the spider with an intensity that made Max's skin crawl, and he found himself taking a half-step back before he'd even decided to move.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." The witch shook her head without looking away from Bro. "Don't be so afraid, child. I haven't decided what to do with you yet."

Child. Max was pretty sure he had at least six inches on her.

"The little one seems quite attached to you," she continued, and her voice had gone gentle again. Almost fond.

Max felt Bro's warmth spike. The spider was heating up more than he ever had before, not enough to hurt but definitely enough to notice. It was like having a small furnace pressed against his neck.

"Yeah," Max said. His mouth was dry. "I mean...he's my friend."

It sounded childish when he said it out loud, but it was the truth.

"I see," the witch said.

She finally looked at Max again, and he felt the full weight of her attention settle on him. It was like being examined under a microscope. She was reading something in his face, or in the way he stood, or in something else entirely that he couldn't even begin to guess at.

Then she smiled that gentle, terrible smile again. "And why, pray tell, are you in my humble forest? Disturbing my peace?"

Max swallowed. The other two still hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound. It was just him.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the words tumbled out faster than he'd meant them to. "We didn't mean to disturb you. I was being pursued. By White Hands—" He gestured vaguely at the warrior behind him, who still looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe. "I needed somewhere safe. Somewhere to hide."

He moved slowly, carefully, keeping his hands visible as he reached for the map tucked into his belt. No sudden movements. Nothing that might set her off. He unfolded it with deliberate care and held it out, pointing to the mark he'd made earlier with Tarak's help.

"There's supposed to be a shelter here," he said. "An old one. We were trying to find it."

The witch leaned forward, but she didn't take the map from his hands. She just looked at it, her eyes scanning the rough lines and marks.

"Oh, that place," she said after a moment. Her tone was almost cheerful. "Yes, yes. I took it as my abode some time ago. Made it into a proper house. Much more comfortable now."

Max's hand lowered slowly back to his side.

Fuck.

"I see," Max said.

He was trying to keep his voice level and polite.

The witch's smile widened just slightly, like she'd heard something amusing in his tone.

"But you are all welcome to come," she said. "It grows cold at this time of year. Four lost souls wandering such a dark and dangerous forest. You must be weary."

"No." The word came out faster than Max intended. "No, thank you. We appreciate the offer, but we didn't know you'd taken residence there. We'll just...we'll go back. We don't want to bother you any further."

He was already shifting his weight, preparing to turn around, to get Tarak and just start walking. Anywhere but toward that house.

"Who told you that you could leave?"

The witch's voice hadn't changed. It was still soft, still gentle. But something in it made Max's legs lock in place.

He froze mid-step.

His heart slammed against his ribs. Bro was burning now, actually burning, hot enough that Max could feel sweat starting to bead on his neck where the spider clung.

"Listen," Max started, trying to keep his voice calm, reasonable. "We really didn't mean to—"

"We have a sacrifice."

Max's head whipped around. Tarak had spoken.

"For safe passage," Tarak continued. He was pointing at the White Hand. "Him. He's a warrior. Strong. He was pursuing us, but now...he could be yours."

The witch's gaze followed Tarak's finger. She looked at the White Hand with interest, tilting her head again in that birdlike way.

The warrior's eyes met hers.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the White Hand's face crumpled. His mouth opened, and a sound came out that Max had never heard from him before. A sob.

The man dropped to his knees. His hands came up to cover his face, and his shoulders shook.

"No," the witch said.

Max blinked. "No? What do you mean, no?"

She was still looking at the White Hand, but her expression had gone flat. "I'm tired of these types of sacrifices. They've grown stale. Predictable." She waved a hand dismissively. "Warriors and hunters and lost travelers. It's all the same in the end."

Max's mind was racing. His hands were shaking, but he forced them to stay still. He reached slowly into his pack, fingers closing around the wendigo antlers he'd been carrying since the cave.

"What about this?" He pulled them out, held them up so she could see them clearly. The bone gleamed pale in the dim light filtering through the trees. "These are prized. Rare. You could have them."

The witch glanced at the antlers.

"No," she said again.

Max's stomach dropped.

He knew what she wanted.

He'd known from the moment she'd appeared, from the way her eyes had fixed on Bro and refused to move. The spider was heating up so much now that it was almost painful, a furnace pressed against his skin, and Max could feel the way Bro's legs were clamped down with desperate strength.

Bro knew too.

"I won't give you my spider, lady."

The words came out harder than he'd meant them to. He didn't care.

The witch's smile grew wider. It stretched across her face until it looked wrong, too big for the shape of her mouth.

"It seems the little one does not want to go either," she said. She was looking at Bro with something that might have been fondness if it weren't so deeply unsettling. "Bonded so tightly. How sweet. How rare."

She took a step closer.

Max took a step back.

"This would be...complicated," she mused, more to herself than to him. "To bind it when it's bonded like this. The threads are already woven. It would take time. Effort. And there's always the risk it would simply...die...rather than transfer its loyalty."

Max's hand moved to his shoulder, hovering near Bro but not quite touching him. Protective.

The witch's eyes flicked up to meet his, and her smile shifted into a calculating one.

"I will let you all go," she said.

Max didn't move.

"Spider included," she continued. "If you can do something for me."

"What?" Max asked. His voice came out hoarse.

"A death battle."

Max closed his eyes for just a second. "Oh. That. Of course."

Of course it was a death battle. Why would it ever be anything else in this nightmare forest?

"The terms are simple," the witch said. She was walking in a slow circle around them now, her bare feet still making no sound at all against the ground. The White Hand was still sobbing on his knees. Tarak had gone completely still beside Max, barely even breathing. "You fight me. If you beat me, I will have died, and you all walk free. Every one of you. The spider stays with you, bonded as it is."

She stopped in front of him.

"But if I win," she said, and her smile was back to that gentle, grandmotherly expression, "then I get to eat you. Slowly. And once you're gone, once that bond breaks with your death, the little dragon comes to me. Unbonded. Free. Ready for a new master."

Max stared at her.

Bro was so hot now that he could smell his own skin starting to burn.

"Those are the terms," the witch said. "Do you accept?"

Chapter 188. Father-Son Moment

Hey everyone! So I've decided to split the Gamble King chapter into two parts to make the pacing more even and add a few more scenes for better coherence. They're gonna be uploaded in a few hours. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

A few hours after the assassination attempt...

The wolf had been drinking from the stream for forty-three seconds.

Adom counted because counting was something to do while he waited in the undergrowth, knees bent, one hand resting against the damp soil, the other on the pommel of his sword in a grip loose enough that it wouldn't cramp his fingers if this took another five minutes. The creature's tongue lapped at the water with a rhythm that seemed almost peaceful if you ignored the fact that its muzzle was still stained dark from its last meal. Yesterday's meal. An adventurer named Kels Fortin who'd made the mistake of thinking a Rank A dungeon was a place you could relax your guard for thirty seconds while you checked your pack.

Forty-four seconds.

The wolf's ears twitched. Rotated slightly toward the left, tracking some sound Adom couldn't hear over the constant background noise of water moving over rocks and wind pushing through the canopy overhead. Its head stayed down. Still drinking and lapping at the stream like it had all the time in the world, which it probably thought it did considering how thoroughly it had dominated this section of the dungeon for the past week.

Twelve dead. That was the official count. Twelve adventurers who'd come down here expecting the usual monsters, the ones that followed predictable patterns and died to predictable tactics, and instead they'd found this thing. A mutation from long mana exposure. Something that had taken the standard Grimfang Wolf template and twisted it into something worse. Faster reflexes than the base model. Stronger jaw muscles. A coat that seemed to shimmer and blur at the edges when it moved, making it hard to track with your eyes even when you were looking right at it.

And it was smart. That was the part that had killed most of them. Smart enough to ambush, to retreat when it was outnumbered and come back when the group had split up. Enough to recognize that humans with glowing hands were more dangerous than humans with swords and prioritize accordingly.

Adom could take it down right now. One spell. Maybe two if the first one didn't land clean. The thing was dangerous but it wasn't invincible, and under normal circumstances he'd have already weaved and moved on to the next target.

But these weren't normal circumstances.

Arthur had invited him on this trip specifically. "Quality time," he'd called it, which was code for "I'm bored and you're going to help fix that." He'd put the sword in Adom's hands three hours ago when they'd entered the dungeon and told him—not suggested, told him—not to use magic. Only his skills. His nigh inexistent swordsmanship. The thing Arthur had been trying to drill into him for years now.

Adom had objected. Obviously. He was a mage. That was the entire point of him.

Arthur had just smiled that smile that meant the argument was already over and Adom had lost it before he'd started talking. "Humor an old man," he'd said, which was what he always said when he wanted something and knew Adom would eventually cave.

So here they were. Hour three of hunting in this dungeon with Adom's magic sitting unused while he fumbled around with a sword like some first-year academy student who hadn't figured out their specialization yet.

Forty-seven seconds.

Movement to his right made Adom's eyes shift without moving his head. His father was walking through the trees. While Adom had spent the last fifteen minutes carefully positioning himself in the undergrowth, measuring each movement to avoid snapping twigs or rustling leaves, Arthur strolled through the forest like he was taking a morning walk through the estate gardens. Hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed, feet crunching through dead leaves and fallen branches with all the subtlety of a drunk ox.

Adom sighed.

Then he chuckled, quiet enough that it wouldn't carry, because of course Arthur was doing this. Of course he was. Stealth had never been his father's preferred approach to anything, and age hadn't changed that tendency so much as refined it into a kind of philosophical position.

The ex commander of the Iron Wolves knights had supposedly retired after his last campaign, hung up his armor, settled into what was meant to be a quiet life of advisory roles and pension collection. That had lasted until he'd declared that sitting still was making his joints hurt worse than fighting ever had, and if Adom was going to go hunt monsters then he was coming too.

Fifty seconds.

The wolf's head came up. Water dripped from its muzzle as it turned toward the sound of Arthur's footsteps, ears fully forward now, body tensing in a way that Adom recognized from watching predators prepare to either fight or flee depending on what they saw.

Arthur kept walking.

He was wearing the same clothes he'd worn to breakfast this morning. Simple traveling gear. Leather boots that had seen enough use that they'd molded to his feet. A shirt that had probably been dark blue once and had faded to something closer to grey. No armor. No visible weapons. Just a man walking through the woods like he was out for a morning constitutional instead of approaching a creature that had killed twelve people in the span of a week.

The wolf's lips pulled back. Its teeth were impressive. Long canines designed for puncturing and tearing, backed by molars strong enough to crack bone. The shimmer around its coat intensified as its muscles coiled, and Adom saw the moment it made its decision. Not flight. This was its territory. Its stream. Its hunting ground, at least as far as the wolf was concerned, and this human walking toward it with no apparent concern for his own safety was either prey or a threat that needed to be eliminated.

Arthur stopped about twenty feet away from it.

He smiled, then whistled.

Two short notes. High-low. The wolf's ears flattened against its skull. Its stance shifted, weight moving back onto its haunches, and for a second Adom thought it might actually turn and run because even overmutated dungeon monsters had survival instincts and sometimes those instincts told them that something was very wrong with the picture in front of them.

But Arthur moved his hand before the wolf could commit to flight.

Just a small gesture. Fingers crooked. Palm facing up. The universal sign for 'come here'.

The wolf's eyes fixed on that hand.

Adom shifted his weight slightly, adjusting his grip on his sword, ready to move in any direction when this inevitably went exactly the way he expected it to go.

Here we go, then.

Without hesitation or even so much as a warning growl or preparatory crouch, the wolf launched itself forward.

One moment it was standing at the stream's edge, the next it was airborne, jaws wide, that shimmer around its coat intensifying into something that blurred its outline completely. Fast. Faster than the reports had indicated, closing twenty feet in less time than it took to blink.

Arthur stepped aside.

Just a small shift of weight that took him exactly far enough out of the wolf's trajectory that its snapping jaws caught nothing but air where his throat had been a fraction of a second earlier. The creature hit the ground behind him with enough force to send up a spray of dirt and dead leaves, already twisting to reorient, to find its target again.

Arthur's eyes never left it.

"Son," he called out. "How much longer do you intend to just watch?"

The wolf's muscles coiled again. Preparing for another lunge. Its eyes had gone wild now, prey-drive completely engaged, everything else forgotten except the need to kill this thing that had dodged it.

Adom exhaled.

Then he used his Axis.

White energy flooded out of him. It always started in his chest, right behind his sternum, spreading outward through his limbs in a rush that felt like fire and ice and lightning all compressed into the space between heartbeats. The air around him shimmered. The undergrowth where he'd been crouching flattened as if pressed down by invisible hands. Power. Raw and condensed and completely at odds with the sword-training his father had been trying to teach him .

He moved.

One second he was twenty feet away in the undergrowth. The next he was on the wolf, hand clamped around its neck, the white energy coating his fingers bright enough to cast shadows in the forest's dim light. The creature's momentum died instantly.

Adom slammed it down into the dirt with enough force that he felt something crack under his palm, pinning it there by sheer overwhelming strength while it thrashed and snarled and tried desperately to twist free.

"We said no hands or magic," Arthur said. "Just swords."

Adom glanced up at his father, annoyance flashing across his face hot enough that he didn't bother hiding it. "Father, this is a serious thing. We should kill it now." The wolf's struggles intensified under his grip. He pressed down harder, felt more things crack. "It's caused people to die. Unprovoked. Twelve of them. We don't toy with prey."

Arthur sighed. Actually sighed, like Adom had just said something disappointing. "You sound like an old man."

"I am an old man."

The wolf was strangling now. Its movements had gone from violent thrashing to something more desperate and erratic. Claws scrabbling at the dirt. Body convulsing. Eyes rolling back as Adom's grip cut off its air supply completely. The shimmer around its coat was fading, flickering out in patches like a dying flame.

A leaf detached from one of the branches overhead. Started drifting down. Lazy and unhurried.

Arthur drew his sword.

In one smooth motion, the blade whispered out of its sheath with barely a sound, and then he swung.

Once.

The wolf's head separated from its body.

Just the part above Adom's hand. The cut so precise that for a half-second nothing happened, no blood, no movement, just the wolf's upper neck and skull sitting there disconnected while the body beneath Adom's grip continued to twitch. Then gravity took over. The head rolled to the side, hit the ground with a wet thud.

Blood sprayed. Not a lot. Most of it was trapped below where Adom's hand had been crushing the creature's throat, but enough came out that it spattered across the dirt in a pattern that looked almost artistic.

The leaf that had been falling drifted past Arthur's shoulder in two pieces.

Both halves landed at exactly the same time.

Arthur sheathed his sword. "So much for a father-son moment."

Adom got back up, white energy fading from around him until it was just residual wisps clinging to his clothes. He wiped his hand on his pants—the wolf's blood had gotten on his fingers—and then held the sword out to his father, grip first.

"We should head back now."

Arthur looked at him for a long moment. Said nothing. Just took the sword back and slid it into the sheath at his belt.

Adom pulled a dimensional bag from his pack. Special issue. Guild-provided for transporting monster corpses that needed to be verified for bounty collection. He opened it wide and maneuvered the wolf's body inside, head and all, sealing it with a twist of the enchanted drawstring. The administrators would want to see this. Document it. Add it to whatever reports they were compiling about mutation rates in this sector.

A part of this dungeon was Wangara property. The thought made something tight settle in Adom's chest, irritation mixing with something closer to dread. A mutated monster like this, here of all places.

These, just like that spider monster from six years ago, were precursor signs of the World-Dungeon. Mana density locally increasing, warping the creatures that lived in these spaces into something worse than they'd been designed to be. It would get more frequent as the years went by. More mutations. Stronger ones. The mana seeping out of the dungeons in greater concentrations until eventually—inevitably—it would cause a mass break.

Every dungeon in the world rupturing one by one at a break neck pace. Transforming everything into one massive interconnected nightmare. The World Dungeon.

It was probably inevitable.

For now, Adom's best solution was to unify the nations. Get them to adhere to a treaty. Something that would ensure they'd help each other when it happened instead of fracturing into territorial squabbles while the world ended around them. But that was easier said than done with all the wars he was managing right now, all the political bullshit and border disputes and—

"Hey."

Adom looked up.

Arthur was watching him with that expression that meant he'd noticed Adom's thoughts had gone somewhere else. "Follow me."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Found a neat place here last time I was in this dungeon." Arthur started walking, not toward the exit but deeper into the trees. "Mostly hidden, too."

That got Adom's attention. "Last time? When were you here?"

Arthur glanced back over his shoulder, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Be patient."

They walked. The forest sounds filled the space between them—water running over rocks, wind moving through leaves, the occasional distant cry of something that might have been a bird or might have been another monster.

"Could have gone much faster if you'd let me use magic," Adom said after a few minutes.

"Yes," Arthur agreed easily. "Would have been over in thirty seconds. Maybe less."

"So why—"

"Because you don't have much time these days." Arthur stepped over a fallen log, turned slightly to make sure Adom saw the best path across. "In fact, we've seen each other five times this past week. Only five times. I wanted to spend today with my son."

The words hit harder than Adom expected. He felt something in his chest constrict, the irritation from earlier curdling into regret. Arthur had been taking it easy on the wolf. Drawing things out. Not because he was bored or because he wanted to show off, but because he wanted this to last longer.

There was a time when Adom would have given everything for a moment like this. When he'd have been thrilled to have his father's undivided attention, to go hunting together, to just exist in the same space, really. And here he was, wasting it. Annoyed that the fight hadn't been efficient enough. Or that this whole trip was cutting into time he could have spent on war management or any of the hundred other things constantly demanding his attention.

He was letting his work cloud his thoughts too much. His preoccupations. The future that was coming whether he prepared for it or not.

"We're here."

Adom looked up.

His eyes widened.

The forest had opened into a clearing that shouldn't have existed this deep in a dungeon. A fresh breeze moved through the space, carrying with it a scent so sweet and delicate it made Adom's next breath catch in his throat.

A river flowed through the center, crystal-clear water running over smooth stones that glittered in the dappled sunlight filtering down from above. And the trees—cherry blossoms, dozens of them, their branches heavy with pale pink flowers that drifted down in a constant gentle snow.

But these weren't normal cherry blossoms. The fragrance was stronger and richer, with an underlying note that could only come from concentrated mana. The petals themselves seemed to glow faintly, catching the light in a way that made them look almost luminescent. The grass beneath them was impossibly green, soft and thick like carpet.

There were monsters here too. Small ones. Adom caught glimpses of them in his peripheral vision, rabbit-like creatures with oversized ears, a few birds with iridescent feathers, something that might have been a fox disappearing into the undergrowth. None of them threatening. In fact, they all scattered the moment Arthur and Adom stepped into the clearing, fleeing not out of aggression but simple caution.

"Whoa..." Adom breathed.

"Nice, huh?" Arthur said.

Adom nodded, still taking it in. The way the light hit the water. The patterns the petals made as they fell. The sense of peace that seemed to radiate from every surface, like the clearing itself was insulated from the violence and danger that filled the rest of the dungeon.

Before he could say anything, he heard a sound behind him. Metallic.

He turned to see his father pulling something from his dimensional ring. A picnic set. Complete with a blanket, cushions, and—

Adom chuckled. "What are you doing, Father?"

Arthur set the blanket down on the grass, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I wanted to bring Maria here. For a romantic date." He started arranging the cushions. "But I needed to make sure it was safe enough first. Experience the place better. So you're my test subject."

He gestured at the ground. "Sit."

Adom moved closer, then froze when he saw what Arthur was setting down. A tea set. Delicate porcelain with hand-painted flowers running along the edges. The pot, the cups, the serving tray—all of it achingly familiar.

"No way. You were the one that took this?" Adom stared at his father. "I thought Ada broke it and hid it."

Arthur glanced up, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. "Well, with you all of a sudden liking tea and all, it took me a while to understand." He arranged the cups carefully. "These past few years, I've tried many of the tea varieties you recommended."

"But I thought you didn't like tea?"

"Not all of it," Arthur admitted. He pulled out a small cloth bag from his ring, tied with string. "But I did like some blends. I suppose I can see why you like it so much."

He held up the bag, and even through the fabric Adom could smell it. That same cherry blossom fragrance from the trees around them, concentrated and refined. "Had this made personally from these cherry blossom leaves. It's quite fragrant. Mana-filled too. Thought you'd like it."

Adom felt something warm settle in his chest, pushing aside all the tension and preoccupation that had been weighing on him. "I do. Thank you, Father."

Arthur waved a hand dismissively. "Stop being sentimental. Makes me awkward." He pointed at the cushion across from him. "Come sit down."

Adom moved to sit, a small smile on his face. "You know, you're no longer in the army now. You can just... I don't know, say 'I love you' and stuff."

"Ugghh." Arthur made a face like Adom had just suggested something obscene. "You're too grown for that now. Look at the little hair on your chin." He gestured at Adom's face. "It's cuter with Maria and Ada. I prefer tough love with you, so sit down, will you?"

Adom sat down, settling onto the cushion across from his father. Arthur poured the tea with steady hands, steam rising from the cups in delicate spirals that caught the light. The liquid itself was pale pink, almost translucent, with tiny fragments of cherry blossom petals floating on the surface.

Adom brought the cup to his lips and sipped.

The flavor hit his tongue immediately, floral, yes, but not overwhelming. Sweet without being cloying, with a depth that suggested layers he'd need multiple cups to fully appreciate. And underneath it all, a lightly tangy aftertaste that lingered, bright and clean.

The mana content was substantial. He could feel it the moment he swallowed, a gentle warmth spreading through his chest, his reserves filling in a way that was gradual but unmistakable.

"Good?" Arthur asked.

"Very good." Adom took another sip, savoring it this time. "Where did you find someone who could blend this?"

"Asked around. Called in a few favors." Arthur reached for the biscuits he'd laid out on a small plate between them. "Turns out there's a woman in the capital who specializes in mana-infused teas. Charges ridiculous prices, but she knows what she's doing."

They talked. Small things at first. Arthur complained about how guild bureaucracy had gotten worse since his retirement, how they'd added three new forms just to submit a monster suppression report. Adom countered with a story about one of his students who'd managed to set fire to a training dummy despite being enrolled in a runicology course. Arthur laughed at that.

The tea was excellent. The biscuits were better than they had any right to be. The cherry blossoms kept falling around them in a steady gentle snow, and for a while Adom let himself forget about his problems.

Then Arthur set his cup down.

"So," he said, voice casual. "Your mother tells me you've been... preoccupied today. After dropping Zuni and Bennu home."

Adom looked at him.

His mind immediately went to the decision he'd been putting off. He'd been intending to hide the operations he was running until he'd collected all the proof he needed against the Emperor. Handle it quietly, present Arthur with the finished evidence and a plan so clean there'd be nothing to argue about. That had seemed like the right approach. The safe one.

But if he was going to dethrone the Emperor and place his niece on the throne, then Arthur needed to know beforehand. Not after. Not when it was already done and irreversible. His father deserved better than being blindsided by his own son's political maneuvering, especially when those maneuvers could be interpreted as treason depending on who was doing the interpreting.

Adom took a breath.

"This is going to take a while to explain."

Arthur gestured around them—at the clearing, the river, the endless falling petals. "We have food. A good spot. Good company." He met Adom's eyes. "Gives us all the time in the world. Talk to me."

"Well," Adom said slowly. "Basically, today, the Emperor—or rather, the Chancellor—tried to assassinate me. By sending two homunculi."

Arthur stared at him, unmoving and not speaking. His cup sat on the ground beside him, forgotten. His expression hadn't changed much—Arthur had decades of practice keeping his face neutral—but Adom could see the muscles around his jaw tighten slightly.

Adom waited. Let the silence stretch. His father needed a moment to process, and pushing before he was ready would only make this harder.

Finally, Arthur seemed to collect his thoughts. "Why would the Chancellor—" He paused, recalibrated. "Why would the Emperor want to kill my son?"

"I'm not quite sure, really," Adom admitted. "But I'll be finding out soon enough. And I'll take care of them." He kept his voice level. "The Emperor has been trying to spy on our research. Stealing from us. I have people investigating the scope of it now."

Arthur was silent.

The only sound was the river, constant and soothing, completely at odds with the conversation happening on its banks.

"I know this is a lot to take in," Adom said. "I didn't intend to tell you before I had proof of what I was saying, but—"

"You said you'd take care of them." Arthur's voice was quiet. "What are you implying, son?"

Adom felt a flicker of relief. His father didn't like complicated things. He wasn't the type to dance around subjects or political euphemisms. He wanted the point. The core of the matter stripped of all the layers people usually wrapped around it. This would be easier.

"I am not intending to become Emperor, Father."

Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then what are you planning? Who will be there if you destitute the Emperor?"

Adom took a moment. Let the question hang between them. The cherry blossoms kept falling. One landed on the tea tray, pale pink against white porcelain.

"General Soren's daughter. Princess Morgana Vi Savarnis."

Gamble King Chapter 40. Escape . Part II and Final

Max woke up with jerky in his mouth.

The taste hit him first: salt and smoke and something gamey he couldn't identify. Then the cave. Warm stone at his back. Bro's faint glow painting shadows on the walls.

He gasped, sitting up so fast the jerky fell from his lips.

Tarak scrambled backward, favoring his wounded leg as he moved. The spear came up, tip pointed at Max's chest. The kid's eyes were wide.

"Sorry," Max said, hands up. His heart was hammering. He could still feel the arrows punching through him. "I just remembered something."

Tarak stared at him for another few seconds, then slowly lowered the spear. He looked at Max the way you'd look at someone who'd just started speaking in tongues. One eyebrow went up. "You remember something and jump like bear is eating you?"

"Something like that."

"Hmm." Tarak settled back down, but he kept the spear close. He picked up his piece of dried meat and bit into it, chewing slowly while watching Max. After a moment, he said through a mouthful of jerky, "You are strange, Harek."

"Yeah, so I've been told."

Max stood up and walked to the cave entrance. His legs didn't hurt. His shoulder was fine. No arrows. No blood. Just the memory of dying, fresh and sharp and entirely useless for anything except keeping him awake at night for the rest of the day. Not that he'd sleep much today. Assuming this would be the last today.

He'd thought about going back further. Two days, maybe three. Get ahead of this whole mess before it started. But that would put them back in Wendigo territory, and Max had no idea when that thing had started tracking them. Could have been following them for a week. Could have picked up their scent the moment they entered the northern woods.

And even if they avoided it somehow, Tarak had said the White Hands were expanding. New villages. New territory. Which meant Max would have run into them eventually anyway, just with less information and probably fewer arrows.

At least now he knew where the ambush was.

Small mercies.

"Finish your jerky," Max said. "Then we go down."

Tarak picked up his own piece of dried meat and bit into it, chewing slowly while he watched Max with that same weird expression. Suspicious, maybe. Or concerned. Hard to tell.

A few minutes passed in silence. Max started gathering his things, checking the straps on his pack. Tarak ate, methodical and unhurried despite everything.

"I am ready," Tarak said. He was standing now, weight on his good leg, spear serving double duty as a walking stick.

Max crouched down. "Come on."

Tarak didn't argue. He climbed onto Max's back, arms settling around his shoulders, careful not to squeeze too tight. His spear he held in one hand, the shaft resting against Max's arm.

The descent was easier this time. Max knew exactly where the loose stone was—about fifteen feet down, slightly to the left of a crack in the rock face. He avoided it, placing his foot two inches to the right instead. Tarak's arms stayed loose around his neck. No strangling. No panic. Just quiet breathing and the occasional shift of weight as Max found new handholds.

They reached the bottom.

Max set the kid down and stood there, hands on his knees, pulling in air. His lungs burned, but not like before. Not like when he'd been sprinting with arrows in his back. This was just exertion. Normal, regular, you-just-climbed-down-a-cliff-with-a-teenager-on-your-back exertion.

He straightened up after a moment, breathing evening out.

"Where?" Max asked.

Tarak pointed east, toward where the sun would eventually rise. "Through the trees. My village is—"

"No."

The kid's hand dropped. "What no?"

"We'll be ambushed." Max bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. "The road to your village. The White Hands know it. They'll be waiting."

"There are many roads. Shortcuts." Tarak shifted his weight, wincing slightly. "We can—"

"They know those too." Max straightened up. "These are their lands too. They'll have people watching every approach they think we might take."

Tarak was quiet for a moment. His jaw worked like he was chewing on the idea, testing it. "You think they plan for us."

"I think they're not stupid." Max looked around, trying to orient himself in the growing light. "They used a Blindrage yesterday. That's organized and tactical. They're not just raiding parties throwing spears at whatever moves."

"Yesterday?" Tarak's brow furrowed. "We did not see White Hands yesterday. We were in cave."

Max waved that off. "Figure of speech. Point is, they'll have the main routes covered. Probably the side routes too."

It made sense now that he was saying it out loud. Made so much sense he wanted to kick himself for not thinking of it the first time around. The horn he'd heard hadn't been a hunting call. It had been coordination. Prey spotted. Moving east. Get into position.

And they'd gotten into position perfectly.

"Harek is wise," Tarak said quietly.

"Yeah, well." Max rolled his shoulders, working out the tension from the climb. "Wisdom doesn't count for much if you're dead."

"Then we find different path."

"Right." Max took a breath. "If you were a White Hand—"

"I am not a White Hand!" Tarak shouted, expression sharp.

"I know, I know. Relax." Max held up his hands. "I'm not saying you are. This is hypothetical."

"What does that mean?"

"It means—" Max started, then caught himself. They were wasting time. "Forget it. Just tell me where to go if someone knows all the roads to your village. Where's the path they wouldn't expect?"

Tarak thought about that, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. His fingers drummed against the spear shaft. "There is... one place."

"Where?"

"The Witch's Forest."

"Oh yeah. Of course."

Fuuuuuck.

The Witch's Forest. Max knew it from the map, from the skull drawn in the margin and the words AVOID IF POSSIBLE written underneath in what he'd really, really hoped was just red ink. The squires had talked about it sometimes, late at night when someone was trying to win the scared-shitless competition. Stories about people who went in and came out wrong. Or came out scattered across territories they couldn't have reached. Or didn't come out at all.

There were shelters in there, supposedly. Old sanctuaries from before whatever lived there had decided to make it home. You could use them if you were fast and lucky and willing to risk whatever came with the territory.

Blair Witch type of territory.

Max could try another route. Circle north, maybe south. Find a different approach entirely.

But the White Hands would have thought of that too. They'd have people stationed everywhere that mattered. The ambush at the rocks hadn't been random. It had been part of a network.

"The Witch's Forest," Max said again. His breath was coming easier now, settling back to normal. "That's really our best option?"

Tarak shifted his weight again, grimacing. "Is worst option. But White Hands will not follow there."

"Why not?"

"Because they are not stupid," Tarak said, throwing Max's own words back at him. There was almost a smile on his face. Almost.

Max couldn't help it. He laughed. Just a short bark of sound, but it felt good. "Fair point."

"My mother says the witch takes one person each season," Tarak continued. "As tribute. For passing through her lands."

"One person per season. That's the price?"

"Yes."

"And how many seasons has your tribe been paying this tribute?"

Tarak frowned. "We do not pay. We do not go there."

"Right. So we don't actually know if that's true."

"The stories—"

"Are stories." Max looked toward the northwest, where the tree line grew denser and darker. "Might be true. Might not be. But I know for sure there are White Hands waiting on the other routes. So."

Tarak was quiet for a moment. Then: "You are strange kind of wise, Harek."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Max held out his hand. "Come on. Get on my back. That leg's not getting better standing around talking about witches."

The kid climbed on, settling himself more carefully this time. His arms looped around Max's neck, loose but secure.

"Which direction?" Max asked.

Tarak pointed northwest.

Max started walking.

The trees grew thicker as they moved northwest, sunlight filtering through the canopy in scattered patches. Max's boots found purchase on roots and rocks, his breathing steady despite the weight on his back. Tarak was lighter than he looked, or maybe Max was just getting used to it. Either way, his legs kept moving.

After maybe an hour, Max stopped.

"Bro," he said, looking up at the spider perched on his shoulder. "Go up. High as you can. Look around for White Hands."

Bro tilted his body, which Max had learned was the spider equivalent of a head tilt.

"If you see them, glow once. If you don't, glow twice. Got it?"

Bro's abdomen pulsed with light. Acknowledgment, probably.

Then little wings sprouted from his sides.

Tarak jerked backward so hard he nearly fell off Max's back. "What—what kind of spider is this?"

Max steadied him, chuckling. "The kind that understands human, breathes fire, and flies. This is Bro. He's one of a kind."

Bro glowed, a satisfied little pulse of orange light.

"One of a kind," Tarak repeated, watching as Bro launched himself into the air. The wings were translucent, almost crystalline, catching the light as he rose through the trees. "You are strange, Harek. And your companions are stranger."

"Yeah, well. Strange keeps you alive sometimes."

Max started walking again, adjusting Tarak's weight as they moved. His mind was already working through the problem. He should have done this the first time. Sent Bro up to scout. But he hadn't really understood the scope of what they were dealing with back then. A few White Hands, maybe. A hunting party.

But warriors with coordinated tactics was something else entirely.

"Hey," Max said after a few minutes. "Your people. They're not worried you haven't come back yet?"

"Worried, yes. But I told them I would return when I ready."

"You're just a kid wandering around out here by yourself. That's gotta—"

"I am not kid." Tarak's voice went tight. "I have wife."

Max stopped walking. "The fuck?"

"In our culture, you are not child after twelve winters. You are promised to woman after fifteen winters. I united with mine four moons back."

"Four moons," Max said slowly. "So... four months?"

"Yes. Four moons is four months."

Max started walking again because standing still wasn't going to make this conversation any less weird. "That's strange."

"Is culture."

"Yeah, no, I get that. It's just—different where I'm from."

"Where are you from? Is not Frosthold?"

Max opened his mouth, then closed it. How exactly did you explain Earth to someone who thought spiders with wings were the weird thing in this conversation? "Yeah. Yeah, Frosthold."

Tarak seemed to accept that.

They walked in silence for a while, Max's boots crunching on fallen leaves and pine needles. The place smelled like sap and damp earth. Birds called overhead, oblivious to the fact that somewhere behind them, armed warriors were probably fanning out to murder them.

"Why are they so serious about getting us?" Max asked finally. "I mean, I get that we're in their territory, but this seems like a lot of effort."

"You shot one of them yesterday."

Max frowned. "What? No, I—" Then he remembered. "Oh. Right."

"They hardly forgive."

"Ah. So it's my fault then."

Tarak was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "No. Is my fault."

"How do you figure?"

"I am chief's nephew."

Max's steps slowed. "Wait, what?"

"Repeat," Tarak said.

"You're the chief's nephew. The chief of your village."

"Yes."

"And the White Hands know that."

"Yes."

Max stopped walking entirely this time. "So that's why they're after us."

Tarak didn't answer immediately. His arms tightened slightly around Max's neck, then loosened again. "I would understand if you wanted to leave me here. You have helped enough already. You are risking your life. Life is important. Only one we have."

Max shifted Tarak's weight, balancing him better against his back. "I'm not leaving you here."

"Harek—"

"I already committed. Can't exactly un-commit now, can I?" Max started walking again, his pace steady. "But you owe me. When we get to your village, you're making me a feast, giving me new arrows, new gears and maybe a magical artifact or two of possible. Deal?"

He felt Tarak's breath against the back of his neck as the kid exhaled. "I promise."

"Good. I'm thinking roasted something. Maybe that jerky but, like, fresher. And—"

Wings buzzed near his ear. Bro landed on Max's shoulder, his small legs gripping the fabric of Max's coat.

"Report," Max said. "Once for yes, twice for no. You see White Hands?"

Bro glowed once.

Max's jaw tightened. "Alright. How many?" He started counting. "Five?"

Bro glowed twice. Negation.

"Ten?"

Twice again.

"Fifteen?"

Bro glowed once.

Fifteen warriors spread out behind them, coordinated enough to stay quiet, disciplined enough to hold position until their target walked into the trap. There was no horn this time. Which meant they hadn't been spotted yet.

"We need to move faster," Max said, picking up his pace. Tarak bounced slightly against his back, wincing as his injured leg shifted.

"White Hands?" he asked quietly.

"Fifteen of them. Behind us."

"Fifteen." Tarak's voice was flat. "That is war party. Not hunting party."

"Yeah, I'm starting to get that." Max's mind raced as he walked.

They really, really wanted Tarak dead.

Or captured. Max wasn't sure which was worse. And since he was clearly from Frosthold himself, and Frosthold was their enemies, they'd want Max dead, too.

"How much further to the Witch's Forest?" he asked.

Tarak looked around, using the sun's position to orient himself. "Two hours. Maybe less if we move fast."

"Then we move fast."

Max lengthened his stride, his boots eating up the ground. Bro stayed perched on his shoulder, a warm weight that somehow felt reassuring.

Ahead of them, a forest with a witch who supposedly took one person per season as tribute.

"Great choices all around," Max muttered.

"What?" Tarak asked.

"Nothing. Just talking to myself."

"That is also strange."

"Add it to the list."

The trees thinned ahead of them.

Max slowed his pace, feet crunching softer in the snow as the canopy above grew patchy. Light broke through in wider shafts now, painting the ground in stripes of white and shadow. He could see the edge of their cover maybe thirty yards ahead, where the forest they'd been traveling through ended and open ground began before the darker tree line of the Witch's Forest rose up like a wall in the distance.

"There," Tarak said quietly, pointing.

The Witch's Forest looked exactly like the kind of place that deserved skull drawings on maps. Even from here, Max could see the trees were different—taller, older, their branches twisted in ways that seemed deliberate. The tree line sat maybe a third of a mile away across open ground, a dark barrier rising against the gray sky.

Max checked his map mentally. There were safe zones marked inside. He knew where to go once they got in. The problem was getting there.

"Long stretch," Max said, studying the distance. Five hundred meters of open ground, maybe more. Snow-covered and flat, broken only by scattered rocks and the occasional dead tree jutting up like a broken tooth. No real cover. Nothing that would hide them or break line of sight.

"Yes," Tarak agreed.

It wouldn't have been a problem normally. Five hundred meters. Max could cover that in maybe two minutes at a decent run, even with Tarak on his back. The White Hands were still behind them.

Then Max heard it.

A caw. Sharp and distinct, cutting through the quiet.

He looked up.

A raven circled above the tree line ahead, black against the gray sky. It wheeled in lazy loops, staying right at the boundary between the two forests. Watching.

"Shit," Max muttered, a bad feeling settling in his stomach.

"Hunter raven," Tarak whispered. His arms tightened around Max's neck. "White Hands use them. They speak. They tell their masters what they see."

Max tracked the bird's flight path. It wasn't random. The raven was patrolling, covering the exact stretch they'd need to cross. Smart. Leave a watcher at the most obvious route while the party followed at a distance.

"How long has it been up there?"

"I heard it calling when we were deeper in the trees. Maybe half an hour."

Half an hour of circling, waiting for them to show themselves. Max felt a spike of irritation cut through his tension.

"Bro," he said.

The spider shifted on his shoulder, legs adjusting their grip.

"See that bird?"

Bro's body tilted up, tracking the raven's flight.

"Kill it."

Bro launched off Max's shoulder before the words finished leaving his mouth. Wings materialized mid-leap, catching air with a sound like paper tearing. He climbed fast, his small body spiraling upward through the scattered beams of sunlight.

The raven noticed immediately. Its lazy circles tightened. It cawed again, louder this time—an alarm, probably. Reporting that something was coming.

Bro closed the distance in seconds. His wings folded and he became a missile, orange light building in his abdomen like a furnace stoking itself. The raven tried to bank, to dive, but Bro was faster.

Fire erupted.

A thin stream of flame caught the raven mid-turn, engulfing its wing. The bird shrieked—a sound Max didn't know ravens could make—and tumbled sideways in the air. Bro hit it a second later, legs wrapping around its body, mandibles digging in. More fire. The raven's shrieks cut off.

They both fell.

The raven hit the snow maybe two hundred meters out with a distant thump, smoke rising from its charred feathers. Bro fluttered away, wings carrying him in a wide arc back toward Max.

"Good work," Max said as Bro landed on his shoulder again.

Then the horn sounded.

Deep and resonant, cutting through the forest from behind them. Not close, but not far enough either. Max's stomach dropped. The raven must have gotten a message out before Bro reached it. Or the White Hands had heard the shrieks. Either way, they knew.

"They are coming," Tarak said unnecessarily.

"Yeah." Max shifted the kid's weight, adjusting his grip. "Change of plans."

He reached inside himself, found the well of Fanga he'd been saving, and used it.

The effect was immediate. His heartbeat spiked, jumping from sixty to a hundred and twenty in the space of a breath. Heat flooded his muscles, his veins. The world sharpened—colors brighter, sounds clearer, the smell of pine and snow and smoke from the dead raven hitting his nose all at once. His legs thrummed with energy, demanding movement.

Tarak gasped. "You can use Fanga?"

"Hold on tight," Max said. "Things are about to get fast."

"How much—"

"Just hold on."

Max exploded forward.

The trees blurred past as he sprinted toward the open ground. His boots barely touched the snow before pushing off again, each stride eating up distance. The weight on his back felt lighter now, almost negligible. Tarak's arms locked around Max's neck, his breathing quick and shallow against Max's ear.

They burst out of the tree line.

Five hundred meters of exposure stretched ahead. Max angled left immediately, then right, zigzagging across the open ground. His heart hammered against his ribs, fast enough that he could feel it in his throat. The Fanga burned through him, turning his body into something more than it was—faster, stronger, sustainable only because he'd been careful not to use it until now.

Behind them, deeper in the forest they'd just left, something howled.

Blindrage.

The sound was followed by another, then another. Three of them at least, maybe more. And beneath the howls, Max heard voices. Men shouting. Coordinating. They'd closed the distance faster than he'd expected.

He pushed harder, his legs pumping. A quarter mile to the tree line.

An arrow hissed past his left shoulder.

"Stay down!" Max shouted at Tarak.

Another arrow. This one closer, close enough that Max felt the air displacement as it passed. The kid had gone rigid on his back, arms trembling but holding firm.

"The bark on your back," Max said, words coming out clipped between breaths. "I will stop most arrows!"

He'd done it while they walked, using strips of leather to secure a curved piece of thick bark across Tarak's back and shoulders. Makeshift armor. Better than nothing.

"Harek—"

"I know. Just hold on."

Max kept the zigzag pattern going. Left, right, forward, left again. Never straight. Never predictable. The distance to the Witch's Forest tree line shrunk with each stride, but it felt endless. About two-tenths of a mile. The snow was deeper here in the open, less packed down. Each step required more effort, more energy.

The howls were getting closer. Max risked a glance back and immediately regretted it. The Blindrages had burst from the tree line behind them—massive shapes moving on all six, white fur streaked with gray. Three of them, and riders on their backs, leaning forward, gripping thick leather harnesses. And behind the mounted Blindrages, warriors on foot. At least five more that Max could see, all of them running, all of them armed.

The distance between them was maybe a hundred and sixty yards. Shrinking.

He faced forward and pushed everything he had into his legs.

About a sixth of a mile to safety.

Another arrow. It hit the bark on Tarak's back with a solid thunk and bounced away. The kid jerked but didn't cry out.

Max's heart was a drum, each beat so hard it felt like it might crack his sternum. His lungs burned. The Fanga was eating through his reserves fast, faster than he'd planned, but there was no choice now. The Blindrages were closing. He could hear their breathing, the wet snarl of their panting, the sound of their claws tearing through snow and the grunts of their riders urging them forward.

Even with Fanga, they were faster.

Two hundred meters.

The tree line of the Witch's Forest looked closer now but still too far. Max cut right, dodging around one of the dead trees jutting from the snow. An arrow struck it a second later, the impact sending chips of frozen wood flying.

"How far?" Tarak gasped.

"Keep your head down!"

About a hundred and sixty yards.

The Blindrages were gaining. Max could hear individual sounds now—the wet snap of their jaws, the scrape of claws on ice beneath the snow, the rhythmic thunder of their paws, the creaking of leather as riders shifted their weight. The warriors behind them were shouting, coordinating their shots. Another arrow whistled past, missing by inches.

Max's vision started to tunnel at the edges. Too much Fanga. Too much exertion. He gasped air, forcing oxygen into his lungs, trying to steady the racing locomotive of his heart.

About a hundred and ten yards.

The Blindrages howled, close enough now that Max could hear the individual syllables of their rage. He pushed harder. His muscles screamed. His heart was going so fast he couldn't count the beats anymore, just a constant vibration in his chest.

Eighty yards.

An arrow hit the snow to his left. Another to his right. They were bracketing him, narrowing the pattern. Max cut left hard, then immediately right. Tarak's weight shifted with the movement, the kid adjusting instinctively to stay balanced.

Fifty-five yards.

The Blindrages were right behind them now. Max could smell them—wet fur and meat and something acrid. Twenty feet back. Maybe fifteen. He could hear the snap of their jaws as they reached, trying to close those final few feet, and the riders shouting commands in a language Max didn't understand.

"Harek!" Tarak's voice cracked.

"Almost there!"

Twenty-seven yards.

Max's foot caught on something hidden beneath the snow—a rock, maybe—and he stumbled. For one terrible second, he thought they were going down. His other leg caught his weight and he kept moving, but the stumble cost him. The Blindrages were ten feet back now.

Eleven yards to the tree line.

Max pulled everything he had left. His heart felt like it might explode. His lungs were shredded cloth. The world had gone soft at the edges, dark spots dancing in his vision.

Five yards.

The nearest Blindrage lunged. Max felt the displacement of air as jaws snapped shut where his leg had been a fraction of a second before.

He hit the tree line at full sprint.

The massive trunks rose around them and Max dove between two of them, his shoulder scraping bark as he passed. Behind him, he heard the thunder of the Blindrages reaching the forest edge.

Then silence.

Not complete silence. Max could hear his own ragged breathing, Tarak's gasps against his ear, the pounding of his heart. But the Blindrages had gone quiet. No more howling. No more thunder of paws.

He spun around, keeping low.

The Blindrages had stopped. All three of them stood at the very edge of the tree line, their massive bodies rigid, paws planted in the snow. Their riders stared into the forest but they didn't cross. They were struggling to control their beasts—one had been thrown forward over his mount's head when it stopped, hitting the snow in a tumble. He scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off.

The other riders were yanking on their reins, shouting, trying to force their mounts forward. The Blindrages wouldn't budge. One of them took a step backward, away from the tree line.

The warriors on foot had caught up. They stopped behind the mounted riders, chests heaving, weapons drawn. They stared at the forest. At Max.

One of the riders dismounted. A woman, tall, with white paint across her face in geometric patterns. She took two steps toward the tree line, then stopped. She didn't cross.

Max's hand went to his belt, fingers closing around the handle of his dagger. The rider who'd been thrown was closer than the others, maybe ten feet from where Max crouched. The man was brushing snow from his furs, muttering what sounded like curses.

Max moved.

He closed the distance in three strides, grabbed the man by the collar of his coat, and yanked him backward into the forest. The man yelped. Max spun him around and pressed the dagger to his throat.

"Nobody follows," Max said loudly.

The warriors froze. The woman with the face paint took another step forward, then stopped again at the tree line. Her hand was on her sword but she didn't draw it.

The man in Max's grip was breathing fast, shallow breaths that moved the blade against his skin. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't, please—"

"Quiet," Max said.

"You don't understand," the man continued, his voice rising. "You can't—we can't go in there. We won't. But you—" His words tumbled over each other, panic making them incoherent. "The forest doesn't care. It doesn't—you brought the boy in there and it won't—"

"I said quiet."

One of the warriors nocked an arrow. Max shifted, putting the hostage between himself and the archer.

"Bro," Max called.

The spider appeared above them, dropping from a branch with his wings spread. Orange light flickered in his abdomen.

"Light them up."

Bro dove.

Fire erupted from his body, a stream of flame that arced toward the White Hands warriors. They scattered, shouting, diving into the snow. The woman with the face paint rolled left, came up in a crouch. She was yelling orders but her warriors were already retreating, backing away from the tree line.

The Blindrages turned and bolted, their riders clinging to their backs as the massive beasts thundered away across the open ground.

Bro circled back, wings carrying him in lazy loops above Max's head. The warriors on foot were regrouping maybe fifty meters back, forming a line. The woman stood at their center, still staring at the forest. At Max.

"You'll die in there, son of Frosthold," she called. Her voice carried across the distance, clear and cold. "The forest takes everyone."

Max didn't answer. He dragged his hostage backward, deeper into the trees. The man stumbled, his breathing still quick and panicked.

"Please," the man whispered. "Please, you have to let me go. I can't—I won't go deeper. The forest—"

"Keep walking."

The man's legs barely worked. Max half-dragged him between the massive trunks, keeping the dagger pressed to his throat. Tarak clung to Max's back, silent now, his breathing steadier.

Behind them, the White Hands warriors didn't follow. Max could see them through the gaps in the trees, standing at the edge, watching. Waiting.

The woman raised her hand. A signal. The warriors lowered their weapons.

Max pulled the hostage deeper into the Witch's Forest. The trees closed around them, massive and ancient, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out most of the gray sky. The snow here was undisturbed, pristine. There were no tracks. No signs of life.

Chapter 187. Never A Day Of Rest

Magic, for practitioners, had a distinct feeling.

It wasn't something you could explain to someone who'd never touched mana. Not really. The words existed—tingling, buzzing, humming, warmth—but they were all approximations. Shadows of the actual sensation cast onto the wall of mundane experience.

The best comparison Adom had ever come up with was heat from a candle.

Move your hand closer to the flame, and you feel it. The warmth increases. Gets more intense. Your skin starts to prickle with it. Move closer still, and it becomes uncomfortable. Then painful. Then you pull away before you burn yourself.

Except with magic, you didn't feel burn.

You felt presence.

A spell being cast two feet away from you had weight. Substance. Like standing next to someone who was humming a song—you could feel the vibration in your chest even if you couldn't hear the tune clearly.

A spell being cast ten feet away was dimmer. Softer. Like that same person had moved into the next room.

A spell being cast a hundred feet away was barely noticeable unless you were paying attention. A distant echo. A ripple on the surface of a pond you were standing beside.

The more accomplished a mage was, the easier it became to detect mana use. The sensitivity increased and sharpened. What had once required conscious effort—reaching out with your magical senses, actively searching—became passive and sutomatic. Like how you didn't have to think about hearing sounds or smelling scents. They just happened.

Adom had reached that prestigious rank years ago.

Which meant he could feel, at exactly less than a mile from here, the use of magic.

And at a mile.

And here.

And there.

And... everywhere, actually.

Because he was in Arkhos.

Mega-city. Population somewhere north of two million. Home to the recently renamed Xerxes Academy of Higher Magical Learning, which was currently floating approximately eight hundred feet above the ground in the form of dozens of interconnected towers and buildings that required constant, massive mana manipulation just to stay airborne.

The magical signature from the academy alone was like standing next to a bonfire. Overwhelming. All-consuming. It dominated every other magical feeling within a several-mile radius.

And that was before you factored in the Magisterium's new towers. Six of them, scattered throughout the city, each one housing dozens of mages who were actively working. Casting spells. Enchanting items. Doing research that involved channeling enough mana to power a small village.

Plus the random practitioners scattered throughout the streets. Shopkeepers maintaining enchantments on their wares. Guards with detection spells running on their armor. Healers at clinics. Artificers in their workshops.

Looking for a specific magical signature in Arkhos without knowing what that signature looked like was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Except the haystack was on fire.

And someone had dumped several thousand other needles into it.

And also the haystack was floating.

Adom rose into the air.

[Flight] was second nature at this point. He didn't think about the mana expenditure or the spell structure. Just willed himself upward, and his body obeyed.

Invisibility was still active. Which was good. No one below would see a magus shooting into the sky above the market district. That would raise questions.

He climbed. Fifty feet. A hundred. Two hundred.

The city spread out beneath him.

From up here, Arkhos looked almost peaceful. The streets formed neat grids. The buildings clustered together in sensible patterns. The river cut through the eastern quarter like a silver ribbon.

From up here, you couldn't see the pickpockets or the arguments or the crying child who'd just been turned into a bomb.

Adom adjusted his glasses, the ones who stored [Riddler's Bane] and [Revealer's Eye].

Wearing them felt like putting on a second set of eyes.

Everything gained an extra layer. A shimmer. Like someone had painted the world with invisible ink that only he could see.

Enchanted items glowed faintly. Active spells burned brighter. Magical constructs—wards, barriers, detection grids—showed up as geometric patterns laid over reality.

Adom had always had a good eye for details. Pattern recognition was one of his strengths. But with [Riddler's Bane], he could make out things that would otherwise be much hader to detect.

Like transportation crystals.

He was looking for transportation crystals.

That was his working theory, anyway. No proof. Just logic.

If you were going to send a kid with a bomb to kill a magus, you'd want an escape plan. Something fast and reliable. One that didn't require you to run through crowded streets while people screamed and city guards converged on your position.

Transportation crystals fit the bill perfectly.

They weren't common. Not like wands or enchanted swords or healing potions. Those were mass-produced. Sold in shops. Available to anyone with coin.

Transportation crystals were expensive. Difficult to make. Required specialized knowledge and rare materials. A surprisingly large part of the world's population went their entire lives without ever seeing one.

They were used for very specific things.

Like when you were in a place you shouldn't be and needed immediate extraction in case of discovery.

Adom knew this because he'd used them for exactly those reasons before.

Transportation crystals came in pairs.

Twin crystals. Crystal A and Crystal B. Two pieces of the same whole, attuned to each other during the creation process.

You kept one—Crystal A—on your person. Left the other—Crystal B—at your destination. Your safe house. Your extraction point. Wherever you needed to go in a hurry.

The attunement between them created a resonance. A frequency. Like two tuning forks that vibrated at exactly the same pitch. That resonance was always on. Always humming. A constant connection between the two crystals that said I am here and I am there and we belong together.

When you activated Crystal A, space folded. Just for a second. Less than a second. Just long enough for you to step through the fold and arrive at Crystal B's location.

Then reality snapped back.

And you were somewhere else.

The resonance frequency was distinctive. Sharp. Precise. A single clear note in a symphony of noise.

Most people couldn't detect it.

But with [Riddler's Bane], Adom could see those frequencies. They showed up as thin lines of light. Threads connecting Crystal A to Crystal B. Stretching across the city. Across miles, sometimes. Invisible to everyone except someone with the right enchantment.

And if someone was using a transportation crystal for a quick getaway after a bombing, they'd have Crystal A with them. On the rooftop where they were watching. Waiting to see if their plan worked.

Which meant Crystal B would be somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Somewhere they could land without drawing attention.

But the resonance would still be there.

The thread would still be visible.

Adom hovered three hundred feet above the market district.

Closed his eyes.

Took a breath.

Let his senses expand.

Magic washed over him. The bonfire of the academy. The smaller fires of the Magisterium towers. The candle flames of individual practitioners. All of it blurred together into white noise.

He filtered.

Pushed the academy's signature to the background. Muted it. Not gone—impossible to ignore something that massive—but dimmed enough that he could focus on other things.

The Magisterium towers next. Same process. Acknowledge them. Categorize them. Move them out of the way.

The individual practitioners were harder. There were so many. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Each one a small flicker of mana use.

But transportation crystal resonances had that sharp, precise signature.

Adom opened his eyes.

Looked down through [Riddler's Bane].

And there—about four hundred feet to the west—a line of light. Thin. Pale gold. Stretching from a rooftop toward the warehouse district.

And there—six hundred feet to the south—another line. Same color. Same thickness. Connecting a narrow alley to somewhere beyond the eastern wall.

And there—two hundred feet to the east—a third line. This one stretched from the roof of an old building toward the docks.

Three resonance frequencies.

Three pairs of transportation crystals.

All within a half-mile radius of Biggins' shop.

Adom felt something cold and satisfied settle in his chest.

Got you.

Or—well. Got three possibilities.

The closest one was to the east. Two hundred feet. The thread of light originated from the roof of an old brick building. Three stories. Faded sign. The kind of place that had been empty long enough that people stopped noticing it.

Perfect spot for watching a shop across the way.

Adom angled himself.

Descended.

The invisibility spell was still holding. Good. He didn't need witnesses for this.

He dropped altitude quickly. Fifty feet per second. The wind rushed past him but didn't pull at his clothes—one of the benefits of a well-constructed flight spell was that it created a minor barrier against air resistance.

One hundred feet above the building.

Fifty feet.

Twenty.

The building was exactly what it looked like from above. Red brick. Narrow windows. A sign that read "Morten's Medicinals" in peeling paint.

The roof was flat.

And standing on it were two people.

Adom slowed his descent. Came to a stop about fifteen feet above them, hovering in midair, invisible, watching.

Through [Riddler's Bane], the resonance thread was brighter now. Stronger. It originated from the man's coat pocket. A small point of golden light. Crystal A. The thread stretched away from him, across the rooftops, toward the docks where Crystal B waited.

A man and a woman.

The man was tall. Very tall. Maybe six and a half feet. Broad shoulders. Dark coat. And across his throat, running from just below his left ear to just below his right—

A scar.

Thick and pale against his tan skin.

The woman was shorter. Five foot six, maybe. Dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. Dark skin. And on her hands were tattoos.

Geometric patterns. Triangles and circles and lines that interlocked in ways that were probably significant if you knew what you were looking at.

Both of them were staring toward Biggins' shop.

Both of them looked tense.

The woman shifted her weight. Said something to the man. Her voice was too quiet for Adom to hear from this distance.

The man nodded.

Reached into his coat pocket.

Pulled out the crystal.

It was small. Maybe the size of a walnut. Pale blue. Even without [Riddler's Bane], Adom would have been able to see the faint glow coming from it.

The man held it up.

Was getting ready to activate it.

They were about to leave.

Adom dropped.

The flight spell released all at once, and gravity took over with the kind of enthusiasm it always had for objects that stopped resisting. Fifteen feet passed in just over a second, which was enough time for Adom to angle his body forward and cushion the impact with a carefully timed burst of mana that spread across his legs right as his boots made contact with the tar-covered roof.

The landing made almost no sound. A soft thump that could have been anything. A bird. A piece of debris falling from somewhere higher up. Nothing worth turning around for.

The man was holding the crystal up to eye level, fingers curled around the pale blue stone, thumb positioned directly over the activation glyph that had been carved into its surface. His mouth was moving.

Adom's hand shot out and closed around the crystal before the man could finish whatever he was saying.

The motion was faster than either of them could process. One moment the crystal was in the man's hand, safely tucked against his palm, ready to activate. The next moment it was gone, and there was an invisible force wrapped around the man's wrist, pulling his arm forward slightly from the momentum of something he couldn't see taking something he'd been holding.

The woman reacted first. Her head snapped toward the man, eyes widening as she registered what had just happened, and her hands came up in a defensive posture that suggested some kind of training even if it wasn't magical in nature. Geometric tattoos shifted across her knuckles and fingers as her muscles tensed, and her mouth opened to shout something that Adom had absolutely no interest in hearing.

He flicked his other hand toward her and weaved [Push].

The spell was simple. Brutally so. It took kinetic force and applied it in a single direction with enough strength to move objects that weighed up to several hundred pounds. Adom used it for opening heavy doors sometimes. For moving furniture when he was rearranging his study. For launching people into the sky when they'd participated in bombing children and he wanted them out of the way for a few seconds.

The woman left the rooftop like she'd been fired from a cannon.

Her scream started about three feet off the ground and continued as she rocketed past the fourth story of the neighboring building, past the fifth story, past the point where Adom could make out individual features on her face. She became a dark speck against the afternoon sky, still rising and screaming, the sound getting fainter and fainter until it disappeared entirely into the general noise of the city below.

The man turned toward where Adom was standing.

His eyes were wide and confused. He couldn't see anything because the invisibility spell was still active, but he knew something was there. Someone had just stolen his transportation crystal and launched his partner into the stratosphere, and that kind of thing didn't happen by accident. His hand moved toward his belt, reaching for something, and Adom decided that whatever the man was reaching for was probably going to complicate things.

So he punched him.

The invisibility dropped as Adom's fist connected with the man's jaw. There were ways to maintain an invisibility spell while performing physical actions, but they required concentration that Adom didn't feel like expending when he could just let the enchantment fail and deal with being visible for a few seconds. His knuckles hit the man's face slightly below and to the left of his mouth, which was the ideal position for this kind of strike if you wanted to rattle someone's brain around inside their skull hard enough to shut down conscious thought without causing permanent damage.

The man's head snapped to the side. His legs buckled. He made a sound that was half grunt, half exhale, and then he was falling backward with all the grace of a sack of potatoes being dropped off a table.

He hit the roof hard.

Didn't move after that.

Adom stood over him for a moment, flexing his fingers. Spells were useful and elegant and often let you accomplish things that would be physically impossible through mundane means. But there was something deeply, viscerally satisfying about a well-placed punch to the jaw of someone who absolutely deserved it.

Someone was shouting.

Multiple someones, actually.

Adom looked down over the edge of the rooftop and saw a crowd forming in the street below. People pointing upward and staring. They'd presumably witnessed either a woman being launched into the sky or a man suddenly appearing on a rooftop where no one had been standing a moment ago, or possibly both if they'd been paying close attention.

One of them, a middle-aged woman in a merchant's apron, was shielding her eyes against the sun and squinting up at him.

Another person, an older gentleman with grey hair and expensive-looking robes, was leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowed, and Adom saw the exact moment recognition settled across the man's features.

"Is that—" the older gentleman started.

"Magus Sylla?" someone else finished.

"The Ghost?"

"What's he doing up there?"

"Did he just throw someone?"

"I saw it! He threw someone straight up!"

"Where did she go?"

"Is she going to come back down?"

The questions were coming faster now, voices overlapping, people who had been walking past or shopping or minding their own business suddenly very interested in what was happening on the roof of Morten's medicinal shop. Adom could see more heads turning in his direction. More people stopping. More fingers pointing.

He raised his voice slightly, projecting it downward with just enough mana enhancement that everyone in the immediate area would be able to hear him clearly without him having to shout. "These were criminals that I just apprehended. Please don't worry. The situation has been managed."

That should have been reassuring. Magus Sylla of the Magisterium tells you that criminals have been caught and everything is under control, you nod and go about your day, confident that the proper authorities are handling things.

Except people were still staring, pointing and asking questions. One of those questions was, "Where's the woman? The one you threw?"

Right. The woman.

Adom tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, tracking the trajectory he'd sent her on. [Push] wasn't a subtle spell, and he'd put enough force behind it to ensure she'd be out of the way for at least fifteen or twenty seconds, which meant she'd gone up quite a ways before gravity started winning the argument. He could see her now, a dark speck against the clouds, and she was definitely coming back down.

She was also screaming again. The sound was getting louder as she got closer, transforming from a faint echo into a full-throated shriek of terror.

The crowd below was panicking now. People backing away from the street directly beneath her, shouting warnings.

Adom stood there and thought.

Homunculi.

That's what these two were. He was certain of it now, even before checking the man lying unconscious at his feet. The woman had moved with a fluidity that wasn't quite natural, and the man's proportions were just slightly off in ways that would be easy to miss if you weren't looking for them. Homunculi, like Thessarian had been. Artificial people created through Farmusian techniques that Adom didn't fully understand and didn't particularly want to learn more about given how thoroughly unpleasant the entire concept was.

But homunculi had mana cores. He'd sensed them when he'd fought with one, five years ago.

These two had nothing.

No mana cores. No magical presence beyond the transportation crystal. No internal reservoir of power that would mark them as practitioners of any kind.

New variants, then. Updated models, perhaps. Improvements on the original design, assuming you considered removing someone's ability to use magic an improvement rather than a limitation.

Farmusian-made, as the man's accent suggested before he was knocked out . The Chancellor of Sundar was involved somehow, though the specifics had been unclear. Thessarian hadn't known the details, or hadn't been willing to share them, but she'd known enough to confirm that homunculi production was happening and that it was connected to people with significant political power.

Which meant this attack wasn't random.

They'd moved against Adom specifically. Targeted him. Used a child as a weapon and positioned themselves for a clean extraction afterward, which suggested planning and resources and organizational backing that went beyond simple criminal opportunism.

The woman was getting closer now. Maybe two hundred feet up. Still screaming and falling. The crowd below had cleared a rough circle in the street, people pressed against building walls and ducking into doorways, everyone watching the sky with expressions that ranged from horrified fascination to morbid curiosity.

At first, Adom had assumed this was about his position as a Magus.

He was one of the ten. A high-value target for anyone with grievances against the Magisterium or political ambitions that involved destabilizing the current power structure. That would have made sense. It would have been logical.

But sadly, experience had taught Adom to assume the worst-case scenario and prepare accordingly.

The Order. The Architect. There were people looking for him actively, and not the kind of people who sent polite letters requesting meetings. People from the Order's corrupted branches, the ones who had twisted the organization's original purpose into something dark and hungry and willing to sacrifice children if it advanced their goals. His identity as a member of the Order had been kept secret by Biggins specifically to filter out intruders and keep only the sincere ones, the people who genuinely wanted to help rather than infiltrate and destroy.

No other Magus had been targeted like this since the war started. Just him.

Which meant someone knew. Someone had connected him to the Order, to the Architect and whatever secrets he was keeping that made him worth killing in a way that would look like collateral damage from a random bombing.

One hundred feet. The woman's scream had taken on a different quality now, more desperate, more certain of the outcome, and Adom could see individual details again. Her face. Her hands clawing at the air as if she could somehow grab onto something and stop her descent.

He needed to advance the plans. Move faster than they'd originally intended. Investigate the identity of his enemies more thoroughly, map out their networks, figure out who knew what and how much danger everyone was actually in.

And as it happened, a good start would be interrogation.

Adom raised his hand and wove the spell for [Gravity Control] in the space in front of him, fingers moving through the necessary gestures while his mind shaped the mana into the proper configuration. Local area manipulation. About twenty feet in diameter. Centered on the woman's trajectory. He waited until she was thirty feet from the ground, close enough that the crowd could see her face clearly, far enough that he had room to work with if the spell didn't catch properly.

Then he activated it.

The woman's scream cut off abruptly as gravity stopped being a thing that applied to her in the normal way. Her descent slowed. Rapidly. From terminal velocity to a gentle drift in the space of about five feet, and then she was just floating there in midair, arms and legs still positioned like she was falling even though she'd stopped moving downward entirely.

She hung there for a moment, suspended, her breath coming in rapid gasps that Adom could hear even from the rooftop.

Then he adjusted the spell slightly, redirecting the gravitational field to pull her horizontally instead of letting her hover, and she drifted sideways through the air like a leaf caught in a very gentle wind. Toward where Adom was standing next to her unconscious partner.

The crowd below was dead silent now.

Adom glanced down at them, then back at the woman, then down at the man at his feet. Both homunculi and involved in an attempt to kill him through the use of a child. They would have to answer some questions about who sent them and why and what else they knew about the current situation.

He adjusted his glasses and waited for the woman to finish her drift toward the rooftop.

Never a day of rest it seemed.

Gamble King Chapter 39. Escape .Part I

Ah, the sweet winter mornings in the north.

There was something special about them, really. The way the pre-dawn light turned everything blue and silver. The absolute silence that came with fresh snow. The crisp, clean air that burned your lungs in the best possible way when you took that first deep breath of the day.

Evidently, every place had its problems. The north's problems just happened to include monsters that would eat you if you didn't find shelter before nightfall. And the voices. Those were a nice touch. The ones that whispered your name from the darkness, getting closer each time, until you either went mad or went outside to meet whatever was calling you. Very atmospheric. Real charm to it.

Dying in horrible pain was simply part of the northern experience. Like frostbite, but more immediate.

But if you were lucky enough to have a magically heated cave to sleep in—one of those ancient sanctuaries with enchantments woven into the stone itself, the kind that kept both the cold and the Things That Came At Night at bay—well, then you had yourself a perfect morning. Cozy warmth against the frozen world outside. No creature trying to claw through the walls to get at you. No voices promising you things if you'd just step outside for a moment. The kind of setup that made you want to burrow deeper into your cloak and stay there for another hour. Maybe two. Maybe until spring, if you had enough jerky.

Of course, all of that assumed you weren't currently halfway down a cliff face with a teenager on your back and a very real possibility of plummeting to your death.

Max's foot slipped.

Just slightly. Just enough.

"Shit shit shit—"

Tarak's arms tightened around Max's neck in a panic, grabbing for better purchase, which had the unfortunate side effect of cutting off Max's air supply completely.

"Stop—" Max tried to say, but it came out as a strangled wheeze. He groped for the next handhold, fingers scraping against frozen rock. His other foot found purchase. Barely. "Stop—strangling—"

Tarak squeezed harder.

Max's vision started to go fuzzy at the edges. His hand found a crack in the stone and he jammed his fingers in, holding on with everything he had while his lungs screamed for oxygen.

Bro, perched on Max's shoulder, started to glow brighter. Orange shifting to yellow. Heat building.

"No," Max gasped out, the word barely audible through his compressed throat. "Bro—no—"

The spider's mandibles opened slightly.

Tarak saw it.

His arms immediately loosened. Not completely—they were still on a cliff, after all—but enough that Max could actually breathe again.

He sucked in air, coughing. "Thanks. Thank you. Just—don't let go completely, okay? Just less strangling."

"Sorry," Tarak said from behind him. His voice was shaky. "I thought—"

"I know. It's fine. We're fine."

They weren't fine. They were descending a cliff in the very first lights of dawn with Max's muscles already screaming from the effort and Tarak's weight throwing off his center of gravity. But they were alive, which was close enough to fine for now.

Max found another foothold. Then another. His arms were burning.

"How far is your village again?" he asked, breath coming hard.

"Half a day's walk," Tarak said. "Maybe less. We are fast walkers."

Max did the math in his head while searching for the next grip. Half a day for a tribe kid who'd grown up hiking through this terrain. Figure they moved at maybe three miles an hour, sustained. Call it six hours of walking. That was roughly eighteen miles, maybe a bit less.

"Two hours from here," Max said. "If we move fast."

He gulped and kept descending.

They'd talked about this in the middle of the night. Well, talked was generous. Max had woken up sometime around what he guessed was midnight—hard to tell in the perpetual darkness of northern winter—and found Tarak still awake, staring at the cave entrance.

The White Hands had been expanding their territory recently. That was the first thing Tarak had told him. They'd built a new village not too far from here. Maybe a few hours' walk. Tarak and his friends had found it while hunting, seen the stakes with the white handprints, turned around immediately, and tried to get home to warn the elders.

They hadn't made it.

Which meant the ones who'd escaped yesterday might have had time to reach their village and sound the alarm. Might be organizing a hunting party right now, getting ready to leave at first light.

Or, more likely, they'd been killed by something in the dark before they made it home. The sun had already dipped below the horizon when they fled. Nothing survived out here after dark without shelter.

But if they'd died, their people would track them. Would find the bodies. Would follow the trail back to the cave and then down this cliff. Would give chase.

This was a race against time. The sooner they left, the better their chances.

Max's foot touched solid ground.

He stood there for a moment, panting, letting Tarak's weight settle properly on his back. His legs were shaking. His arms felt like jelly. Bro skittered down from his shoulder and onto the snow, dimming his glow to barely a spark.

"Where?" Max asked between breaths. "Which direction?"

Tarak pointed east, toward where the sun would eventually rise.

Max jogged. Fast as he could manage with a teenager on his back and snow up to his shins.

"There," Tarak said, pointing left. "Through trees. Is faster."

Max adjusted course, breathing hard. Bro scuttled alongside them, keeping pace easily.

Three minutes. Then he stopped, hands on his knees, sucking in air. Thirty seconds. Then he was moving again.

"Rocks ahead," Tarak said. "Go around. Right side."

Max went right.

Three more minutes. Stop. Breathe. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. Keep moving.

If anything, he'd lose all his fat before next year at this pace. Assuming he lived that long.

"Cut through there," Tarak pointed at a gap between two boulders. "Other side is flat. Good for running."

Max squeezed through. Started jogging again.

Stop. Breathe. Move.

The pattern repeated. Max's world narrowed to Tarak's directions and the rhythm of his own gasping breaths. Left here. Straight through this clearing. Watch the ice there.

Then they heard it.

A horn. Low and resonant, carrying across the frozen landscape.

Max stopped mid-stride.

"White Hands," Tarak said quietly. His arms tightened around Max's neck. Not strangling this time. Just scared. "They hunt for us now."

"Okay." Max forced his breathing to slow. Forced himself to think. "Where do we go? You know a place we can lay low?"

"I—maybe. There is..." Tarak trailed off, uncertain. "Place where rocks are tall. Many hiding. But is not so far from here. They maybe find."

Max wanted to curse. Part of him regretted leaving the cave at all. They'd had the high ground there. Defensible position. Could have held out for—

No. No, they couldn't have.

The White Hands had shamans. Tarak had mentioned it last night. Magic users. Max remembered from the books, from the early chapters when Bjorn was still struggling and learning. The shamans had been nightmares to deal with. If he stayed in the cave, they'd run out of arrows before running out of enemies. Then food. Then water. And the White Hands would just have to rotate their fighters, going back to their villages each night, coming back fresh at dawn.

A siege would have killed them slowly.

Better to be healthy now and be able to move.

"Show me," Max said. "The rocks. We go there."

They ran.

Tarak's directions came faster now, urgent. "Left! No, there, between the stones!"

Max's boots pounded through snow. His breath came in ragged gasps that burned his throat. The weight on his back felt like it was getting heavier with every step, which was impossible, but his muscles didn't care about possibility. They just screamed.

"Straight! Keep straight until big tree, then right!"

Bro skittered ahead, then circled back, then ahead again. The spider's glow had dimmed to almost nothing, which meant he was conserving energy. That was probably smart. Max wished he could conserve energy too, but he was pretty sure his body was currently burning through calories at a rate that would make a nutritionist weep.

"There!" Tarak pointed. "See rocks? Tall ones?"

Max saw them. A cluster of boulders rising out of the snow like broken teeth. They were huge, some of them easily twice his height, jumbled together in a way that created gaps and shadows and places where a person might hide if they were desperate enough.

Which they were.

Max pushed harder, ignoring the way his vision was starting to blur at the edges. Just a little further. The rocks grew closer. He could make out individual stones now, see the way ice had formed in the crevices between them.

Another horn sounded behind them. Closer this time.

"Almost there," Tarak said, and Max didn't know if the kid was trying to encourage him or himself.

His foot hit a patch of ice hidden under the snow and he nearly went down. He caught himself at the last second, stumbled forward, kept moving. The rocks were right there. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

They reached the base of the largest boulder and Max finally stopped, gasping so hard he thought his lungs might actually tear. Tarak slid off his back and Max's knees almost buckled from the sudden release of weight.

"Where?" Max managed to get out between breaths. "Where do we hide?"

Tarak looked around, eyes scanning the rocks. He pointed at a gap between two massive stones. "There. Goes down. Like small cave."

Max looked. The gap was narrow at the top but widened as it descended into shadow. It would be tight, but they'd fit. Probably. He hoped.

"Go," he said.

Tarak went first, sliding into the gap with the ease of someone half his size. Max followed, squeezing through the narrow opening. The stone scraped against his shoulders as he descended. It was dark down here, the sort of dark that made you question whether your eyes were even open. Max's boots hit solid ground after about six feet of careful climbing.

The space was larger than he'd expected. Not spacious, but enough room for both of them to crouch without touching. The ceiling was low enough that Max couldn't stand up straight. Bro crawled down after them, his dim glow providing just enough light to see by.

Max pressed his back against the cold stone and tried to think. They were hidden for now, but that wouldn't last. The White Hands were hunting them, and they clearly knew what they were doing. The horn meant they were coordinating. Organized hunters were the worst kind.

He could hear Tarak's breathing in the darkness, quick and shallow. The kid was scared. Max was scared too, but he'd had more practice hiding it.

Then a smell hit him.

It was wrong. That was the first thing Max's brain registered. Wrong in a way that made his hindbrain start screaming warnings. Musky and thick and rotten-sweet, like spoiled meat left in the sun, mixed with something else he couldn't quite place. Something that made his eyes water.

Max froze.

He knew that smell. The books had described it as "the scent of curdled earth and desperate hunger," which he'd always thought was one of Sabo's particularly bad bits of prose. Overly poetic nonsense that didn't actually tell you anything useful.

Except now he was here, and now he understood. His nose understood. His entire body understood.

A blindrage.

The sound came next. A wet, rhythmic huffing. Fhum. Fhum. Fhum. Like something breathing through a nose that was too big, too open, designed for pulling in scent rather than air. Max could hear it moving above them, heavy footfalls crunching through snow.

He'd never seen one in person. The books had described them, but he'd always had trouble visualizing it. Now his brain was helpfully filling in the gaps with something that looked like it had crawled out of a nightmare. Six legs, he remembered. Muscular body built low to the ground. No eyes, because it didn't need them. The entire front of its face was just nostril slits and sensory organs that could track prey across miles.

And teeth. Lots of teeth.

Max's heart was hammering so hard he was sure the thing could hear it. Could smell the fear-sweat beading on his skin. He pressed himself flatter against the stone and slowly, carefully, began to prepare his spell. It formed in his mind, ready to be cast the moment he needed it.

The huffing got louder. Closer.

Fhum. Fhum. Fhum.

Tarak's hand found Max's arm in the darkness and squeezed. The kid was shaking.

Above them, someone spoke. A man's voice, rough and confident. "Frosthold."

Aah damn.

Max's stomach dropped. They'd been smelled. Of course they had. They were hiding in a hole in the ground and the thing hunting them was literally designed to find prey by scent. This had been a terrible idea.

He reached down and found Tarak's shoulder, gave it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. The kid needed to stay quiet and calm. One sound and it was over.

Bro was already glowing brighter. Max hadn't needed to signal him. The spider knew.

The huffing was right above them now. Max could hear the Blindrage's claws scraping against stone as it moved closer to the gap. The smell was overwhelming, making his eyes stream. He raised his palm, pointing it toward where he thought the creature's head would be. His spell was ready, burning in his mind, waiting to be released. He'd get one shot at this. Maybe two if he was lucky.

The seconds stretched. Max counted them in his head while his heart tried to punch through his ribcage. Three. Four. Five.

The huffing stopped.

Silence.

Then it started again, different this time. Focused. Directed down into the gap where they were hiding.

Max saw movement. Just a shadow at first, blocking out what little light filtered down from above. Then more. The thing was descending into the gap. Its head pushed through the opening, massive and eyeless, all gaping nostrils and exposed sensory organs that pulsed and twitched as it pulled in their scent.

Tarak made a small sound. Not quite a whimper, but close.

The Blindrage's head snapped toward them.

Its mouth opened. Max saw the teeth, rows of them, curved inward to hold struggling prey. The roar that came out of that mouth wasn't just sound. It was force. A physical wall of concussive noise that slammed into Max's chest and made his teeth rattle. The books had mentioned this. A defense mechanism. A hunting tool. The roar could disorient prey, knock them unconscious if they were close enough.

Max cast, and Bro fired.

The spell erupted from his palm in a rush of heat and light. Fire engulfed the Blindrage's head, turning the cramped space into a furnace. The creature screamed, a sound even worse than the roar, and thrashed backward. Its body slammed against the rocks as it tried to escape the flames consuming its face.

"Move!" Max shouted, already scrambling toward the gap.

They climbed out into chaos. The Blindrage was running in circles, its entire head wreathed in fire, slamming into boulders and trees. The rider—and there had been a rider, Max saw him now, sprawled in the snow where he'd been thrown—was trying to get up.

Max ran. Tarak was on his back again. They needed distance. Needed to get away while the Blindrage was distracted and—

"Argh!"

Max stumbled as pain suddenly exploded in his thigh, nearly went down. He looked down and saw the arrow shaft protruding from his leg. No. No no no. He kept moving, limping now, each step sending fresh waves of agony through his body.

Another impact. This one in his shoulder. The force of it spun him halfway around.

Tarak's arms released from around his neck.

Max turned, reaching for the kid, and saw the arrow in Tarak's back. Right between the shoulder blades. The kid's mouth opened, trying to form words, but all that came out was a wet gurgling sound.

Another arrow sprouted from Tarak's neck.

The kid's eyes went wide. Blood spilled over his lips. He crumpled.

"No!" Max lunged forward, trying to catch him, and three more arrows hit him in quick succession. Chest. Side. Leg. He went down hard, his hands scrabbling in the snow as he tried to reach Tarak.

Bro was suddenly moving. Max's vision was already going dark at the edges, but he had just enough consciousness left to see his spider charging toward a cluster of snow-laden bushes. Flames erupted from Bro's body as he dove into the foliage. Men screamed. The bushes caught fire despite the snow.

Ambush.

The thought drifted through Max's fading mind with an odd clarity. They'd been waiting. The White Hands had known they might come this way. Had set up archers in the bushes. Had used the Blindrage as bait to drive them out.

That was good tactical thinking. Smart. A mistake Max wouldn't make again.

The screaming from the bushes was getting quieter. Bro was winning, probably. Max hoped so.

Then came darkness.

[NUMBER OF REROLLS LEFT: 11]

A Note About The Gamble King

Hey everyone!

So I received a DM recently asking about The Gamble King's status, and I was confused because I thought I'd made a post about this, only to discover that Patreon apparently never published said post. Oops.

Please don't worry! The story is very much alive and well. In fact, I've actually finished Book 1 of The Gamble King and will be starting Book 2 soon. The absence has been entirely about building up a backlog and making the story more coherent overall.

As it happens, I'll be posting 2 chapters today to get us back on track, then resuming normal posting schedule along with Re: Birth: every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, plus surprise chapters on random days when the mood strikes.

I promise this story won't be abandoned unless I die, which would be unfortunate and highly inconvenient. But if that does happen (again, not a wish, just being realistic), I've even told my brother the full plan for the story, so... gg?

Dramatic, I know. But you never know.

Chapter 186. Tea Time

"Sooo, everything's going according to plan then, right?"

Biggins chuckled.

"Yes," he said, reaching for the teapot between them. "More or less. Though plans do have a way of developing personalities of their own, don't they?"

The pot was new. Or at least, Adom hadn't seen it before. It was glass—impossibly thin glass that seemed to shift colors depending on the angle of the light. Inside, the tea swirled in lazy spirals without anyone touching it.

Biggins poured. The liquid that came out was silver. Actually silver, like molten metal, except it steamed gently and smelled like honey and something else Adom couldn't identify. Something green.

"New blend," Biggins said, filling Adom's cup. "Been working on it for three weeks. Tell me what you think."

Adom had been in Biggins' back room for forty-five minutes now. Maybe closer to fifty. Time did odd things in some of his rooms. The space itself was larger than it should be—the door they'd entered through led to what should have been a storage closet, but the room stretched back into a comfortable sitting area with mismatched furniture and shelves crammed with things that definitely weren't inventory for the sweet shop.

A skull that hummed quietly. A snow globe with a tiny thunderstorm inside it. What looked like a perfectly ordinary rock except it floated three inches above its shelf and rotated slowly.

Adom lifted his cup. Sipped.

The taste hit his tongue and kept going. Down his throat, sure, but also sideways somehow. Like the flavor was reaching parts of him that didn't usually interact with food.

"It's..." He paused. Took another sip. "Bright?"

"Bright!" Biggins clapped his hands together once. "Yes! Exactly! Bright! That's what I was going for!"

Across from them, perched on what appeared to be a cushion made of compressed flower petals, Bennu was eating something that looked like bread but wasn't behaving like bread. It was pale yellow, roughly the size and shape of a dinner roll, and when Bennu tore a piece off, it stretched like taffy before separating.

The phoenix made a sound of pure contentment. A trill that went up and down the musical scale.

"Good?" Adom asked.

Bennu nodded vigorously, already tearing off another piece. "So good," he said between bites. "Which is strange, because you know I don't like sweet things."

"That's high praise," Adom said.

"It should be," Biggins said proudly. He leaned back in his chair—a tall-backed thing upholstered in purple velvet that was definitely too fancy for a storage room. "Took me seven attempts to get it right. The first batch tasted like soap. The second batch was actually soap. Long story. But this version?" He gestured at the roll in Bennu's talons. "All the benefits of sugar, none of the drawbacks. Won't rot your teeth. Won't make you crash after the energy spike. Your body processes it like a dream."

Bennu took another bite. Made another happy sound.

"A bit of alchemy here and there does wonders," Biggins continued, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "People think alchemy is all transmutation But the real art and magic is in the small things. Making something that tastes good and is good for you. Creating tea that makes you feel bright." He took a sip from his own cup. "Making the impossible everyday."

From Adom's pocket, Zuni stirred.

The quillick emerged slowly, nose twitching. His blue quills were standing at attention, all pointed directly at the bread-thing in Bennu's possession.

He made a small, questioning chirp.

Bennu, ever generous, tore off a piece and held it out.

Zuni took it delicately. Held it up to his nose. Sniffed it thoroughly, whiskers trembling with the effort of investigation.

Then he ate it.

His eyes went very wide.

Then very closed.

He made a sound Adom had never heard him make before. A prolonged, vibrating hum that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his tiny chest.

And then—nothing. No zooming around the room. No climbing the walls. No demanding more with aggressive chirps and attempted theft.

Just Zuni, sitting on Adom's shoulder, holding his piece of not-bread with both paws, eating it slowly with an expression of absolute transcendence on his small face.

"How," Adom said, staring at his familiar, "did you make something sweet enough to send Zuni into ecstasy but not turn him into a mad quillick?"

Biggins smiled. "Trade secret. Though I will say that balancing the energy release was the hardest part. The sugar equivalent hits slower. Steadier. Like a gentle tide instead of a storm."

Adom watched Zuni take another tiny, reverent bite.

Incredible.

He set his teacup down. The silver liquid inside was still swirling on its own, creating patterns that might have been meaningful or might have been random. Hard to tell with Biggins' creations.

"Back to the serious matters," Adom said.

The atmosphere shifted. Not dramatically. Biggins didn't sit up straighter or put on a stern expression. But something in the air changed frequency. The humming skull stopped humming. The floating rock stopped rotating.

"The tower," Adom said. "The one in the highlands. It's finished."

Biggins nodded once. "Right on schedule. Four years of careful construction. I assume Thom and his people did excellent work?"

"They did. Thorgen went to inspect it last month. Said it was everything we'd hoped for and more." Adom paused. "He also said it was time. Time to make it the new headquarters. Time to rally our allies there."

"The dwarf's good at knowing when the time is right," Biggins said. “Comes with the territory when you spend your life building foundations.” He said it fondly. "Did he give you the full strategic assessment?"

"He did. The location is defensible. Remote enough that we won't have casual visitors but accessible enough that people can reach it without arousing suspicion. The wards are in place. The infrastructure is ready." Adom met Biggins' eyes. "We can start bringing people in."

"Mmm." Biggins stroked his beard. It was white today. Yesterday it had been silver-gray. The day before that, it had been white with gray streaks. "I'll have Zara coordinate the initial transfers. She's been itching for something to organize. You know how she gets when she doesn't have a proper project."

Adom nodded. "Thank you."

"Arthun can handle the security assessments for each person we bring in," Biggins continued. "Make sure no one's been compromised. Make sure everyone understands the stakes." He tilted his head. "And I suppose it's time."

"Time for what?"

"To introduce you to the rest of them." Biggins smiled. "The ones we've managed to gather, anyway. They know about you, of course. In the abstract. The mysterious Architect. The one with the plan. But they haven't met you face to face."

Adom felt something settle in his chest. Relief, maybe. Or anticipation.

"You said there were four hundred," he said. "Four hundred people with us in the Order?"

"Give or take," Biggins confirmed. "Four hundred and twelve at last count, but three of them are in deep cover positions that we can't risk extracting yet. And one is technically dead but that's his cover identity so it's complicated." He waved a hand. "Four hundred is close enough for us to work with."

"And the other branches?"

Biggins' expression didn't change, but something hardened behind his eyes. "Not to be trusted. We've been over this. The infiltration went deeper than we thought. Some of them don't even know they're compromised. Some of them do and are playing along because they think they can outmaneuver the situation. Some of them..." He trailed off. "Some of them made their choices long ago."

Adom nodded. He’d heard this before. It didn’t make it easier to accept that the organization that had taken three thousand years to build was now reduced to four hundred and twelve loyal members. But reality was what it was.

"These four hundred though," Biggins continued, his tone warming slightly. "These four hundred are good people. Fine people. Specialists in their respective fields. Artificers, strategists, information brokers, combat experts, researchers. Some of them have been with us since the beginning. Some joined later but proved their worth a dozen times over." He leaned forward slightly. "They'll be invaluable for what's coming."

"Good," Adom said. "That's... that's good. It feels good to finally advance on this side of things. To have something concrete instead of just—"

Biggins raised one hand.

The gesture was gentle. Barely a movement. But it cut through Adom's words as effectively as a blade.

Adom stopped mid-sentence.

Bennu looked up from his bread, alert. Zuni's eyes opened, still slightly glazed from his sugar-ecstasy but sharpening quickly.

"What?" Adom asked. "What is it?"

Biggins tilted his head. His eyes had gone distant. Not unfocused—the opposite, actually. Like he was focusing on something very far away, or very close but invisible.

"You know the spell I have in the store," he said slowly. "The one that reads the desires of customers when they enter. Puts the item they want—or the closest approximation—right in front of them?"

Adom blinked at the non sequitur. He glanced at Zuni, who was still holding his piece of not-bread, whiskers twitching with residual bliss.

"Yes?" Adom said carefully.

"The thoughts that drive those desires," Biggins continued, still in that distant tone, "are generally sensed by me as well. Not the full contents, you understand. Just the shape of them. The emotional color. The urgency." His eyes refocused on Adom. "Someone just entered my shop."

A pause.

"And?" Adom prompted.

Biggins set down his teacup.

"They desire help," he said quietly.

Adom blinked.

"Why are you—" He stopped. Looked at Biggins more carefully.

The old dragon hadn't moved. Was still sitting in his purple velvet chair. But his shoulders had changed. Gone rigid in a way that looked casual but wasn't.

"It's just someone wanting help," Adom said slowly. "That's... that happens in shops. People want help."

"Yes," Biggins agreed.

He didn't elaborate.

Adom waited.

Bennu looked up from his bread. Zuni's whiskers twitched.

"Their life," Biggins said finally, each word measured, "is in danger. Immediate danger. The kind that's happening right now."

He stood.

Not quickly nor dramatically. Just rose from his chair like a man who'd remembered he had something to attend to.

Adom stood as well. Looked down at Zuni and Bennu.

"You two stay here. We'll be back in—"

Oh, do take your time, Zuni said. We shall endeavor not to perish from the hardship of your absence.

Bennu made an agreeable chirp. Tore off another piece of bread. His eyes were half-closed in bliss.

Right.

Adom followed Biggins toward the door.

He wasn't worried exactly. Concerned, perhaps. Curious definitely.

The door opened into the storage closet. Then through another door into the shop proper.

And Adom heard her voice immediately.

Thessarian.

"—okay? You're shaking. Here, sit down. Let me get you some water. Mr. Biggins has a chair in the back—"

"I can't," a young man's voice. Thin. Reedy. "I can't sit. I need—I need to find Magus Sylla. He came in here. I saw him. I saw him come in here and I need—"

Adom and Biggins emerged from the back.

The boy saw them.

Went completely still.

He was young. thirteen, maybe fourteen. Wore the new deep blue robes of Xerxes Academy. Third or fourth year by the quality of the fabric and the silver trim. Blond hair, cut short. Green eyes that were too wide.

And trembling.

His hands. His whole body. Like he was standing in a blizzard wearing nothing but his robes.

"M-Magus Sylla..."

Something cold slid down Adom's spine.

Wrong.

This was wrong.

Biggins stepped forward smoothly. His face was open and friendly. The sweet shop owner greeting a customer.

"Good afternoon, young man," he said warmly. "Ms. Thessarian tells me you need help. What can we do for you?"

Thessarian stepped aside.

"He was asking about you," she said to Adom. Her voice was quiet but steady. "Specifically. By name. When I told him you weren't here, he started trembling like—like this. Insisted he'd seen you come in."

The boy's eyes hadn't left Adom's face.

Adom took a breath. Kept his voice gentle.

"Hi there," he said. Took a small step forward, hands visible, nonthreatening. "I'm here. You found me. What's wrong? Why were you looking for me?"

The boy's face crumpled.

Just... collapsed inward.

And he started crying in gut-wrenching sobs that shook his whole frame.

"Hey," Adom said. Kept his voice soft and patient. "Hey, it's alright. Just tell me what's going on. Whatever it is, we can—"

"I'm sorry," the boy gasped out between sobs. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, they made me—they made me do it and I didn't—I couldn't—"

Adom felt it then.

The shift in the air behind him.

Biggins was doing magic. Quiet magic. Adom couldn't see what, but he could feel the shape of it. Contained. Precise.

Thessarian had backed up. Three steps. Four. Was now standing near the shop's front door.

Also wrong.

Adom looked at the boy.

No visible magical devices. No artifacts hanging from his neck or wrists. No rings. No earrings. Nothing tucked into his belt or boots that Adom could detect.

But.

They made me do it. Past tense. Already done.

The boy was crying harder now. His hands were fisted in his robes. His whole body shook like he was trying to tear himself apart from the inside out.

Someone had given him something.

Something dangerous.

Dangerous for Adom—the target.

Dangerous for the boy—who was shaking like he knew exactly what was about to happen to him.

An explosive.

Had to be.

And a potent one, probably. If they were using it against a magus. Against Adom specifically.

Which meant someone knew Adom was here. Had watched him enter Biggins' shop. Had grabbed a student and given him a bomb and sent him inside.

The question was who.

Adom crouched down slightly. Made himself smaller. Less threatening.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The boy hiccupped. Dragged a sleeve across his face.

"C-Calen. Calen Morse. Third year. R-runicology, sir."

"Okay, Calen." Adom kept his voice level. Steady. "My friend here—Mr. Biggins—he's going to take care of you. You don't need to worry. But I need you to tell me something. The people who made you do this. What did they look like?"

Calen gulped.

Smart kid. Knew what Adom was asking.

"There were two," he said. His voice was barely above a whisper. "A man and a woman. The man was tall. Really tall. Had a scar across his throat. Here." He touched his own neck. "Like someone tried to—to cut it. The woman was shorter. Dark hair. Dark skin. Had tattoos on her hands. Geometric patterns. They—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "They stopped me on the path. Between the academy and the market district."

"Where exactly?"

"The alley. The one behind the old theater. The one students use as a shortcut." Calen's hands were still shaking. "I was going to the library. Needed a book on alchemical processes for Professor Mirwen's class. They just—they appeared. One second the alley was empty, the next they were there."

"What did they give you?"

"I don't know. A small thing. Like a stone but not a stone. They put it—" His hand went to his chest. To his sternum. "They put it inside me. I felt it. I felt it go through my robes and my shirt and my skin and then it was just—inside."

Biggins made a small sound.

Adom didn't look at him.

"What did they tell you to do?" Adom asked.

"Find you. They said you'd be at this shop. Said I had—" Calen's voice broke. "Said I had fifteen minutes. That if I didn't find you and get close to you within fifteen minutes, the thing would—would—"

He didn't finish.

Didn't need to.

Adom stood. Looked at Calen. This terrified kid who'd been turned into a weapon.

"It's going to be fine," he said.

Calen made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been another sob.

"Mr. Biggins is very, very good at what he does," Adom continued. "He's already started working on it. You're going to be alright."

He turned to Biggins.

Biggins nodded once.

"Containment spell is active," he said quietly. His hands were moving in small, precise gestures. "The device is isolated. Won't detonate. Won't harm anyone in a three-block radius even if it tries." His eyes flicked to Adom. "But you need to go. Now. If they gave him fifteen minutes, and he said he was on his way to the library..."

"They might still be nearby," Adom finished. "Watching."

"Transportation crystal," Biggins said. "That's what I'd use. Stay close, watch the results, then vanish before anyone can respond. Which means if you're fast—"

"I can catch them."

Adom was already weaving.

[Invisibility].

The spell settled over him like a second skin. The world didn't change—he could still see everything perfectly clearly. But he knew from experience that to everyone else, he'd simply ceased to exist.

He moved toward the door.

Thessarian opened it without being asked. Didn't look at where he was. Probably couldn't see him. But she knew.

Adom stepped outside.

The market district spread out before him. Afternoon sun. Crowds of people moving between shops. Vendors calling out. The smell of roasting nuts and fresh bread.

Somewhere out here.

Two people.

A tall man with a scar across his throat.

A woman with geometric tattoos on her hands.

Somewhere out here, they were watching.

Waiting to see if their weapon had worked.

Adom started moving.

Chapter 185. The Die Is Cast

There was only darkness.

Total, utter darkness.

Adom sat cross-legged on something soft—a cushion—and tried not to think about how this was already going poorly.

"Diviners," Beth's voice came from somewhere to his left, "usually need to sit and meditate in order to reach a state of flow good enough to perceive the threads of time. To see the billions of possibilities woven within them."

Adom had tried this sort of meditation before. A few times. His most successful attempt had been when he'd wanted to determine whether his future sibling would be a boy or a girl. He saw a boy. Sort of.

Said sibling, Ada, was a girl.

Which said enough about Adom's best attempt at divination, and that had been some five years ago.

"Focus," Beth said.

He was focusing.

"Stop thinking about things."

Adom opened his eyes—not that it mattered in the darkness. "How do you stop thinking about things?"

"You forget about everything."

Right. Simple. Except it wasn't.

"I'll try," Adom said.

He closed his eyes again. Tried to empty his mind in a way that would let no thoughts enter. A certain state. That's what the books called it. A certain state of awareness. Very helpful, those books.

Beth was behind him now. He could hear her breathing. Then she coughed—a small, wet sound.

Something shifted. His focus felt... sharper, somehow. Like Beth was helping direct it with magic.

She coughed again.

"I can heal that, you know," Adom said.

Something tapped him on the head. Hard.

"Hush, boy!"

Adom came out of whatever half-meditative state he'd been approaching. "I have to ask, is it a wording thing or something? Because I know meditation. I've read about divination. Nowhere does it say you need to literally empty your mind. That's impossible. Even dead people think—"

He stopped himself.

Beth was quiet for a moment. "You've read the common texts. I am a prodigy. My methods are unconventional."

A prodigy and humble, apparently.

Birds started singing outside. The sound filtered through whatever walls surrounded them, distant but clear. Morning birds. Which meant—

"Oh my," Beth said, like she'd just remembered the time.

Light flooded the room.

Adom blinked, squinting as the curtains parted. All of them at once. Beth had waved her hand, and now natural sunlight poured into her house.

The interior was... cozy. That was the word. Warm wooden floors worn smooth by decades of footsteps. Bookshelves lined two walls, stuffed with volumes that looked older than Adom's grandfather. A fireplace sat cold and clean in one corner. The furniture was simple but well-made, chairs with embroidered cushions, a low table with tea stains, rugs in faded reds and golds.

It looked like a place where someone actually lived. Not a shrine to magic or mystery. Just a home.

Beth smiled at him. "This was a good start for today. You can go now."

Adom stared at her.

Beth turned around, walking toward her kitchen area. She paused. Didn't look back. "You're going to ask 'that's it? After one hour?'"

"That's exactly what I was going to say, yes."

At this point, he wasn't even surprised anymore.

Beth moved to her kitchen, began arranging something on a shelf. "As I said, it will require time before you get the gist of it. Patience, child."

"Did you see that in the future as well?"

"Why yes, of course."

Adom decided to try his luck. "What else did you see? What's to become of me?"

Beth chuckled. Actually chuckled. "Did you not get it still?"

"Get what?"

"A diviner must manipulate events to reach the suit of events they want." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "My telling you a thing might make you choose what I'd not like you to."

"Ah." Adom nodded slowly. "So you do know. How far have you seen?"

Beth waved her hand.

The world lurched.

Adom stumbled, catching himself against—

A wall. An exterior wall.

He was outside. In the street. Beth's door was closed in front of him.

He looked up.

Beth stood at her second-story window, looking down at him with that same slight smile.

"Lesson's over for today, Magus," she called down. "I believe you have a lot of other things to do in this fine morning. Do not let this old woman take up more of your time."

His mage robe and pointy hat floated down from the window. Levitated gently to land in his arms.

"Tomorrow at dawn," Beth said. "Same time."

She closed the window.

Adom stood in the street, holding his robe and hat, staring up at the now-empty window.

Well, Zuni said from Adom's pocket. She just kicked us out.

"I noticed," Adom muttered.

Do you perhaps think she knows everything? About what's going to happen?

"I think," he said slowly, "that if she does know everything, she's not going to tell me. Because telling me would change what happens. And apparently, she wants specific things to happen."

That's...

"Terrifying?" Adom suggested.

I was going to say 'controlling,' but terrifying works too.

Adom put on his robe. His hat. Started walking toward the main street.

His mind was already spinning with questions. About the Halls of Time. About Beth's gift. About how far she could really see, and what she'd already arranged to happen.

But one thing was clear: Beth was playing a much longer game than anyone realized.

And for some reason, she'd decided Adom needed to be part of it.

He started walking, thinking about Beth.

Should I be worried about this?

It didn't feel exactly good to have your destiny be known by a person. If you couldn't make your own choices, and if Beth was really in the know of what he was going to do, were they really his choices?

This only made him want to learn divination more. His petty side refused to have others make choices for him. No matter who they were.

Which was... perhaps hypocritical of him.

After all, he'd come back from the past, and had been actively trying ever since to change the direction the world would be taking. He was doing, in a way, the very same thing Beth was doing.

Still didn't sit right with him. Hypocritical or not.

Where are we headed in this fine morning? Zuni asked from his pocket.

I have a mission to prepare soon, Adom said internally. A spying mission. To uncover the proofs I told you about the other day. The ones about Morgana's case.

Ah, yes. The operation.

We should hurry, actually. I have classes to give later today, then a magi reunion with the other magi and the Archmage, and I also have to go see Fili, then Cyrel, then go for a reunion with Cass about Wangara's next quarter and new ventures, then go to Biggins to work on the Order, and then... He paused. Then on a hunt in a dungeon with my father for a little talk.

How remarkably busy.

I know, right?

Adom glanced around. The main street was starting to fill with early morning traffic. Merchants setting up stalls. A few bleary-eyed students heading toward the Academy for breakfast.

No one was paying him much attention. The hat helped. The way it shadowed his face. And he'd pulled his robe's collar up higher than usual.

He reached into his inventory.

The flying sword materialized in his hand. Sleek. Now blue-silver. About as long as his arm from shoulder to fingertip.

He stepped into an alley between two buildings. Checked that no one was watching.

Then he stepped onto the sword.

The world dropped away as Adom rose into the air. Slowly at first. The sword hummed beneath his feet, responding to his mana. He'd gotten better at this over the past few weeks. Much better. Though he still wasn't doing any fancy acrobatics.

He cleared the rooftops.

The city spread out beneath him. Arkhos in the early morning light. Smoke rising from chimneys. The new artificial river cutting through the eastern district like a silver scar. The Academy's towers in the distance.

Beautiful, if a bit cold. The wind up here was sharp.

Adom angled the sword north. Toward the warehouse district. One of Valiant's warehouses specifically. The one they'd been using for the more... delicate operations.

He picked up speed.

The sword cut through the air with barely a whisper. Below him, the city moved. People like ants. Carts like toys. He passed over the market district, over the residential areas, over the industrial zone where the forges were already burning hot.

The warehouse district came into view. Rows of large, blocky buildings. Most of them owned by merchants or trading companies. A few by noble families who needed storage for their various enterprises.

Valiant's warehouse was in the middle. Nondescript. Gray stone. Flat roof. Two stories. Nothing special about it from the outside.

Which was the point.

Adom descended. Aimed for the roof. The sword slowed as he approached, responding to his intent. His feet touched down on the flat stone surface with barely a sound.

He stepped off the sword. Sent it back to his inventory.

The roof access hatch was right where it should be. Locked, but that was fine. He had a key. Valiant had given him three keys to various entrances. Said something about trust and delegation and not making him knock every time like some kind of errand boy.

Adom unlocked the hatch. Pulled it open. Stepped down onto the ladder inside.

The interior of the warehouse was dark. Quiet. But not empty.

He could hear voices below. Muffled. Coming from the second floor where they'd set up the planning room.

Good. They were already here.

Adom climbed down the ladder. His boots hit the second floor landing with a soft thud.

The voices were clearer now. One of them was definitely Valiant's—high-pitched, rapid-fire, the kind of excited tone that usually preceded him launching into a tangent about something completely unrelated to whatever they were supposed to be discussing.

But there was another voice too. Deeper. Unfamiliar in its current register, but with an odd quality to it. Like someone doing an impression.

Adom walked down the hallway toward the planning room. The door was slightly ajar, light spilling through the gap.

"—no, no, you're not getting it!" Valiant was saying. "Do the ears again! The ears were perfect!"

"I told you," the other voice said, patient but strained, "maintaining fine details like that requires—"

"Just a little longer! Come on, I want to see if you can get the whiskers right!"

Adom pushed the door open.

And stopped.

Valiant stood in the middle of the room, bouncing on his toes with his hands clasped together. His large round ears twitched with excitement, and his tail swished back and forth.

Next to him stood... Valiant.

A human-sized Valiant.

Same ears. Same tail. Same general features, but stretched to about five and a half feet tall, standing awkwardly like someone wearing a costume that didn't quite fit right.

Adom blinked.

"Oh," he said.

Both Valiants turned to look at him.

The small one's face lit up immediately. "Adom! You're here! Look, look—the changeling can turn into me! Well, sort of. The height's giving him trouble, but—"

The tall Valiant's form shimmered. Rippled. Like water disturbed by a stone.

Then it collapsed inward, contracting rapidly until a young man stood there instead. Average height. Brown hair. Unremarkable features that would blend into any crowd.

Keth-sil smiled, a bit sheepish. "Magus Sylla. Good to see you again."

"I told you," Adom said, moving further into the room and letting the door close behind him, "you can call me Adom."

Keth-sil's smile became slightly more genuine, but he still looked uncomfortable with the informality. "It doesn't feel right, Magus. You saved my family. I owe you—"

"Yeah, why are you being so reverent?" Valiant interrupted, hopping up onto one of the chairs and sitting cross-legged. "I mean, sure, he's a magus and all that, and he's got the whole serious thing going on, but I've known him since he was a kid. Trust me, he's not as stern as you might think. One time when he was twelve, he—"

"Thank you, Valiant," Adom said.

"Don't mention i—" Valiant's eyes went wide. His ears flattened against his head. "Oh my god. The quillick."

Zuni emerged from Adom's pocket, stretching languidly. His blue quills caught the light from the magical lamps overhead, and he made a small, satisfied chirping sound.

Hello everyone, he said pleasantly.

Valiant pointed at him with one tiny finger, his voice pitching higher. "Why did you bring the quillick?! I don't have any nuts! He's going to eat all my nuts! Again!"

Zuni chirped innocently.

"You ate three of them last week!" Valiant continued, his tail lashing.

Another chirp. Higher pitched this time.

"They were in my private stash!"

Zuni made a series of rapid chirps that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

"You broke into my—"

"Let us be serious for a moment here," Adom said.

The shift in his tone was immediate and absolute. The air in the room changed with it.

Valiant's ears perked up. His bouncing stopped. Zuni settled onto Adom's shoulder, going still. Keth-sil straightened, his expression shifting to something more attentive.

Adom looked directly at the changeling.

"Do you remember my promise?" he asked. "That I would help free your brother?"

Keth-sil's eyes widened slightly. His hands, which had been hanging loose at his sides, curled into fists. Not aggressive. Just tense. Like he was bracing himself.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I remember."

The room felt smaller suddenly. The magical lamps seemed dimmer.

"Good." Adom paused. His gaze didn't waver. "The time has come to fulfill that promise."

Keth-sil went very still.

Even Valiant had stopped moving entirely. His tail hung motionless. His ears were forward, focused.

"I'm going to need your help," Adom continued. "Yours and your brothers'. For an infiltration. Proof gathering."

Keth-sil's breathing had changed. Faster. Shallower. Like he was afraid to hope but couldn't stop himself from hoping anyway.

"The target," Adom said, "is someone at the Emperor's court."

The silence stretched. Keth-sil swallowed once. Hard.

"Who?" he asked. His voice came out rough.

Adom held his gaze.

"The High Chancellor," he said. "Lord Mephtilem."

Keth-sil's face went pale. Then flushed. Then pale again. His hands trembled slightly before he clenched them tighter.

"The High Chancellor," he repeated, barely above a whisper. "You want us to infiltrate the High Chancellor's operations."

"Yes."

"He's..." Keth-sil's voice cracked slightly. "He's the one who holds Sil-keth. He's the one who runs the entire intelligence network. He's the one who—"

"I know who he is," Adom said quietly.

Valiant finally found his voice. "Erm," he said slowly, carefully, "that's... that's not just dangerous. That's—"

"Necessary," Adom finished.

He looked at Keth-sil again.

"I made you a promise," Adom said. "I intend to keep it. But I can't do this alone. I need people who can become anyone. Who can go anywhere. Who have personal stakes in seeing this through."

Keth-sil was breathing hard now. His eyes were bright. Too bright.

"When?" he asked.

"Soon," Adom said. "Very soon."

Keth-sil straightened fully. His hands unclenched. His jaw set.

"Then we're ready," he said. "Whatever you need. We're ready."

Adom nodded once.

The die was cast, it seemed.

Gamble King Chapter 38. Options

Max's brain kicked into overdrive.

The young barbarian was thirty feet from the cliff base. The White Hands were maybe forty feet behind him, moving with that synchronized fluidity that made Max's skin crawl. The sun was almost gone. Darkness spreading like spilled ink.

Options.

Option one: Do nothing. Let them kill the kid. They'd do it while he was climbing—easy target, couldn't defend himself, would fall and break something even if he didn't die from whatever they did to him first. Then they'd either leave or they'd climb up here too, and Max would have to deal with six of them instead of helping when it was six against two.

Option two: Help the kid. Kill the cannibals, or at least drive them off. Make an enemy of the White Hand tribes, except they were already his enemy. Borgen had been crystal clear about that. They hunted squires for sport. For food. Whether Max acted tonight or not, they'd try to kill him eventually.

But if he helped the kid, the kid would owe him. Debt was currency in the tribal cultures. Protection, favors, information about the territory, maybe even shelter with whatever tribe he belonged to.

The choice crystallized in about three seconds.

Max grabbed his bow.

He still had the spears from the wendigo fight—four of them, tucked in his pack, the shafts solid but the heads dulled from use. He'd need to make new ones. Add it to the list. But right now, he needed range.

He pulled an arrow from his quiver. One of the ones he'd retrieved after the wendigo, which meant it had already been shot, already impacted something hard enough to leave the fletching slightly bent and the shaft with a hairline crack he could feel under his thumb.

Not ideal. But it would have to work.

The young barbarian hit the cliff base and started climbing. Fast, despite the limp in his left leg. Blood soaked through his trousers from a gash that looked deep.

The White Hands were closing. Twenty feet now.

Max nocked the arrow, drew, aimed.

The lead White Hand was a broad-shouldered man with patterns spiraling down both arms. He moved like a hunter. Confident. Predatory.

Max exhaled slowly, tracking the movement, leading the target just slightly—

He released.

The arrow flew.

And missed by a solid two feet, burying itself in the snow to the man's left.

"Shit."

All six White Hands stopped. Looked up.

Saw him.

Max's stomach dropped as six pairs of eyes locked onto his position. The damaged arrow. Of course. The bent fletching had thrown off the trajectory, and he'd been too focused on the target to account for it.

The White Hands started moving again. Faster now. Not toward the cliff—toward the space directly below it, spreading out to cut off any escape route the young barbarian might try.

The kid was fifteen feet up the cliff. Climbing with the kind of desperate speed that came from knowing death was right behind you.

Max dropped the bow.

No time for another shot. Not with them repositioning. He needed something that couldn't miss.

"Bro," he said. "We're doing the thing."

The spider's glow intensified immediately. Bright orange shifting to blue-white. Heat building.

Max thrust his hand forward and released the spell.

The methane poured out in a cone, invisible but present, spreading forward and down toward the cluster of White Hands below. He could feel it dispersing, covering the area in a cloud of flammable gas.

Bro opened his mandibles and breathed.

The ignition was instantaneous.

A wall of fire erupted from Max's position like a dragon's breath, the methane igniting in a rolling blast that turned late dusk into day. The flames roared outward in a cone, engulfing the space where the White Hands had been standing, heat washing back over Max's face hard enough to make him squint.

They scattered, throwing themselves backward, hitting the snow and rolling away from the inferno. One of them wasn't fast enough—his furs caught fire and he went down screaming, beating at the flames.

The young barbarian hesitated on the cliff, looking back at the chaos below.

Max grabbed his bow again, nocked another arrow—this one undamaged, he checked twice—and screamed at the top of his lungs:

"COME ON! COME ON UP!"

The kid snapped back to climbing.

The White Hands were getting up. Most of them had avoided the worst of it, but they were disoriented, patting out small flames on their furs, coughing from the smoke.

Max drew.

The same broad-shouldered man from before was the first to recover, shaking his head, turning back toward the cliff—

Max put an arrow through his thigh.

The man went down with a scream that echoed off the rocks. He hit the ground hard, clutching at the arrow shaft, blood already dark against the snow.

Max was already drawing again. Muscle memory from hundreds of practice shots. Nock. Draw. Aim. His fingers found the familiar position on his cheek. Anchor point.

The wounded man was trying to stand.

Max put the second arrow in his stomach.

The man dropped.

Just dropped, like someone had cut his strings. He hit the snow on his side, curled around the arrows, and went still.

The other five White Hands froze.

For exactly two seconds, they stared at their fallen companion. Then at Max. Then at each other.

Then two of them grabbed the wounded man by his arms and started dragging him backward, toward the tree line.

The other three followed, moving in that same synchronized way but faster now. Retreat. Not a rout—too organized for that—but a tactical withdrawal.

They were leaving.

Max kept his bow up, another arrow already nocked, tracking their movement until they disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

He didn't lower the bow until he counted to thirty and heard nothing but the wind.

Then he turned.

The young barbarian had made it halfway up the cliff. He was moving slower now, his injured leg clearly causing problems. His breath came in ragged gasps that Max could hear from twenty feet above.

"Keep coming," Max called down. "You're almost here."

The kid looked up. His face was pale under the dirt and blood, but his eyes were focused. Determined.

He grabbed the next handhold and kept climbing.

The kid kept climbing.

The sun had dipped below the horizon completely now. Darkness settled over the landscape like a blanket, broken only by the faint glow of snow and the dying embers of Max's fire attack below. The temperature dropped immediately. Max could see his breath.

The young barbarian's hands appeared at the cliff edge, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the frozen rock.

Max moved forward, grabbed the kid's wrist, and hauled.

The kid came up and over the edge in a graceless tumble, hitting the stone platform hard. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, before rolling onto his side and trying to push himself up.

He couldn't. His arms gave out and he dropped back down, gasping like he'd just surfaced from deep water.

"I—" the kid tried. "I must—"

"Stop talking," Max said. He pulled his water flask from his belt and crouched down. "Here."

The kid stared at the flask like he wasn't sure what it was, then grabbed it with both hands. He drank. And drank. And kept drinking until the entire thing was empty and he had to stop to breathe.

"Thank you," the kid said, handing back the flask. The words were in Max's language.

Max blinked.

Borgen had said the tribes spoke their own languages. Dialects that varied by region. He'd been preparing himself for communication through gestures and broken phrases.

"You speak—"

But the kid was already trying to sit up again, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg. Max let it go. Questions could wait.

He stood and moved to the cliff edge, scanning the tree line below. The White Hands were gone. No movement. No signs of them regrouping. They'd taken their wounded and retreated, which was the smart play. But smart didn't mean permanent.

"They will come back."

Max turned. "What was that?"

The kid was sitting now, back against the cave wall, still breathing hard. His face was pale under the grime and sweat. "The White Hands," he said. His voice had an accent to it—not heavy, but present, like someone who'd learned the language from a book and not from speaking it every day. "Come morning. After the monsters are gone. They will come back."

"Well, yeah," Max said. "That much is obvious."

The kid looked at him.

"We've got the high ground," Max continued. "They want to come up here and try again, we'll fight them. We did fine just now."

The young barbarian went quiet at that. He looked down at his hands, then at his injured leg, then at nothing in particular.

Max finally relaxed. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the familiar post-fight exhaustion. He studied the kid properly for the first time.

Young. Maybe sixteen, seventeen. Dark hair matted with sweat and blood. The injury on his leg was a long gash, deep enough to need stitches but not deep enough to have hit anything vital. His furs were good quality, well-made, the kind you got from a tribe that knew what it was doing. His face was narrow, with high cheekbones and a jaw that still had some growing to do.

"I'm Harek," Max said, extending his hand. "From Frosthold."

The kid stared at his hand.

Then he reached out and grabbed it. Wrong. He grabbed Max's hand like he was gripping a staff, thumb on top, fingers wrapped around the side.

Max laughed. He couldn't help it. "No, like this." He adjusted the kid's grip, showing him the proper handshake. Palm to palm. Firm but not crushing. "There you go."

The kid's expression shifted. Something between embarrassment and curiosity.

"What's your name?" Max asked.

"Tarak," the kid said. "Of the Splithorn tribe."

Splithorn. Max knew that one. Borgen had mentioned them. Hunter-gatherers, primarily. Nomadic. They followed the reindeer herds and traded with Frosthold twice a year.

"Why were the White Hands chasing you?"

Tarak's face went flat. "I was hunting deer. With my friends. We met them. They killed my friends. I ran."

"Oh." Max paused. "Sorry to hear that."

"No be sorry," Tarak said immediately. The grammar was off but the meaning was clear. "I will see my friends later. In Valkar. But before that, I will kill the evil White Hands who made them die like that."

The words were matter-of-fact. Like he was describing the weather.

Max went quiet.

He knew he should probably say something emotional here. Something comforting or sympathetic or whatever you were supposed to say when someone told you their friends had just been murdered. But he'd given a lot of emotions today—to the wendigo, to the situation with the White Hands, to the general nightmare of being trapped in a frozen hellscape—and this just felt like too much.

So instead, he took out a piece of jerky from his pack, cut off a chunk with his knife, and held it out toward the cave entrance.

"Bro. Food."

Bro crawled out from the shadows at the cave mouth, his eight legs moving in that smooth, mechanical way that Max had gotten used to but probably looked horrifying to everyone else. The spider's glow had dimmed to a soft orange. He grabbed the jerky with his mandibles and a small jet of flame flickered across its surface, charring it slightly.

Tarak jerked backward so fast he nearly fell over.

"It's fine," Max said, holding up a hand toward Tarak. "That's Bro. He's friendly."

Tarak stared at the spider like it had personally offended him.

"Bro, this is Tarak. Tarak, this is Bro. He's a fire spider. Very useful. Saved my life multiple times. Be nice to each other."

Bro's glow pulsed once. Acknowledgment, maybe. Or he was just digesting his snack.

Tarak did not look convinced.

Max pulled out another piece of jerky and tossed it to the boy. "You must be hungry."

Tarak caught it awkwardly, nearly dropping it. "Thank you." He bit into it immediately, chewing fast. Clearly, he hadn't eaten in a long time.

Max took a piece for himself and settled against the cave wall opposite the kid. The jerky was tough and salty and exactly what he needed. Hell of a day. And from the sound of it, tomorrow wasn't going to be much better.

"You know the way back to your tribe?" Max asked.

Tarak nodded, still chewing. He swallowed. "Yes. But I am..." He gestured at his leg. "Injured. Will be slow. And the White Hands, they will be hunting. So..."

He trailed off. Didn't finish the sentence. But the implication was clear enough. He was wondering if Max would take him along. The kid's eyes flicked to Max's face, then away, then back again.

Max laughed. "Sure. You're not that heavy. I noticed when I pulled you up. I can carry you on my back if we need to move fast."

Tarak's shoulders relaxed slightly. "What is your plan? For tomorrow?"

This kid adapts pretty fast to trauma, Max thought. Damn.

He took another bite of jerky, considering. The cave they were in was one of the marked ones. His father had once explained it—some of them had enchantments built into the stone itself, old magic from before the tribes, that kept the interior warm without needing a fire. You only lit one if you were cooking. This was one of those caves, which was the only reason Max wasn't already frozen solid.

He was tired. Bone-deep tired.

"Night's still young," Max said. "And it's winter, so it'll last longer. We should sleep first. I'm dead tired. In the other half of the night, we'll talk. Deal?"

"I understand," Tarak said. He shifted against the wall, trying to find a comfortable position that didn't put pressure on his leg.

Max started arranging his sleeping setup. His pack as a pillow. He pulled off his cloak and was about to spread it out as extra insulation when he glanced at Tarak.

The kid was still pressed against the wall, shivering slightly despite the cave's warmth enchantment. His furs were good, but they were also soaked through with sweat and snow from the chase. And he'd been running on adrenaline for who knew how long. Now that it was fading, the cold was probably setting in.

Max stood up, walked over, and draped the cloak over Tarak's shoulders.

"Here."

Tarak looked up at him, surprised. "But you—"

"I've got enough layers," Max said. "And you're the one who just outran a death squad. Get some rest."

He helped adjust the cloak so it covered more of the kid's body, then grabbed Tarak's injured leg and positioned it so it wasn't bent at an awkward angle. Tarak winced but didn't complain.

"Better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Max went back to his spot, using just his pack as a pillow now. The stone was cold against his back, but he'd slept in worse conditions. Probably. He couldn't actually remember sleeping in worse conditions, but that didn't mean it hadn't happened.

Bro had already crawled back to his spot near the cave entrance, settling into what Max had learned was his resting position—legs tucked in, glow dimmed to almost nothing.

The anxiety was there, sitting in his chest like a stone. Tomorrow was going to require planning. Strategy. Probably violence. He really, really hoped this wouldn't require burning through his rerolls. He only had so many, and wasting them on a running battle with cannibals felt like poor resource management.

But that was tomorrow's problem.

Tonight, he needed sleep.

He closed his eyes and tried very hard not to think about what morning would bring.

Chapter 184. Gifted

There were two main reasons Adom, despite knowing the way to [True Archmage], had seldom practiced anything close to divination—both in this life and the other.

First of all, ironically enough, was time.

He didn't have it. In this life because he was busy avoiding the end of the world, and in the other because he was busy surviving it.

Now, those were very reasonable excuses. Most people would accept them without question. But Adom being Adom, he would have found a way to learn the thing anyway. Would have carved out hours from sleep or meals or whatever else needed carving. Would have at least acquired enough knowledge to discuss it with an expert in the field.

He could do that with most other paths of magic. Could hold his own in conversations about enchantment theory, debate the finer points of combat spellwork, argue about optimal mana circulation patterns. He wasn't a master of everything, but he knew enough to be dangerous. Enough to learn more.

Not divination, though.

This led to the other reason Adom didn't really practice that art.

He simply wasn't talented at it.

Not that this was a sad thing. Or even something to get worked up about. He was just among the—and this was according to a study he'd read a year ago in his attempt to better grasp the scale—ninety-six percent of mages in Sundar and its allies who did not have "the Gift" of divination.

Magic was a complex thing. Some fields were more complex than others.

Healing, for instance, took longer than most paths even at the academy. It required thorough knowledge of anatomy, physiology, the interaction between different organ systems. Plus very specialized fine motor skills and mana manipulation techniques. A good healer had to know exactly how much power to use, exactly where to apply it, exactly when to stop before you made things worse instead of better.

Runicology required constantly reading, researching, testing. Basically dedicating your entire life to it. The field evolved constantly. Changed. You could discover things about a rune that had existed for a hundred years that even its creators hadn't thought of when they made it. New applications. New combinations. New failures that taught you what not to do.

All this to say: all paths of magic were hard.

But all of them could be learned.

With enough patience. Enough passion. A bit of talent helped—made you faster, maybe let you skip some of the grinding intermediate steps—but all in all, you only needed to persevere. Put in the hours. Do the work.

Divination wasn't like that.

It was the only path of magic that required the practitioner to have a sort of sixth sense. Something innate. Something you either had or you didn't. It allowed them to see things from the past and future with acceptable accuracy—and "acceptable" was doing a lot of work in that sentence, because even the best diviners were wrong plenty of times.

There were very few diviners in the world. Even fewer good ones.

Forecasting weather wasn't one hundred percent accurate. Military applications—planning troop movements, predicting enemy strategy—were even less reliable. People treated divination like it was some kind of perfect oracle, but it wasn't. It was more like... educated guessing with magical assistance. Sometimes the magic helped a lot. Sometimes it didn't.

Sadly, Adom wasn't gifted.

He'd have liked to be. Would have been useful. Would have saved him considerable trouble in both lives. But he wasn't, and that was that.

Most people, when they saw someone like Beth doing the things she did, would simply say she was a genius. The most gifted person in the empire. Leave it at that as an explanation and move on with their day.

Adom had done the same thing.

Until he became that genius's disciple twenty minutes ago.

And for a curious mind like his, that explanation no longer sufficed.

There had to be a reason Law, Beth, and so many other legendary diviners were this powerful in their field. Had to be more than just "they were born special." A technique. A method. A way to enter that closed circle.

And Adom wanted in.

He watched Beth sew for a while. She worked with steady, practiced movements, her needle pulling thread through fabric in smooth, even stitches. Ada had gotten bored and wandered off to examine a nearby flower bed. Bennu was still turning his copper coin over and over, looking at it like it might suddenly reveal its entire history if he stared hard enough.

"You're thinking very loudly," Beth said without looking up.

Adom blinked. "What?"

"You have questions. I can practically hear them." She tied off a thread and snipped it with small scissors. "Might as well ask."

Oh. Well, if she insisted.

"How did you know about my fight with Nox?" Adom said. "Specifically. Merlin said you told him exactly how I'd end it. That's more than five minutes."

Beth smiled. Set down her sewing in her lap. Looked at him with those sharp, knowing eyes.

"Good question," she said. "What do you think the answer is?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

"No, you have theories. You've been building them since I told you the five-minute limit." She tilted her head. "So. What are they?"

Adom hesitated. Then decided there was no point being coy about it.

"You're hiding something," he said. "Some technique or method that lets you see further than you're saying. Maybe the same thing the Farmer Mage knew, since he was known to be an excellent diviner. Something you've kept secret because it gives you an advantage."

Beth's smile widened. "And what makes you think I'd tell you, even if that were true?"

"Because you offered to teach me. And if you're going to teach me, you'll have to tell me eventually."

"Will I?"

"Yes," Adom said. "Because I'm not interested in learning the basics of divination. I already know I'm terrible at them. I want to learn what you actually do. The real techniques. Not the sanitized academy version."

Beth laughed—that warm, delighted sound again.

"Bold," she said. "Most students would be content with whatever scraps I threw them. Would spend years proving themselves before daring to ask for secrets." She picked up her sewing again. "But you're not most students, are you?"

"No," Adom said simply.

"No," Beth agreed. "You're not."

She was quiet for a moment. Stitching. Thinking.

Then she said: "Tell me, Adom. Why do you think divination requires a gift?"

"Because that's what everyone says. What all the research shows."

"Everyone says a lot of things. Research shows what researchers look for." Another stitch. Another pull of thread. "Why do you think it requires a gift?"

Adom frowned. "Because... people who don't have the talent can't do it. I've tried. It doesn't work."

"Doesn't work how?"

"I can't see anything. Can't feel anything. When I try to look forward or backward, there's just... nothing. And everything at the same time. It's overwhelming."

"And you think that's because you lack some innate ability."

"Yes."

Beth shook her head. "That is your first mistake."

She set down her sewing completely now. Folded her hands in her lap and looked at him with an expression that was suddenly very serious.

"When I peer into the future, Adom, it becomes overwhelming. Just like you described. Nothing but noise and chaos and infinite possibility branching out in every direction." She paused. "The difference between us isn't that I have some special gift and you don't. It's that I learned how to navigate that chaos. How to make sense of it."

Adom leaned forward. "How?"

"I'll show you," Beth said. "But you have to trust me for a moment. This might feel strange."

Before Adom could ask what she meant, Beth reached out and pressed two fingers to his forehead.

The world inverted.

That was the only way Adom could describe it. Like someone had taken reality and turned it inside out. He felt a lurch—not physical, but something deeper. His awareness shifting. Separating.

And then he was... somewhere else.

Still in the park. But not.

He could see his body on the bench. Beth's too. They sat perfectly still, frozen mid-breath. Ada was caught in the middle of reaching for a flower. Bennu's coin hung in the air between his fingers, suspended.

Time had stopped.

"What—" Adom started, and his voice sounded strange. Distant. Like he was speaking through water.

"The Halls of Time," Beth said. She stood beside him—or her consciousness did. Her form was translucent, shimmering slightly at the edges. "This is quite hard to enter by yourself. Doing so is what marks someone as a true diviner. But for now, you'll need my help to get here."

Adom looked down at himself. He was the same—translucent, shimmering. Like he'd been the first time he'd died. When he'd been a soul, floating above his body, waiting for Death to collect him.

"This is..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"Your mind," Beth said. "Separated from your body. Not completely—we're still tethered. Still alive. But free enough to perceive things differently." She gestured around them. "Advanced divination theory mentions this place. Most divinators never actually reach it. They work from their bodies, trying to peer through the veil. But here, in the Halls, you can see the structure of time itself."

Adom wanted to ask a thousand questions. Wanted to understand the mechanics, the theory, the exact mana manipulation required to achieve this state. But Beth was already moving.

She extended her hand into the air.

And pinched something.

A thread appeared between her fingers. Thin. Glowing faintly. It stretched out into the distance, branching and splitting like a river delta viewed from above.

"This," Beth said, "is a future. One possible future. Watch."

She pulled gently on the thread.

It multiplied.

One became two. Two became four. Four became eight. The branching accelerated, fractal-like, until there were hundreds of threads spreading out from Beth's hand like a spider's web made of light.

"In our world," Beth said, her voice taking on a lecturer's cadence, "with as many variables as we have, the possibilities are exponential. Every choice creates ripples. Those ripples spawn new timelines. New variations. A single change—someone turning left instead of right, saying yes instead of no—branches reality into different paths."

The threads kept multiplying in her hand. Hundreds became thousands.

"Look at one," Beth said. "Don't touch. You can't yet. But look."

Adom leaned closer. Focused on a single thread.

The world around him shifted.

He saw the park. Saw himself and Beth on the bench. Saw it from above, like watching through a window. In this thread, Bennu was still examining his coin. Ada had moved to a different flower. Nothing remarkable.

But then Beth did something—he couldn't see what exactly—and the thread in her hand split again. Multiplied further.

Now there were variations.

In one thread, Bennu looked up suddenly. "What could this buy?" he asked, holding up the coin.

In another, Ada tripped and scraped her knee. Started crying.

In another, a bird landed on the bench between them.

In another, Adom himself stood up and stretched.

Small changes. Tiny variations. But each one spawned more threads. More possibilities. The web growing denser and more complex with each passing moment.

"Now," Beth said. Her voice cut through his fascination. "These are one hundred possibilities you just looked at. And they keep multiplying. There are billions and billions of futures branching out from this exact moment. Which one do you think will happen? And why?"

Adom looked at her.

Was she serious?

"I can't possibly—"

"Think about what I told you earlier," Beth interrupted. "About observation. About reading what's already there. Now answer the question."

Adom looked back at the threads.

Tried to think.

In the immediate future—the next few seconds—Bennu was just sitting there in most of the threads. Looking at his coin. That seemed to be the default. The path of least resistance.

But in some threads, something changed that. In one, Adom said something that made Bennu look up. In another, Beth moved and Bennu reacted to the movement. In another, Ada came back and asked a question.

Different configurations. Different triggers.

And then it clicked.

"You can't predict which one will happen," Adom said slowly. "Not when there are this many variables. But you can... influence it. Make one more likely than the others."

Beth smiled. "Go on."

"If I do nothing," Adom said, watching the threads shift and multiply, "then one of these billions of possibilities will occur. Essentially at random. But if I want a specific outcome—if I want Bennu to ask what his coin can buy, for example—I need to make sure the me in the future does the action that prompts that response."

"I knew you were smart," Beth said. There was genuine pleasure in her voice. "I didn't even need to explain again."

She let the threads dissolve. The web of light faded back into nothing.

"This," she said, "is why the five-minute rule is important. The longer you look into the future, the more possibilities appear. More variables enter the equation. More chaos compounds on chaos. After a certain point, even for me, it becomes too much."

She turned to face him fully. Her translucent form was sharp in the strange not-light of the Halls.

"Nobody," she said, "can predict the future. Not really. When there are billions upon billions of possibilities, it might as well be guessing—even when you can see those possibilities spread out before you. The best divinators aren't the ones who see furthest. They're the ones who can influence events to reach the outcome they want."

Adom processed that. "So when you told Merlin I'd end the fight with Nox a certain way..."

"Oh, that." Beth waved a hand dismissively. "A little bird told me about it."

Adom frowned. "What do you mean?"

That didn't answer anything. Actually, it raised more questions. Beth had just explained the five-minute rule—said that even she couldn't see beyond five minutes because it became too much, too chaotic. But she'd clearly known about his fight with Nox well before it happened. Again, more than five minutes.

"You're still evading the question," Adom said. "You said even you can't see beyond five minutes. But you knew about the Nox fight. You told Merlin specific details about how it would end."

"I did," Beth agreed.

"So how—"

"Patience," Beth said. She was already gesturing, and the Halls began to fade around them. The frozen park started moving again—slowly at first, then faster. Time resuming its normal flow. "This would require a lot of it. Patience, I mean. If I explain everything now, I'll only confuse you. It would be a disservice rather than help."

The world lurched.

Adom blinked.

He was back on the bench. His body. His normal perspective.

But he still remembered the threads. The variations. He could still see them in his mind—Ada tripping over that root near the flower bed. Bennu looking up to ask about his coin.

"You need to learn how to enter the Halls first," Beth said calmly, as if they'd never left. As if the entire conversation had happened between one breath and the next. "After that, things will get clearer. Then I'll explain my gift to you."

"Did you not say—" Adom started.

"Shh." Beth didn't look up from her sewing. "Patience, child."

Adom opened his mouth to argue. Then closed it.

Ada was moving toward the flower bed. The one with the root.

He stood up.

"Ada," he called. "Come here for a second."

Ada looked up, surprised. Started to turn—

Her foot caught on the root.

Adom's hand shot out. Grabbed her arm. Steadied her before she could fall.

"Careful," Adom said. "There's a root there."

Ada looked down at her feet. At the root she'd nearly tripped over. "Oh. Thanks."

She walked over to him instead, the scrape on her knee that would have happened simply... not happening.

Adom looked at Beth.

Beth was still sewing. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

He walked back to the bench. Sat down beside Bennu, who was still turning the copper coin over in his fingers.

Adom nudged him. "Hey. Bennu."

"Mm?"

"That coin." Adom gestured at it. "You know what it could buy?"

Bennu looked up. Blinked. Then glanced down at the copper piece in his hand like he was seeing it for the first time.

"What could this buy?" he asked, holding it up.

There it was. The exact phrasing from the thread. The exact moment.

Beth's needle paused for just a fraction of a second. Then continued its steady rhythm.

Adom felt something shift in his chest. A mix of exhilaration and unease.

He'd done it. He'd made a specific future happen.

"Not much," Adom said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Maybe a piece of bread."

"Mm. That's what I thought." Bennu pocketed the coin and joined Ada to examine flowers.

"Tomorrow," Beth said quietly, not looking up from her sewing. "Two hours after dawn. Come to my house. I'll teach you the entry technique." She paused. "And Adom? Don't tell anyone about this. The Halls are... let's say they're a closely guarded secret. For good reason."

"Why are you telling me, then?"

Beth smiled. "Why, because you're my student now."

She picked up her sewing again. Resumed her work like nothing extraordinary had just happened.

But something extraordinary had just happened.

Adom had seen the future. Had changed it—or rather, had made a specific version of it real through tiny, deliberate actions.

Like a child discovering a new toy, the old man couldn't stop the small thrill of excitement running through him.

Chapter 183. Divination

"Tell me, children," Beth said pleasantly. "What do you know about divination?"

Ada's hand shot up immediately, like she was in class.

Beth's smile widened. "Yes, dear?"

"Um." Ada's face scrunched up in concentration. "It's... when you know things? Before they happen? Like when mother knows I'm going to spill my juice before I do it, except... magic?"

Beth laughed—a warm, delighted sound that made her shoulders shake. She reached over and patted Ada's head gently. "A valiant attempt, child. Very close, in spirit if not in detail."

Ada beamed at the praise.

Bennu shifted his weight. "Adom told me once," he said, glancing at Adom briefly before looking back at Beth. "He said it was reading the past and the future from the mana around us."

Beth's expression brightened. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a copper coin, and held it out to Bennu.

Bennu stared at it. Took it carefully. "What... what is this?"

"A coin," Beth said simply.

"Well, yes, I know that, but..." Bennu turned the coin over in his palm. "Why?"

"Because I know you prefer salted things to sweet things," Beth said. "But I only have candy on me. So you can buy yourself something salty with that instead."

Ada's head snapped toward her. "You knew he preferred salty? How?"

Beth smiled at him. "Because he's about to tell me."

Bennu opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at the coin in his hand, then back up at Beth, then at Adom. His face was doing something complicated—confusion mixed with the realization that he'd been about to say exactly that.

"I—" Bennu started. Stopped. "I do prefer salty things. How did you—"

Beth laughed again, clearly delighted by their shocked faces.

Ada bounced on the bench. "That's magic! You did magic!"

Beth reached over and adjusted a curl that had fallen across Ada's forehead, tucking it back gently. "It is indeed, dear."

This old lady is quite an interesting one, Zuni observed from Adom's shoulder.

Adom nodded slightly in agreement.

Ada's eyes were wide now, and she sat up straighter. "Can I try again? I want to get it right! Do I get a coin if I get it right?"

"Getting competitive, are we?" Beth said, amused.

"I want a coin too!"

Bennu was still staring at the copper piece in his hand like it might bite him.

Beth settled back on the bench, her sewing resting in her lap. "Let me explain it properly, then. What your brother told you, Bennu, was correct in the broadest sense. Divination is the art of reading information from mana—past, present, and future. But it's more complicated than that."

She looked at each of them in turn.

"What I just did with you—knowing what Bennu would say before he said it—that's future sight. But only a few minutes ahead. Perhaps five, if I push it. And only here, where I am, seeing what will happen to me."

"Why only a few minutes?" Ada asked.

"Because time is..." Beth paused, considering her words. "Imagine you're standing in a river. You can see the water flowing toward you, yes?" Ada nodded vigorously. "You can see what's coming, just a little way upstream. But the farther you look, the more the river bends, the more rocks and debris change the current. Small things—a leaf falling, a fish jumping—they all change where the water goes."

She picked up her needle, threading it through the fabric.

"The future is like that river. In five minutes, many things can happen. And each thing that happens creates new possibilities, new paths. If I predict that Ada will ask me a question in three minutes, but then Bennu sneezes, and Ada looks at him instead, and forgets her question—well. The timeline splits. Multiplies. Too many variables."

"So you can only see a few minutes?" Adom asked.

"Reliably, yes. I can sometimes see further—flashes, impressions. But they're unreliable. More feeling than fact." She smiled. "And it's local. I can only see the future of where I am. I cannot, for instance, predict what will happen to your father at home right now. I would need to be there, seeing it myself, for divination to show me."

Ada frowned, thinking hard. Then her face brightened. "But earlier, you were talking to someone! When we were walking over. You said goodbye to a bird."

Beth smiled at that. She looked at Adom directly.

"Divination requires patience," she said. "You'll understand when the time is right."

Adom blinked. He didn't see the connection between Ada's question and that answer at all. It was the kind of cryptic non-response Mr. Biggins would give—vague, seemingly wise, but ultimately unhelpful.

Adom kept that thought to himself.

Ada was leaning forward now, clearly not satisfied with Beth's non-answer but too polite to push. Bennu was examining his copper coin with new interest.

Beth resumed her sewing, her needles moving with ease. "Divination is about reading the present so thoroughly that the future becomes visible. Every moment contains information—the angle of someone's shoulders, the way they breathe, the temperature of the air, the direction of the wind. A thousand tiny details. And mana carries all of it."

"Like reading a book," Adom said slowly.

"Like reading a book that's writing itself as you read it," Beth said. "And you have to read fast enough to see the next sentence before it changes."

Bennu looked up from his coin. "So when you gave me this... you saw that I would want something salty? Before I even knew it?"

"I saw you looking at the street vendor on our way here," Beth said. "The one selling roasted nuts. I saw the way your eyes lingered. And I felt the shape of what you would say when given the opportunity." She smiled. "So yes. I knew."

Ada was bouncing again. "Can you teach me? I want to see the future!"

"Perhaps when you're older, dear." Beth patted her hand. "Divination requires patience. And focus. And the ability to hold very still, both in body and mind."

Ada slumped. "I'm not good at sitting still."

"I noticed."

Adom was quiet, processing. Five minutes. That was the reliable range. And only local. Only what would happen to Beth herself, or immediately around her. It was more limited than he'd thought—but also more precise. More useful, in its own way.

He knew a few things about divination already. Had read about it, heard stories. But he thought Beth had some sort of secret, too. Something she wasn't telling them.

Because she'd seen the outcome of his battle with Nox. Merlin had told him she'd described exactly how Adom would end it—the specific moment, the exact technique. That was more than five minutes. Much more. She'd known before the fight even started.

His eyes drifted across the park, landing on the statue of Law. The bronze figure stood tall and dignified, draped in robes that no historian agreed were accurate. It wasn't at all how Law had actually looked, according to the records. But people liked their heroes grandiose.

The Farmer Mage had been able to look three thousand years into the future. Details so precise it was unbelievable—cities that would rise, names of people who hadn't been born yet, events mapped out like a schedule. It didn't make sense then. It made even less sense now that Beth had confirmed the mechanisms of divination to him.

Five minutes, she'd said. Reliably.

She was probably hiding how she did it. That was the only explanation he had.

"What about the past?" he asked. "You said divination could read that too."

Beth's smile turned knowing. "Ah. Now that's easier. The past doesn't change. It's already written. Already happened. The mana remembers. You just have to ask it the right way."

She held up her sewing—the flag she'd been working on.

"This fabric, for instance. I can read its history. Where it came from. Who touched it. What happened to it before it became mine." She ran her fingers over the material. "The past is like... footprints in snow. They stay until something erases them. And mana is very good at preserving footprints."

"How far back can you read?" Adom asked.

"Depends on the object. On how strong the impression is. Powerful moments leave deeper marks." She looked at him directly. "Your fight with Magus Nox, for instance. That left marks all over the arena. I could read those for weeks afterward."

Adom felt a small chill.

"But mundane things—a coin changing hands, a door opening—those fade quickly. Hours, maybe days."

Bennu was examining his copper coin now with new interest. "So this coin has a history?"

"Of course. It's been in many pockets. Passed through many hands. Each one left a tiny impression." Beth's eyes twinkled. "Though I doubt any of them were as interesting as a phoenix's."

Bennu's head jerked up. "How did you—"

Adom's eyes widened. "Wait. You know?"

Beth laughed—that warm, delighted sound again. She looked genuinely amused by their shocked expressions.

Adom stared at her. He wasn't even surprised, for some reason. Of course she knew. Of course she'd figured it out. But still—

"How?" he started to ask.

"You're about to tell me he is," Beth said, still smiling.

Adom's mouth hung open for a moment. "I mean... he is. But... how?"

Beth's smile widened. "You just answered the 'how,' child."

Adom blinked. Processed that. She'd seen him about to confirm it. Five minutes ahead. She'd read his intention to speak before he'd even fully formed the thought.

This old one seems scammy, Zuni observed.

It did feel scammy. Like Beth just made you say things she already thought were true. A self-fulfilling prophecy wrapped in mysticism.

But then again, she'd had no way of knowing Bennu was a phoenix of all things. That wasn't common knowledge. Wasn't something you could guess from observation alone. And she'd said it so casually, like it was obvious.

Adom thought back. Usually, when someone used magic, you could feel it as a mage. Mana moved, shifted, had weight and presence. You could sense it being shaped, even if you couldn't see the exact spell. It was like feeling someone breathe in a quiet room—subtle, but there.

Beth had said that about Bennu without using any mana. At least, none that Adom had felt.

She hadn't used mana either when she'd predicted Bennu would want something salty. And Adom hadn't felt any mana use in her direction when they'd first approached—and it had been more than five minutes since they'd sat down here.

So Beth had just... known. In advance. More than five minutes ago.

Which made Adom even more curious about how she did it.

Magic was very democratized these days. Anyone with a mana core could learn the basics, access the fundamentals. Knowledge spread through academies and guilds and published research. But a lot of mages also jealously guarded discoveries about mana they made. Personal techniques. Private innovations. Things that gave them an edge.

And Beth was the best diviner in the whole empire. It wouldn't be surprising that she'd hide things the rest of the world didn't know. Maybe the same things Law had known.

Or maybe she's just very good at reading faces, Zuni suggested. And you're overthinking it.

Adom didn't think he was overthinking it.

Ada bounced off the bench. "Can you read my history? What did I do today?"

"I already know what you did today, dear. You told me. You got ice cream."

"Before that!"

Beth laughed. "You played with your dolls. You practiced writing your letters—very poorly, I might add, but with enthusiasm. You asked your mother if you could have a kitten."

Ada's mouth fell open. "How did you know about the kitten?!"

"Your sleeve," Beth said, pointing. "There's a small tear there. Fresh. From climbing something you shouldn't have been climbing—the garden fence, I'd wager—to look at something small and furry in the neighbor's yard."

Ada looked down at her sleeve. The tiny tear was barely visible.

"That's not divination," Adom said. "That's just observation."

"Is it?" Beth asked. "Where do you think divination begins and observation ends? They're the same skill, Adom. Just pointed in different directions."

She set down her sewing and looked at him properly.

"That's your first real lesson. Divination isn't some mystical art that requires special power or unique talent. It's about paying attention. About reading what's already there. The mana just... makes it easier. Amplifies what you'd see anyway, if you looked hard enough."

Adom considered that. "But you said you have seventy percent accuracy three days out. That's not just observation."

"No," Beth agreed. "That's practice. Decades of practice. And yes, some talent. But it started with observation. With learning to see the small things." She smiled. "You're already good at that. Better than most. That's why I offered to teach you."

She's right, Zuni said. You do notice things others miss.

Adom didn't respond to that. He was still thinking.

Ada had moved closer to Beth now, peering at the flag in the old woman's lap. "What does your flag say? In the past?"

Beth looked down at it fondly. "It says many things. But mostly, it says hope. That's what flags are for, after all."

"Hope for what?"

"For what's coming," Beth said simply.

Gamble King Chapter 37. Separation

Clasp.

The sound of it was solid. Final. The kind of grip that said more than words could—callused palm against callused palm, forearms locked, the weight of shared experience in every second it held.

Bubbles met Max's eyes. "Farewell, Vanheim."

"Farewell, Thorne."

They held it for another beat, then released. Bubbles stepped back, adjusting the pack on his shoulders. His usual grin was there, but subdued. Quieter.

The crossroads stretched out around them in six different directions, each path cutting through the forest like spokes on a broken wheel. This wasn't supposed to be where they split up. They'd had a plan, a good plan, with logical separation points spaced out over days. But the wendigo had changed that. Three days of hunting the bastard had put them behind schedule, and now it was either separate here or arrive late to their respective destinations.

Late meant delay. Delay meant more risk—less time to reach their destinations, deal with their hermits, and make it back to Frosthold before the year turned against them completely.

So. The crossroads.

Dan was checking his map for the third time, even though they'd all memorized their routes hours ago. Marcus had his pack off, reorganizing things that didn't need reorganizing. He seemed to keep himself busy to avoid acknowledging what was actually happening.

They were leaving each other.

"Well," Bubbles said, breaking the silence. "Next time we see each other, we'll all be much stronger. Probably unrecognizable. True warriors of legend and all that."

"Harek will definitely be leaner," Marcus said, completely deadpan. "All that fat burned away. Chiseled like a statue."

Dan snorted. Bubbles's mouth twitched.

Then Bro flared bright orange on Max's shoulder.

The little spider's abdomen started glowing hotter. Blue-white. The pre-flame warmth that meant he was about to torch something.

"I WAS JUST JOKING!" Marcus threw his hands up, actually backing away a step. "Harek! Call off your spider!"

"Bro," Max said calmly. "Stand down."

The glow dimmed slightly. Bro turned his tiny head toward Marcus and held the stare for another few seconds—just long enough to make his point—before the light faded completely back to orange.

Marcus let out an exaggerated breath of relief. "Bloody hell. Your spider has no sense of humor."

"He has an excellent sense of humor," Max said. "He just thinks you're not funny."

Dan actually laughed at that.

Bubbles grinned wider. "I'm going to miss this. The constant threat of death. Really keeps things lively."

"You won't miss it once you're freezing your arse off in your mountains," Dan said. He folded his map and tucked it away. "While I'm enjoying the mild weather of the eastern forests."

"Mild until the spiders find you," Marcus pointed out.

"I'll manage."

"Sure you will. Just don't let them bite anywhere important."

They fell quiet again. The forest around them was still, the kind of deep silence that only came after snowfall. The trees stood like witnesses. Patient. Unbothered by human concerns.

"Right," Dan said finally. He picked up his pack and settled it on his shoulders with practiced ease. "I suppose this is it."

"Don't die," Bubbles told him.

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Plans change. Try harder."

Dan's mouth quirked. "You too, Thorne."

He turned toward the eastern path—the one that would take him through dense forest toward the territories he'd been assigned. He walked ten paces, then stopped and looked back.

"If any of you become famous before I do, I'll be deeply offended."

"Noted," Marcus said.

Dan nodded once, then kept walking. They watched him until the trees swallowed him up and all that remained was the sound of his boots on frozen ground, fading gradually into nothing.

Marcus went next. He chose the southeastern path, the one that would take him toward the coast eventually. Before he left, he clapped Max on the shoulder—a brief, firm pressure that said everything that needed saying.

"Keep that spider fed," he said.

"Keep your spear in one piece," Max replied.

Marcus grinned. "I'll try."

Then he was gone too, disappearing into the forest with the same quiet competence he brought to everything.

That left Max and Bubbles.

They stood there for a moment, not quite looking at each other.

"North for you," Bubbles said eventually. "Deeper north. Where the real monsters live."

"South for you. Where the mountains get tall enough to scrape the sky."

Bubbles laughed, but it was a soft sound. Almost sad. "Yeah."

Max adjusted Bro on his shoulder. The little spider had been unusually quiet through all of this, just a dim orange glow that felt almost contemplative.

"Don't get yourself killed doing something stupid," Max said.

"That's my line."

"I'm faster."

"Debatable." Bubbles shifted his weight, glanced down the path he'd be taking. Then back at Max. "You know... I'm glad we ended up in the same group. For training, I mean. Could have been assigned anywhere, but we got put together. That was good."

"Yeah," Max agreed. "It was."

Another beat of silence.

Then Bubbles stuck out his hand again.

Max took it. Same firm grip. Same weight to it.

"Do be careful on the way."

"Hah, I was about to say the same thing.."

They released. Bubbles picked up his pack, settled it on his shoulders, and started down the southern path. He made it maybe twenty feet before he stopped and turned around one last time.

"When we meet again," he called back, "I expect you to have at least three named weapons and a collection of scars impressive enough to make women faint."

"Only three?" Max called back.

Bubbles grinned. "Don't overachieve. It's unseemly."

Then he turned and kept walking, and this time he didn't look back.

Max watched until he couldn't see him anymore. Until the forest had claimed the last of them and he was truly alone at the crossroads.

He stood there for another minute. Maybe two. The wind picked up slightly, making the branches creak overhead. Snow fell from somewhere high up, dusting his shoulders.

Bro shifted on his perch, his glow brightening slightly. A gentle warmth against Max's neck.

"Yeah," Max said quietly. "Just us now, buddy."

The northern path stretched out ahead of him, winding between ancient trees that grew thicker and closer together the farther north you went. Darker. Colder. More dangerous.

Max took a breath, let it out slowly, and started walking.

The forest swallowed him too, the same way it had swallowed the others. And behind him, the crossroads stood empty and silent, six paths leading in six different directions, waiting for the next group of travelers to arrive and make their choices.

The sun was still up when his walk started.

He carried the wendigo's antlers in one hand—massive, branching things that weighed more than they looked like they should. The tines were sharp enough to punch through armor, as he'd learned firsthand. Twice. The skull-fragment still attached to the base had human-like teeth embedded in it, which was exactly as disturbing as it sounded.

Proof of the kill. Something the tribes would recognize and respect. Assuming he lived long enough to show it to anyone.

The closest confirmed safe zone was miles away. According to his map, he'd arrive right around sunset if he maintained a steady pace. Which wasn't ideal. The rules Borgen had laid out were pretty clear about not being caught outside after dark, and "right around sunset" was cutting it way too close.

So the plan was simple: head toward the guaranteed safe spot, but keep an eye out for closer alternatives. Uninhabited caves would be perfect.

He adjusted his pack and started north.

The forest here was different from what he'd grown used to over the past days. The trees were older, their trunks thick enough that three men couldn't wrap their arms around them. Moss hung from branches in curtains of gray-green, and the snow lay deeper in the hollows between roots.

Beautiful, in a way that made you acutely aware of how small you were.

"Well," Max said to Bro, who was perched on his shoulder in his usual spot. "I guess we're all small to something, huh?"

Bro's glow brightened slightly. Agreement, maybe. Or just acknowledgment that yes, the trees were huge.

Max picked his way over a fallen log, boots crunching through the frozen crust. "Think they'll be okay? Dan seemed nervous. Marcus was trying not to show it, but he was nervous too."

Bro didn't respond, which was fair. He was a spider. Emotional support wasn't really in his job description.

"Bubbles will be fine," Max continued, more to himself than anything. "He's smart. Careful. Probably too careful, honestly. He'll spend three hours checking a cave before he even thinks about sleeping in it."

The path—if you could call it that—wound between ancient stones that jutted from the earth like broken teeth. Someone had carved runes into a few of them, weather-worn and old enough that Max couldn't make out the details.

He stopped at a small stream to refill his waterskin. The water was so cold it made his teeth ache, but it tasted clean. Pure. Nothing like the slightly metallic tang of some well water back at Frosthold.

Bro hopped down to the stream's edge and stood there, observing the flowing water with what looked like intense focus.

"You thirsty?"

The spider turned to look at him. Just a look. No movement toward the water.

"Right. Stupid question. You're a spider."

Max splashed some water on his face, the cold shocking him fully alert. His breath steamed in the air. The temperature was dropping as the sun moved lower.

He needed to find shelter. Soon.

The forest opened up slightly as he continued north, the trees spacing out enough that he could see farther ahead. The landscape was stunning in that particular way the wilderness had of being both beautiful and completely indifferent to whether you lived or died in it.

Snow-covered hills rolled away to the east. To the west, he could see what looked like a frozen lake, its surface so smooth it reflected the sky like polished glass. And ahead, the mountains rose in jagged peaks that seemed to scrape the clouds.

"You know what's weird?" Max said, ducking under a low branch. "This whole world. Bjorn's world. I used to read about places like this. Made up stories, created maps, spent hours worldbuilding." He laughed, the sound small in the vast quiet. "Never thought I'd actually be walking through one."

Bro's warmth increased slightly against his shoulder.

"And the craziest part? It's real. Like, completely real. The cold hurts. My feet actually ache from walking. That stream water tasted like something, not just generic fantasy-world refreshment." Max shook his head. "It's bizarre. In a good way, mostly. Except for the part where things actively want to kill me."

A bird called somewhere overhead. Not a species Max recognized. The sound was haunting, almost musical.

He spotted the first cave about an hour later.

It was set into a hillside, the entrance partially hidden by hanging moss and the exposed roots of a massive tree. No rune marking it as safe. No obvious signs of habitation. But also no obvious signs that it was empty.

Max approached carefully, the wendigo antlers held ready. Not that he could do much with them except look threatening, but it was better than nothing.

He stopped about ten feet from the entrance.

"Uh," he called out. "Is there anyone in there?"

Silence.

He waited, counting to ten in his head. Still nothing.

"Hello? I'm just looking for—"

"AAAAAAAAARGH!"

The scream exploded from the cave with enough force that Max actually felt it in his chest. It wasn't a roar or a growl. It was the sound of someone—something—who had completely lost their mind and decided to share that fact with the world at maximum volume.

"Jesus!"

Max stumbled backward, nearly tripped over his own feet, caught himself on a tree. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"Okay!" he shouted at the cave. "Okay! I'm leaving! Sorry to bother you!"

He backed away quickly, keeping the cave entrance in sight until he'd put a good fifty yards between himself and whatever the hell lived in there.

Bro was glowing bright orange, tiny body tense.

"Yeah," Max said, breathing hard. "I agree. That was terrifying."

The second cave appeared maybe half an hour later.

This one was larger, set into the base of a cliff face with a more obvious entrance. Max could see inside a few feet, where the daylight penetrated. It looked... empty. Quiet.

He'd learned his lesson.

He stopped at a very reasonable distance—like, forty feet—and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Hello! Anyone in there?"

A pause.

Then, clear as day, in perfectly understandable human language: "GO AWAY!"

Max blinked.

Now, in a horror movie, the protagonist would recognize this as an intelligent voice. Something capable of communication. Something that could potentially be reasoned with. He might try to negotiate. Explain his situation. Offer payment for shelter. Ask politely if he could just stay one night and would be gone by morning.

This was not a horror movie.

This was Max's life, and Max liked to think that he was smart.

"Oookay," he called back. "Have a good day. Spirit, person, whatever you are. Didn't mean to bother you."

He turned and kept walking.

"That was the right choice, right?" he asked Bro. "Because trying to negotiate with the voice in the scary cave feels like exactly the kind of thing that gets you killed."

Bro's glow dimmed back to his normal orange. Approval, maybe.

The sun was getting lower.

Max picked up his pace, the urgency building in his chest. According to his map, he should be close. But "close" could mean a lot of things, and if he'd misread the terrain or misjudged the distance...

He didn't let himself finish that thought.

The forest thickened again, the trees pressing in close enough that he had to navigate carefully to avoid branches. The snow was deeper here, coming up almost to his knees in places. It slowed him down more than he'd like.

The light was taking on that golden quality that meant sunset wasn't far off.

Max forced himself to breathe steadily. Panic wouldn't help. He just needed to keep moving, keep navigating, trust the map.

A sound drifted through the trees. Distant. Almost like... voices?

Max stopped, listening.

There. Definitely voices. Multiple ones, speaking in a language he didn't understand. The words had a rhythm to them, almost sing-song, but there was something off about the melody.

His skin prickled.

He started moving faster.

The cliff face appeared through the trees like a blessing. Sheer rock rising maybe forty feet, with what looked like a cave entrance near the top. And carved into the stone beside the entrance, clear and unmistakable even from this distance, was the rune of Hedrig the Hunter.

Safe zone.

Max wanted to cry with relief.

The voices were louder now. Closer. Still behind him, but definitely closer than before.

He reached the base of the cliff and looked up. There was a path of sorts—handholds in the rock, places where the stone had been deliberately shaped to allow climbing. Not easy, but doable.

The sun was touching the horizon. The sky had gone from blue to orange to that particular shade of purple that meant nightfall was minutes away.

"Shit."

Max attached the antlers to his side and grabbed the first handhold to start climbing.

His pack threw off his balance. The wendigo antlers, still strapped to his side, kept catching on the rock. His arms were already tired from the day's travel, and now they were screaming as he hauled himself up foot by foot.

The voices below had stopped their singing. Now they were just sounds. Rustling. Movement through underbrush.

Max didn't look down.

His fingers found the next hold. Then the next. The cave entrance was twenty feet above him. Then fifteen. Then ten.

His boot slipped.

For one heart-stopping second, he was falling, his weight pulling away from the cliff face. Then his other hand caught, his fingers screaming with the sudden strain, and he slammed back against the rock hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

He hung there, gasping, then forced himself to keep climbing.

Five feet.

Three feet.

One.

Max's hand found the lip of the cave entrance. He hauled himself over, rolling onto solid stone and lying there for a moment, chest heaving.

The sun was a sliver on the horizon. Maybe ten minutes of daylight left.

He pulled his pack off, shoved it deeper into the cave. The antlers followed. His weapons he kept close.

And that's when he heard the scream.

At first, he thought it might be one of those spirits that came out after sunset. The kind Borgen had warned them about. The ones you didn't respond to, didn't acknowledge, didn't even look at.

But the screaming continued. Raw. Desperate. Human.

Max turned around despite himself.

Below, bursting from the tree line, was a young man.

He was maybe sixteen, seventeen at most. Dressed in rough furs and leather, his dark hair wild around his face. Blood ran from a cut above his eye, and his breathing came in ragged gasps that Max could hear even from forty feet up.

A barbarian. Just like Bjorn had been. One of the northern tribes.

The young man was running straight for the cliff.

And behind him, emerging from the forest like a pack of wolves, came the others.

Six of them. Adults, all dressed in similar furs, but there was something wrong about them. Their movements were too fluid, too synchronized. And they were covered in markings—painted or tattooed, Max couldn't tell from this distance—that formed patterns across their skin.

He squinted, trying to make out the details in the fading light.

The patterns resolved into symbols he recognized from his research. Circular designs that spiraled inward, broken by jagged lines. The mark of the White Hand tribes.

The cannibal tribes.

The ones Tredor had specifically warned him about. The ones who rejected the Aspects and worshiped something darker. And, as it happened, the ones who particularly enjoyed hunting squires during their Proving Year.

"Oh, fuck."

The young barbarian was coming straight for the cliff. Straight for the only safe zone in miles. Which meant he was about to lead six cannibals directly to Max's shelter.

The sun slipped below the horizon.

Darkness fell like a curtain.

Chapter 182. Ice Cream

Adom stared at his reflection in the mirror.

He'd activated [Resonance] a few minutes ago, mostly out of curiosity. He'd used the skill plenty of times now—with Bennu, even just earlier today when he'd accidentally made all those journalists stare at him like he'd grown a second head. But he'd never actually looked at himself while it was active.

He was looking now.

"You look like a human phoenix!" Bennu announced from behind him.

Adom glanced back. All three of them were sitting on his bed—Bennu perched on the headboard with his wings half-spread, Zuni nestled into the pillows looking contemplative, and Ada cross-legged at the foot of the bed with her hands pressed against her cheeks.

"You glow," Ada said, eyes wide. "Like there's fire inside you. Is it warm?"

Adom held out his hand toward her. She reached up and pressed her small palm against his.

"Oh!" Her face lit up. "It is warm! But it doesn't hurt. It feels nice."

"It is rather warm, yes," Zuni observed from his spot on the pillow. "Quite comforting, actually. Like sitting near a hearth on a cold evening."

"Of course it's comforting!" Bennu puffed his chest feathers. "It's a phoenix's fire. Not normal fire at all—it's mana in another form. Pure mana. Aelarion told me that himself."

"Aelarion tells you a lot of things," Adom said absently, turning back to the mirror.

His eyes were the most striking part. The blue in them looked like it had actual fire burning behind the irises—intense, almost liquid, moving the way flames moved when they caught on something and really started to burn. Flowing steady and controlled, like water running through a channel, except it was fire and it shouldn't be doing that at all.

His skin had a faint glow to it. Like there was light under the surface, trying to get out. Not bright enough to illuminate the room or cast shadows, but enough that he could see it clearly in the dim evening light coming through his window. It was stronger in some places—his hands, his forearms, along his chest and collarbone where the Axis concentrated.

And his hair.

Adom leaned closer to the mirror, squinting.

His hair was moving. Not floating around his head like he was underwater or anything ridiculous like that. But it shifted slightly, responding to something that wasn't wind or gravity. Individual strands drifted upward just a fraction, settled back down, drifted up again. Like they were caught in a current only they could feel.

And the white in it was spreading.

He could actually see it happening if he looked closely enough. A few strands that had been black this morning were white now, just at the tips, like someone had dipped them in bleach or paint. As he watched, one strand near his temple seemed to lighten another shade. Barely noticeable, but there.

"Most curious," Zuni murmured.

"Most curious indeed," Adom agreed.

He'd never really taken the time to check this form of his. He'd been too busy using [Resonance] for practical purposes like making his voice carry in a crowded hallway when he needed people to actually listen. He hadn't stopped to think about what it actually looked like. What it meant, beyond the immediate effects.

It was like Bennu said. Like a phoenix pretending to be human.

And the fire was mana. Bennu was right about that. Not normal mana, either—not the kind Adom manipulated every day when he weaved spells. This was... apparently phoenix mana. A specific form he hadn't even realized existed until Bennu mentioned it just now.

"You could probably use it for fighting," Bennu suggested helpfully. "Make yourself look scary. Intimidate your enemies. They'd take one look at you and run away screaming."

"I'm already quite a powerful mage," Adom said, tilting his head to examine the glow along his jawline. "Without being immodest about it. I can hold my ground easily enough when faced with most enemies. I've never thought of using this for fighting."

"Or anything else, really," Zuni added from the bed.

Adom nodded slowly.

He hadn't. [Resonance] had been useful for specific situations, but he'd treated it like a tool with one or two applications. He'd never considered studying it properly. Understanding what it actually did beyond the obvious effects. What it could do if he pushed it.

Phoenixes and their powers weren't known at all. Everything said about them came from legends—half-remembered stories about immortal birds that burned and were reborn, creatures of pure fire and magic that existed outside the normal rules. Stories passed down through generations until nobody knew what was true and what was embellishment. He'd been careful with [Resonance] because he didn't know what he was dealing with. Careful not to push too hard, not to assume too much.

But if he could make a new breakthrough in magic...

He watched another strand of his hair turn white in the mirror. Or whiter. It was hard to tell exactly when one shade became another.

Something that would be useful later. Something that could help when the wars came, when things got bad. When people needed every advantage they could get.

"I need to study this," he said quietly.

"Ooh." Ada bounced on the bed, making Zuni squeak in protest as the mattress shifted under him. "Can I help?"

"You can observe," Adom said, glancing back at her. "And tell me if anything looks different when I'm testing things."

"I can do that!" She scooted forward on her knees, nearly losing her balance. She windmilled her arms dramatically, then grabbed onto the bedpost. "I'm really good at noticing things!"

"You are," Adom agreed.

"I should be the one helping," Bennu declared, spreading his wings wider. "It's my fire, after all. I know how it works. Aelarion explained it to me very thoroughly."

"Our fire," Adom corrected, still staring at his reflection. "Apparently."

The phoenix made a pleased chirping sound and settled his wings back down.

Adom raised one hand, holding it up next to his face in the mirror. The glow was stronger there—concentrated in his palm, tracing up his fingers in thin lines that followed the bones underneath. He could feel the warmth of it. Not burning. Not even uncomfortable. Just... present. Like holding his hand near a candle flame, except the flame was inside him and he was the candle.

He flexed his fingers. The light moved with them, pulsing slightly brighter when his muscles contracted.

Interesting.

"Adom?"

He looked down. Ada had climbed off the bed and was standing next to him now, tugging on his sleeve.

"Yeah?"

"You said you'd spend time with me today." Her voice was small. "You've been really busy with Sam and the healing and all the people and you haven't been around much."

Adom felt a small pang of guilt.

She was right. He'd been so focused on the Celene situation, on managing the journalists and making sure Sam's family was okay, that he'd barely seen Ada in the last few days. She'd been with their father mostly, or playing with Zuni and Bennu, and he'd told himself it was fine because she understood he was busy.

But she was five. She didn't really understand. She just knew her brother wasn't around.

"You're right," he said. "I'm sorry. I should've made more time."

Ada brightened immediately. "So can we do something now? Something fun?"

Adom deactivated [Resonance]. The glow faded from his skin, the fire in his eyes dimmed back to normal blue, and his hair settled down into its usual state. He felt the warmth recede, pulling back into whatever space it occupied when it wasn't active.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Ice cream!" Ada said immediately. "And we can go to the park! It's nice outside and it's not too late yet."

Adom glanced at the window. The sun had set maybe two hour ago, but the park would still be open. There'd be people around—families, couples, probably some students from the Academy enjoying the weather.

"Ice cream sounds good," he said.

Ada squealed and grabbed his hand. "Zuni! Bennu! We're going to get ice cream!"

"Oh, splendid," Zuni said, hopping down from the pillow. "I do enjoy a pleasant evening walk."

"I'm not usually a fan of sweets," Bennu said, fluttering down to Adom's shoulder. "But if we're getting ice cream, can I have strawberry flavor? I do enjoy them from time to time."

"You'll need to transform first," Adom said. "We can't exactly walk through town with a phoenix on my shoulder without drawing even more attention."

Bennu huffed. "Fine, fine."

He fluttered over to the wardrobe and hopped inside.

"Give me a moment," his voice called out, muffled by the wooden doors.

There was a brief flash of golden light seeping through the cracks, and then the wardrobe doors swung open dramatically.

A small boy stepped out, looking like a younger version of Adom. He wore simple clothes that actually fit him properly, clearly picked from Adom's childhood things that were still stored in there.

"Tada!" Bennu announced, spreading his arms with a flourish.

Ada giggled. "You look funny as a person, Bennu."

"I look magnificent in any form, thank you very much."

They made their way downstairs. Their mother was in the sitting room, reading a book by lamplight. She looked up when they passed, her gaze lingering on Bennu for a moment before she smiled knowingly.

"Going somewhere?"

"Ice cream," Ada announced. "And the park. Adom's coming with us."

Maria's expression softened. "That sounds lovely. Don't stay out too late."

"We won't," Adom promised.

The evening air was warm when they stepped outside. Ada skipped ahead, then stopped and waited for Adom to catch up, then skipped ahead again. Zuni rode on Adom's shoulder, his small paws gripping the fabric of Adom's shirt for balance. Bennu walked beside them, his blue eyes darting around curiously at everything—the buildings, the people, the streetlamps just beginning to flicker to life.

They hadn't made it more than two blocks before someone recognized him.

"Magus Sylla!"

Adom turned to see a middle-aged woman approaching, her face lit up with recognition and excitement.

"I just wanted to say congratulations on your breakthrough today," she said breathlessly. "The whole island's been talking about it. What you did for your friend's mother—it's just remarkable. Truly remarkable."

"Thank you," Adom said, trying to keep his voice polite but not encouraging. "I appreciate it."

"My sister was there, you know. At the hospital. She said you were glowing like a phoenix. Is it true you created an entirely new form of healing magic?"

"I... wouldn't put it quite like that."

But the woman was already waving over her husband, who'd been waiting by a shop window. Within moments, a small crowd had started to gather. More people recognizing him. More congratulations. More questions.

Ada tugged on his sleeve, looking confused. "Why is everyone being like this? You're always famous, but this is different."

"The healing earlier," Adom explained quietly. "It was... more public than usual."

"But you heal people all the time!"

"That's mother, not me."

A group of children had noticed them now. Three boys, maybe eight or nine years old, were staring with wide eyes.

"That's the Ghost!" one of them whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"No way," another said. "Really?"

"Look at his hair! It's definitely him!"

Ada's face lit up with pride. She turned to the boys, hands on her hips. "This is my brother!"

The boys' eyes got even wider.

"Your brother is the Ghost?"

"Yes!" Ada said smugly. "He's the best mage in the whole empire. Probably the whole world."

Adom giggled at that.

And the boys were already approaching, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Sir Magus," the tallest one said, trying to sound formal and failing. "Could we... could we have your autograph?"

"My autograph?"

"Please? We've been practicing Krozball because of you. Everyone at school talks about you all the time."

He glanced down at Ada, who was beaming at him. Then at the boys' hopeful faces. Then at the small crowd that had gathered, all watching with interest.

"...Alright," he said finally.

The boys cheered. One of them pulled out a small notebook and a pencil, thrusting them at Adom eagerly. He signed his name—just "Adom Sylla," nothing fancy—and handed it back.

"Thank you, Sir Magus!"

"You're welcome."

More people were approaching now, and through it all, Bennu stood beside him, staring at everything with wide, curious eyes. He kept reaching out to touch things—the fabric of someone's coat, the wood of a nearby fence post, a flower growing in a window box—like he'd never seen any of it before.

Eventually, someone noticed him.

"And who's this?" a woman asked, smiling down at Bennu. "I don't think I've seen you around before, young man."

Bennu looked up at Adom, his expression somewhere between confused and excited about being addressed.

"This is my brother," Adom said smoothly.

The woman blinked. "Your brother? I didn't know you had a brother."

"He's... shy," Adom said, even as Bennu was currently trying to examine the woman's bracelet with intense fascination. "We don't bring him out much."

"What's your name, young man?" the woman asked Bennu directly.

"Bennu!" the boy said brightly, finally looking up from the bracelet. "What's that made of? It's shiny. Is it magic? Can I touch it?"

The woman laughed, charmed. "It's just glass, dear. And yes, you can touch it if you'd like."

"Not shy at all, is he?" another person commented, amused.

Adom sighed. "He has his moments."

More questions came. Where had Bennu been? Why hadn't anyone seen him before? Did he go to school? Was he learning magic too?

Adom deflected as best he could, keeping his answers vague. Bennu, meanwhile, was having the time of his life, asking questions about everything he could see, touching things with careful curiosity, chattering away to anyone who would listen.

"Why do people even wear shoes?" he asked one man. "Don't they make your feet hot?"

"What's that smell?" he asked a baker walking by. "Is that bread? How do you make bread? Can I see?"

"Your eyes are brown," he told a woman. "Why are they brown and not gold? Gold is better."

This reminded Adom he'd have to teach the concept of boundary to the young phoenix.

By the time they finally managed to extract themselves from the crowd and continue toward the ice cream shop, Adom's face hurt from maintaining a polite smile.

"That was exhausting," he muttered.

"That was amazing!" Bennu said, practically bouncing as he walked. "Everyone was so nice! And there were so many things! And—"

"Bennu," Adom said. "Please. Quieter."

"Right. Sorry. But still! It's all so interesting!"

Ada giggled. "You're funny, Bennu."

"I'm magnificent," Bennu corrected automatically, but he was smiling.

The ice cream shop was on the corner near the park entrance. It was busy—there was a line of people waiting at the counter, mostly families with young children. Ada joined the line eagerly, standing on her toes to try and see the flavors in the display case.

"I want chocolate," she declared. "No, wait. Vanilla. No... chocolate."

"You have time to decide," Adom said.

"What are you getting?"

"Haven't thought about it yet."

"You should get the same thing as me so we can share."

"That defeats the purpose of getting the same thing."

Ada frowned, thinking about that. "You're right. Get something different so I can try yours."

Adom shook his head, but he was smiling again.

Bennu was pressed against the display case, staring at all the colors with wide eyes. "What are all these? Why are they so colorful? Is that safe to eat? It looks like it's glowing. Is it supposed to glow?"

"It's ice cream," the shopkeeper said, clearly amused. "First time, son?"

"First time seeing it like this," Bennu said honestly.

When they reached the counter, Ada ordered chocolate, then changed her mind to vanilla at the last second. Adom got coffee flavor. Bennu got strawberry, though he kept asking questions about how they made it cold and why it didn't melt immediately.

The shopkeeper seemed charmed by Bennu's endless curiosity, giving him a generous scoop. "For the curious young man," he said. "On the house."

"See?" Bennu said smugly to Adom. "People appreciate curiosity."

"People think you're entertaining," Adom corrected.

"I am entertaining and magnificent."

Mr. Biggins probably taught him that.

They walked toward the park, Ada licking her ice cream cone carefully to keep it from dripping. Bennu kept stopping to look at things—a cat sitting on a windowsill, a street performer juggling, a couple walking hand in hand—until Adom had to keep pulling him along.

As they entered the park, Ada suddenly gasped. "Look! There's a show!"

She was pointing toward a small crowd gathered near the center of the park, where someone had set up what looked like a makeshift stage. Adom could see colorful lights, hear music and laughter.

"It's Old Jack!" Ada said excitedly. "Can we watch? Please?"

"Alright," Adom said. "We can watch for a bit."

They found a spot near the edge of the crowd. The park was beautiful at this time of evening—the lamps along the pathways had been lit, casting warm pools of light across the grass. Old Jack was in the middle of a card trick, making a queen of hearts disappear and reappear in increasingly unlikely places.

Ada watched with wide eyes, clutching her ice cream. Bennu seemed fascinated too, though he kept muttering things like "that's not real magic" and "I could do that better with actual fire."

"Shh," Adom said. "Just watch."

They stayed for a few minutes, until Ada finished her ice cream and Old Jack finished his current routine. As the crowd applauded and started to disperse, Adom noticed something.

A silhouette. Standing by Law's statue at the far end of the park, facing the bronze figure with their back to the crowd.

An old woman. Sitting on the bench there. Sewing something.

Adom recognized her immediately. It was Magus Beth. The diviner.

"Come on," he said to Ada and Bennu. "Let's walk this way."

"Why?" Ada asked.

"Just... someone I should say hello to."

They made their way across the park, Zuni still perched on Adom's shoulder, Bennu walking beside them with sticky strawberry residue on his fingers. As they got closer, Adom could hear Beth's voice, soft and distant, talking to herself.

Or not to herself.

"Goodbye, little bird," she said quietly. "Fly safe."

Adom paused. Looked around. There was no bird. Nothing that could explain who she was talking to.

Then Beth turned around, and her eyes—clouded with age but still sharp in their own way—fixed on him immediately.

"Oh," she said, smiling. "Hello, Adom."

Adom blinked. Recovered. "Ah. Hey, Beth."

He was confused about why she'd been talking to empty air, but then again, she was a diviner. Who knew what she could see that others couldn't?

"Out for a walk?" Beth asked pleasantly, her gaze shifting to Ada, then to Bennu, then to Zuni. "With your whole little army, I see."

"Ice cream," Ada explained, holding up her sticky hands as evidence. "And the park."

"How lovely," Beth said. She looked at Bennu for a long moment. "And who's this?"

"My brother," Adom said, keeping his voice level.

"Your brother," Beth repeated. Her smile widened slightly. "Of course. How nice to meet you, Brother of Adom."

Bennu, for once, seemed uncertain. He stepped closer to Adom, his usual confidence dimmed. "...Hello."

Beth's eyes lingered on him for another moment, then returned to Adom. "You've had quite the day, I hear."

"News travels fast."

"It does when you make miracles in front of half the town." She gestured to the bench. "Sit, if you'd like. Rest those tired feet."

Adom hesitated, then sat. Ada climbed up next to him, swinging her legs. Bennu remained standing, looking at Beth with open curiosity.

Beth smiled warmly at them. "And what are your names, dears?"

"I'm Ada!" Ada said brightly. "And this is Bennu. He's Adom's brother. Well, sort of. It's complicated."

"Most interesting things are," Beth said, her eyes twinkling. She looked at Bennu. "A pleasure to meet you both."

"Who are you?" Bennu asked bluntly.

Beth laughed, a warm, crackling sound. "A friend of your brother's. From work, you might say."

Ada's eyes widened. "You're really old to be Adom's friend from work!"

"Ada." Adom said shaply.

But Beth laughed harder, her shoulders shaking. "Why do you chastise them, Adom? They speak truth. One should not take offense at truth-telling, especially when being old is no offense at all. I am old. Wonderfully, gloriously old. I've earned every wrinkle and gray hair."

Ada giggled. Adom felt his ears heat up.

Beth went back to her sewing, her needles clicking softly in the evening air. Ada leaned forward, watching with interest.

"What are you sewing?" she asked.

"A flag, dear."

"What sort of flag?" Bennu asked, stepping closer to peer at the fabric.

Beth paused, considering. "I haven't given it a name yet. But I will, eventually. When it's done. When I am certain of what it's meant to become." She smiled. "Some things reveal themselves in their own time."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of the park. The fountain. The distant laughter. The rustle of leaves in the warm evening breeze.

Then Beth looked up, her gaze fixing on Adom.

"Tell me, are you curious about divination?"

The question caught Adom completely off guard. He blinked, opened his mouth, closed it again. Wasn't sure what to say.

Beth laughed softly. "Gaius told me already, you know. That you'd been asking. That you were considering it."

Adom's mind raced. He remembered now, weeks ago, Gaius told him Beth had offered to teach him. Had said she wanted him as a student. He'd been uncertain then, too busy with everything else. But now...

Of all the magi he'd met, Beth was the hardest for him to understand. To discern. She always seemed to know things others didn't. And she did, even his fight with Magus Nox, she'd hinted at the outcome before it happened.

Magic was an incredibly vast field, and one could spend a lifetime or more studying just one discipline. As such, Adom didn't know much about divination. He'd tried it a few times, but never could predict anything further than a few seconds ahead, and that took intense focus and time. Not ideal at all, might as well just wait for the second to arrive and know what happened.

So he didn't know much about divination, but he knew enough to know that no one could predict even a day in advance with any real accuracy.

Unless one was Beth Salazar.

The greatest diviner in the known world, who could predict with more than seventy percent accuracy an event up to three days before it happened. She was a natural genius, and like all natural geniuses, could never quite explain how she did it. Which made learning from her both fascinating and potentially frustrating.

But still. The path to [True Archmage] required mastery across all disciplines. He was already stretched thin, true. But divination with Beth—someone who clearly saw more than most—could be invaluable.

"I..." he started carefully. "I would be honored to learn from you. If the offer still stands."

Beth's smile widened. "Good. Then we begin now."

Adom was still processing that, still forming a response, when suddenly his mind went blank.

Not blank like forgetting something. Blank like someone had reached in and erased every thought, every notion, every scrap of awareness except—

"What?" he managed, blinking hard.

Beth's eyes were fixed on him, sharp despite their cloudiness. Intent.

"Your first lesson," she said calmly. "We begin now, boy."

Gamble King Chapter 36. Prey

Huff. Huff.

Pain.

The wendigo's lungs burned with each breath. The flesh around its ribs had been cooked, turned brittle and cracked. Every expansion of its chest felt like tearing wet paper.

It stumbled over a root it should have seen, caught itself against a tree trunk. The bark scraped against exposed bone where the fire had eaten through muscle and hide.

But it was away. Finally away.

The forest had gone quiet around it. No sound of pursuit. No crackling flames. No shouting in those sharp-edged sounds the two-legs made.

Just the rasp of its own breathing and the drip-drip-drip of fluid from its wounds.

The wendigo slowed, then stopped completely. Its legs shook. When had its legs started shaking? It looked down at them. The left one had an arrow still lodged in the muscle, the shaft snapped off short. The right was covered in burns, the skin blackened and split like overcooked meat.

It leaned against a tree, trying to sort through the smells. Its own charred flesh dominated everything, thick and nauseating. Underneath that, pine sap. Old snow. A fox den somewhere nearby.

But no smoke. No leather. No steel.

They were gone.

The wendigo felt something that might have been relief, if it had the energy for such things. It had outrun them. Left the burning ones behind. They were slow, those things. Awkward. Built wrong for the forest.

It closed its eyes.

Just for a moment. Just to—

Flap, flap, flap.

The sound came from directly overhead, heavy and deliberate.

The wendigo's head jerked up and several vertebrae in its neck cracked from the movement. Pain flared, but duller now. Everything was getting duller.

A harpy perched on a thick branch fifteen feet above, folding wings that looked too leathery to belong to anything that could fly. It had the shape of a female two-legs, but wrong in all the details. Talons instead of feet. Wings instead of arms. A mouth that opened too wide.

The wendigo recognized it.

This specific harpy had been circling since sunrise. Higher up, where the air was thin and the thermals were good. But always there. Always waiting.

The harpy smiled down at it.

"Tired?" it asked.

Its voice was pleasant. Almost friendly. That made it worse.

The wendigo's lips pulled back from its teeth. The gesture sent fresh pain through the burns on its face, but it didn't care. "Yes," it managed. The word came out broken, rasping through a throat that had inhaled fire. "But. Not. Dead."

The harpy tilted its head, still smiling. "No. Not dead yet."

...Yet?

Rage bubbled up through the exhaustion. The wendigo knew harpies. What they did. They never hunted. Never took risks. They just circled overhead, patient and persistent, waiting for something else to do the killing. Then they'd drop down and eat you while you were still warm.

Scavengers.

Cowards.

"You can stop following," the wendigo said. It pushed itself upright, away from the tree. Standing on its own even though its legs wanted to collapse. "I'm not dying. I'll survive this."

The harpy shifted its weight on the branch. Didn't respond. Just kept smiling that patient smile.

The wendigo's rage built. "I'll survive," it repeated, louder now. "And I'll heal. And when I do, I'm going back for those things." The concept for the burning ones came out as a growl. "I'll make them pay. I'll tear them apart slowly. Make it last for days. I'll—"

"You haven't gotten away," the harpy interrupted.

The wendigo stopped mid-sentence.

"You know that, right?" The harpy examined one of its talons with apparent disinterest.

"What?"

"You haven't escaped them."

A lie. Obviously a lie. The wendigo had been running for... for how long? Long enough that the forest had changed around it and the terrain had shifted from rocky slopes to dense pine. Long enough that it couldn't hear them anymore. Couldn't smell them through the overwhelming stench of its own cooked meat.

"You're wrong," the wendigo snarled. It took a threatening step toward the tree. The movement made black spots swim across its vision. "I have escaped. I've been running. They're slow. Clumsy. They can't—"

"No," the harpy said. Still calm and pleasant. "You haven't."

The wendigo wanted to climb up there and tear that smile off the creature's face. "I can't hear them. Can't smell them. They're gone—"

"I've seen this before." The harpy preened one of its wing feathers. "Many times. They always catch up."

"You're lying—"

The wind shifted.

It was subtle. Just a change in direction, bringing new scents from the east.

And there, underneath the pine and snow and fox den, was something else.

Sweat.

Leather.

Steel.

Smoke.

Them.

The scent was faint. So faint it could have been imagination. But the wendigo knew it wasn't. Its kind could smell blood from miles away. Could track prey for days based on scent alone.

And this scent was getting stronger.

"So what if they do?" The wendigo rounded on the harpy, snarling. "So what if they catch up? They're slow! I'm faster! I'll just run again—"

The harpy laughed.

It was a tired sound. Like it had heard this exact conversation before and knew how it ended.

"What's funny?" the wendigo demanded.

"You'll run away again." The harpy cocked its head. "Then what?"

The wendigo opened its mouth.

Closed it.

What kind of question was that?

"Then I'll be away from them," it said. "And they'll give up. They'll—"

"They'll find you," the harpy finished. "Again."

"Then I'll run—"

"And they'll find you." The harpy spread its wings slightly, refolding them. "Again. And again. Don't you get it?" It gestured with one wing at the wendigo's ruined body. "Look at yourself. They know how you smell now. They know you're weak. They can track you. And they are never going to stop."

Something cold settled in the wendigo's chest.

That couldn't be right. When you hurt something badly enough, it ran away. When you made yourself too dangerous, too much trouble, creatures decided you weren't worth the effort. That was how hunting worked. That was how everything worked.

"They have to stop," the wendigo said. Its voice sounded strange. Hollow. "They can't run forever. They'll get tired. Need to rest. Need to sleep. They' cannot run forever."

"Neither can you," the harpy said quietly.

The wendigo's head snapped back to face it.

"They'll get tired," it insisted.

"Not before you do." The harpy extended a wing, pointing east. "See? Look there. Up on the ridge. Under those tall pines. Where you stopped to rest some time ago."

The wendigo looked.

At first, nothing. Just trees and snow and the late afternoon light casting long shadows through the forest.

Then movement.

Small. Distant. But there.

The scent hit stronger now. The wind was carrying it directly to where the wendigo stood. Four of them. No, five if you counted the spider-thing.

The wendigo's heart kicked faster.

It squinted, trying to focus through the pain and exhaustion. The figures were still far away. Maybe half a mile. Moving down the ridge in a loose formation.

They weren't running. Weren't even moving particularly fast.

Just walking.

Steady. Unhurried. Like they had all the time in the world.

"Here they come," the harpy said. Something almost like sympathy crept into its voice. "You understand now? They may be slow, but they're relentless. They wear you down. Chase after chase. Hour after hour. Until you're completely spent." It settled back on its branch. "I've watched it happen before. Eventually all you can do is stand there, drooling and gasping for air, while they walk right up to you. And then..." It chuckled. "Well. You know how it ends."

The wendigo stared at the distant ridge.

Three sunrises.

It had been running for three full sunrises, and they were still there. Still coming.

The figures were clearer now as they descended. Four two-legs moving. And at the front, leading them...

The burning one.

The one with the spider. The one who had looked directly at the wendigo through its perfect camouflage and known exactly where it was. The one who had made fire appear from nothing, fire that burned hotter and brighter than any natural flame.

The wendigo watched them come down the slope. They moved carefully but steadily, navigating the terrain patiently.

They were talking to each other. The wendigo couldn't hear the words, but it could see their mouths moving.

"For what it's worth," the harpy said, "I take no pleasure in watching this unfold." It preened another feather. "But I've got to eat too, you see."

The wendigo's legs trembled.

The burning one stopped at the base of the ridge, maybe a quarter mile away now. It raised one hand to shade its eyes, looking directly toward where the wendigo stood.

Could it see through the trees? Could it smell the wendigo from there?

The burning one pointed.

Directly at the wendigo.

The others nodded. Started walking again. The wendigo's breath came faster. Harsher.

This was wrong. This was all wrong.

"They'll tire," the wendigo said. Its voice sounded desperate even to itself. "Eventually. They have to."

The harpy didn't respond. It was watching the approaching figures with focused interest.

The wendigo could see the burning one's face now.

It... it smiled.

The wendigo felt something it hadn't felt in a very, very long time.

Fear.

Real fear. The kind that locked up your muscles and turned your thoughts to water, whispering that you were already dead and all of this was just delaying the inevitable.

This was how it ended, then.

They were going to walk right up to it, just like the harpy said. And it was too tired to run anymore. Too damaged to fight properly.

It was going to die here, in this forest, killed by things that should have been easy prey.

The burning one was close enough now that the wendigo could see the spider on its shoulder move, see the steam rising from the others' breath in the cold air, hear the crunch of their boots on frozen ground.

The distance between them was maybe the length of ten deer strides. Then five. Then three.

The wendigo's heart hammered against its broken ribs. Its legs shook so badly it could barely stand. Every instinct screamed to run, to flee, to get away from these things with their wrong eyes and their casual certainty.

But where would it go? They would just follow, again and again, until there was nowhere left to run and the wendigo was so exhausted it could barely stand, let alone fight.

The burning one smiled wider. Said something to the others. They spread out slightly, forming a half-circle. Cutting off escape routes.

The fear in the wendigo's chest twisted, coiled, changed shape into something else entirely.

Rage. Pure, absolute, incandescent rage.

Fine. If this was how it ended, so be it. It wouldn't die cowering or whimpering like something weak and broken. It had been the perfect hunter once—faster than anything in these woods, stronger, more dangerous. Maybe it couldn't win. Maybe it was too damaged, too exhausted. But it could still make them remember this.

The wendigo threw its head back and screamed.

The trees shook with it. Birds exploded from branches in every direction while small animals scattered, fleeing from the promise of violence in that terrible sound.

The burning one stopped smiling.

The wendigo screamed again, louder this time. The pain didn't matter anymore. The broken ribs, the burns, the arrow still lodged in its leg—all of that was distant now, unimportant compared to the rage burning through its chest.

It charged.

The fear was gone, burned away completely. If it was going to die, it would die as it had lived. As something to be feared.

The distance vanished. The wendigo covered the ground in massive, loping strides, its claws tearing gouges in the frozen earth. Its vision narrowed to a tunnel focused entirely on the burning one's face, on that expression shifting from confidence to surprise.

Good. Let them be surprised. Let them remember what it meant to hunt something truly dangerous.

The wendigo's scream turned into a roar of pure, mindless fury as it closed the final gap.

This was the end.

***

The wendigo charged like a living avalanche, eight feet of fury and burnt flesh closing the distance faster than something that injured had any right to move.

Max's hand shot up.

The Thoughtshape formed in an instant—methane, concentrated, aimed. The gas streamed from his palm in a pressurized column.

"Bro!"

The spider's abdomen flared blue-white. The jet of flame ignited the methane mid-stream.

The explosion caught the wendigo mid-leap.

Fire engulfed its face, its chest, its reaching claws. The creature's momentum carried it forward another few feet before the pain registered. Then it screamed.

It crashed into the snow ten feet from Max, rolling, thrashing, clawing at its own face.

Max didn't wait.

He reached for another arrow, nocked it, drew, and fired in one smooth motion. The shaft punched into the wendigo's shoulder. Bro kept the flame going, a continuous stream that followed the creature's movements like a blowtorch.

"How is it still moving?!" Marcus shouted from somewhere to Max's left.

The wendigo lurched to its feet, half its body on fire, and charged again.

Max sidestepped, fired. The arrow took it in the ribs. Dan came in from the side with his sword, a quick slash that opened a long cut across the creature's flank. The wendigo spun toward him with shocking speed.

Bro's flame caught it square in the face again.

Another scream. The wendigo staggered backward, shaking its head violently.

"Three days!" Bubbles yelled, his voice cracking with disbelief. "We've been hunting this bastard for three days and it's still this fast?!"

Max drew and fired. Drew and fired. Each arrow found meat. Each one should have been fatal. The wendigo kept moving.

It lunged at Marcus, who barely got his spear up in time. The antlers caught the wooden shaft and snapped it like kindling. Marcus threw himself backward, hit the snow hard.

The wendigo raised a clawed hand.

Bro's flame stream hit its arm. The creature jerked away, howling. Dan came in again with his sword, a solid strike to the back of the knee. The joint buckled. The wendigo dropped to one knee.

Max put an arrow through its neck.

The creature tried to stand. Its leg gave out. It caught itself on one hand, pushed up—

Another arrow. This one in the spine.

The wendigo's back legs stopped working properly. It dragged itself forward with its front claws, still trying to reach them, still trying to kill.

"What manner of beast is this?!" Marcus scrambled to his feet, grabbed a broken piece of his spear like a club.

Bro kept firing. The small spider's flame never wavered, just poured superheated death onto the wendigo's ruined body.

Max drew his last arrow. Fired. It punched clean through the creature's chest and out the other side.

The wendigo finally stopped moving.

Its front legs gave out. It collapsed face-first into the snow, breathing in wet, rattling gasps. But it was still breathing.

Max dropped his bow and drew Dusk and Dawn.

The obsidian blades sang as they cleared their sheaths—that low, musical note that Jorik had promised. Max walked forward, both swords ready, muscles coiled.

The wendigo's head lifted slightly. Its remaining eye fixed on him with pure, undiluted hatred.

"Should've stayed down," Max said.

He struck.

Dusk came down in a diagonal slash that took the wendigo across the throat. Dawn followed immediately, a horizontal cut that went deeper. The blades moved like extensions of his arms, perfectly balanced, impossibly sharp.

The wendigo made a sound. Not a scream. Something quieter. Almost surprised.

Its head dropped back to the snow.

The breathing stopped.

Max stood there for a moment, both blades still raised, waiting to see if the thing would somehow get back up again. Because at this point, he wouldn't be surprised if it did.

It didn't.

The wendigo lay still. Dead. Finally, actually, genuinely dead.

[Number of rerolls remaining: 12]

Max lowered his swords. His arms were shaking. His legs were shaking. Everything was shaking.

"Is it done?" Bubbles asked from behind him.

"Yeah," Max said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. "It's done."

For a moment, nobody moved. They all just stood there, staring at the massive corpse, breathing hard.

Then Marcus started laughing.

It was a slightly unhinged sound, high and breathless. "We killed it. We actually bloody killed it."

"Three days," Dan said. He was grinning like an idiot. "Three days tracking this bastard through the woods and we actually brought it down."

Bubbles let out a whoop and tackled Max in a hug that nearly knocked them both over. Marcus joined in a second later, then Dan, and suddenly they were all just a pile of exhausted, laughing young men who'd somehow survived something that should have killed them.

"That was madness!" Bubbles was saying. "Complete madness!"

"Your spider was the best," Marcus said, pulling back to look at Bro with newfound respect.

Bro sat on Max's shoulder, looking extremely pleased with himself.

The celebration lasted maybe a minute before Dan's expression shifted. He glanced up at the sky where the harpy was still circling.

"We should move," he said.

The others followed his gaze. The harpy had descended slightly, close enough now that they could see the details of its face. Still smiling. Still patient.

"Aye," Marcus agreed, his own smile fading. "I've always hated seeing those things circle overhead."

"The wendigo's dead," Bubbles pointed out.

"Doesn't matter to them. They'll wait for anything that might die." Dan shook his head. "This was a necessary hunt—wendigos never forget a scent once they've marked you. Had to deal with it now or it would've followed us for months. But that doesn't mean we need to stand here while that thing waits to pick our bones."

Max nodded, still catching his breath. He reached up to pat Bro gently on his tiny head. "Good work, buddy."

The spider glowed orange briefly in what Max had learned to recognize as contentment.

"Wait."

Bubbles's voice stopped them all mid-turn.

"What?" Max asked.

Bubbles was staring at the wendigo's corpse. More specifically, at its head. "You made the kill. That means the prize is yours by right."

"Prize?"

"The antlers." Bubbles walked closer, crouching near the creature's head. "Look at them."

Max looked.

Despite everything—the fire, the prolonged fight, the arrows, the burning—the antlers were intact. Not just intact. They looked almost pristine, the bone gleaming dully in the afternoon light.

"How do you know they're worth taking?" Dan asked.

"I read about it," Bubbles said. He reached out to touch one of the antlers, running his fingers along the surface. "There was a knight who made his name with archery. Crafted a weapon from wendigo antler—it became famous. A named weapon. They have magical properties, apparently. Very durable. And they work especially well for those who can channel Fanga."

Marcus and Dan exchanged glances.

"You just happen to know this?" Marcus asked.

"I read when I can," Bubbles said. "And Harek uses a bow. This could prove useful."

Max approached the corpse, still breathing hard from the fight. The wendigo looked smaller now that it was dead. Less terrifying. Just a broken thing lying in the snow.

He knelt beside its head, pulled out one of his short swords, and positioned the blade at the base of the first antler.

"Might take a moment," he said.

The obsidian blade bit into bone.

Chapter 181. Rude Journalists

Back on the grind!

This little pause was really beneficial, I can actually use my hands again now without wanting to cry, which is a pretty significant improvement, lol. I've been alternating between typing and dictation, and I've also set specific hours for writing to discipline myself. Turns out having a schedule helps. Who knew?

We'll get back to a better posting rhythm now, so you can expect more chapters in the coming days (M-W-F). Both for this story and The Gamble King as well.

I hope the chapter's enjoyable!

Adom stood there, watching.

Sam's back was to him. His shoulders were shaking. The rest of the family had crowded around the bed: Elena on one side, their father on the other. Celene was sitting up now, supported by pillows someone had shoved behind her. Probably Sam.

It was strange.

Adom had never actually known Sam's mother. He'd known of her, obviously. The condition. The fourteen years. The reason Sam got quiet sometimes, went distant in a way that was hard to pull him out of.

He'd seen her face before, but only recently. Last year, after Sam started working at the Magisterium and his father decided to relocate the family's merchant guild headquarters to Arkhos. They'd brought her with them. Adom had visited the medical facility once or twice with Sam, stood in the room while his friend sat beside the bed and talked to someone who couldn't hear him.

Eyes closed. Pale. Still.

That was the only version of Celene he'd ever seen.

And now she was awake.

It was like watching a painting come to life. Or maybe more like hearing about a character in a story for years—secondhand descriptions, moments Sam mentioned when he was sadder than usual—and then suddenly meeting them in person.

Her personality was already visible. Just from this. The way she touched Sam's face, cautious and wondering. The way her gaze moved between him and Elena, lingering on her daughter's face with an expression Adom couldn't quite name.

Elena had hesitated at first. Just for a second. Then she'd thrown herself forward, arms around her mother, and Celene had held her. Tightly. Like she was afraid Elena might disappear if she let go.

Celene's voice was still hoarse when she spoke again. Adom caught fragments.

"...you were so small..."

"...I'm sorry, I—"

"...your father's beard, what happened, did he give up—"

A weak joke. Her first words in fourteen years and she was already teasing her husband.

Sam's father laughed. It came out choked and broken, but it was a laugh.

Adom felt something warm settle in his chest.

He couldn't see Sam's face from here. Just his back, his shoulders, the way he was leaning forward like he wanted to be closer but didn't quite dare. But Adom could imagine it. Sam was probably smiling like an idiot right now. The kind of smile that made his whole face scrunch up, the one he only did when he was genuinely, overwhelmingly happy.

A hand grabbed his arm.

Adom blinked and looked down.

His mother was there, tugging him gently toward the door. Mia was already moving, stepping back from the bed.

"Let's give them some space," Maria said quietly.

Right. Of course.

This was a family moment. Private. Adom had no business standing here watching it like some kind of voyeur.

He turned toward the door.

And immediately remembered they were not, in fact, alone.

The hallway was still packed. Gus and Luna were at the front, positioned like sentries. Behind them, the crowd had swelled even larger. More faces Adom didn't recognize. More journalists. One of them had a notebook raised, quill moving frantically across the page.

Eren was there too, planted firmly in the doorway. He had one arm out, blocking a particularly aggressive-looking journalist—a human man with a press badge pinned to his coat—from pushing past.

"I said back up," Eren said flatly.

The journalist tried to duck under his arm.

Eren didn't move. The man bounced off him like he'd walked into a wall.

"Are you deaf?" Eren asked.

The journalist opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it. He stepped back.

Adom, Maria, and Mia slipped out into the hallway.

The moment they did, the journalists swarmed.

"Excuse me! Healer mage, can you comment on—"

"—unprecedented results, what does this mean for—"

"—young man, are you the one who enhanced the potion? Can you explain the process—"

"—long-term effects, have you considered—"

"—revolutionize the field of alchemical healing, do you think—"

They were everywhere. Closing in from all sides. Notebooks raised. Quills scratching. One woman had a recording crystal held up near Adom's face, close enough that it was practically touching his nose.

He pulled back slightly. She moved forward, keeping the same distance. The crystal's surface was cool and smooth, and he could see his own reflection in it, distorted and strange.

He looked at the woman holding it. She had a perfect poker face. Completely neutral. He couldn't tell if she was oblivious to the fact that she was essentially shoving an object into his personal space, or if she was doing it on purpose to get a reaction.

Probably on purpose, he decided.

The crystal itself was Adom's design. Wangara manufactured them in bulk now. Cass sold them through her network, and the whole operation brought in good money. No complaints from anyone involved in the supply chain. The reporters loved them—compact, easy to use, reliable recording quality.

He'd been proud of that design when he'd finalized it.

Now, with one pressed against his face by a woman who either didn't understand boundaries or didn't care about them, he wondered if some of his inventions were mistakes. This seemed like evidence for that theory.

Maria's expression went cold. "Step back. Now."

They didn't.

Adom felt bodies pressing in. Someone's elbow jabbed his ribs. Another journalist was shouting a question directly at Mia, who looked like she was two seconds away from punching him. Which was saying something, considering Mia's reserved personality.

His friends were trying to help. Kim had wedged herself between Adom and a particularly pushy reporter. Damus was bodily shoving someone backward. Karion had Naia behind him, one arm out to keep her from getting crushed. Gus and Luna were still holding the doorway, keeping anyone from getting back into the room where Sam's family was.

But they couldn't use magic. That would be seen as... rude. Aggressive. The kind of thing that would make them look like the problem instead of the mob of people shoving recording crystals in their faces.

Adom stopped walking.

When he'd used his skill [Resonance] the last time with Bennu, he'd noticed something about his voice. It changed. Became deeper, resonant in a way that didn't feel quite natural. Otherworldly, maybe. Powerful. Like the sound was coming from somewhere else and just passing through him.

Maybe he could use that to his advantage and make them back off a little. A harmless prank, really, give them a scare, get some breathing room.

He activated [Resonance].

Warmth spread through his chest, down his arms, settling behind his ribs like a second heartbeat. His skin prickled. The air around him felt somewhat slightly heavier and denser.

Adom cleared his throat and immediately, there was a silence.

The journalists suddenly stumbled back. Not far—just a step or two—but their faces changed. Eyes went wide. The woman with the recording crystal lowered it slightly, staring at him.

Everyone was looking at him now.

The journalists, frozen mid-question. His friends, turned toward him with expressions ranging from curious to concerned. Even his mother had stopped trying to push through the crowd and was staring at him.

Complete attention. Total silence.

All those eyes on him.

Adom felt his stomach twist slightly.

This wasn't quite what he'd been going for. He'd wanted them to back off, give him space, maybe look a little spooked. Not... this. Whatever this was. They were staring at him like he'd just done something significant instead of clearing his throat.

He stood there, suddenly very aware of how awkward this had become.

More silence and staring.

Could they be hearing him differently than he heard himself? He'd used [Resonance] before, but never in front of people.

Maria's eyes were locked on his.

Her lips moved. No sound.

Adom had learned to read lips young. It was a survival skill, developed during childhood when she'd get embarrassed or angry about something he'd done in public but wasn't willing to chastise him where others could hear. She'd talk with her mouth, silently, and expect him to understand.

He understood now.

Your pupils have fire in them.

Oh.

He released [Resonance] immediately.

The warmth faded. The weight in the air lifted.

Everyone seemed to untense. He hadn't even noticed they'd been tense in the first place—shoulders tight, breathing shallow, like they'd all braced themselves without meaning to.

He cleared his throat again. Normal this time.

"Sorry about that," he said. "It was... getting chaotic. Thought I'd get your attention."

The crowd was still watching him. Silent. Expectant. Like the tension from a moment ago had never existed.

Should he... say something?

But what?

The woman with the recording crystal—the one who'd been shoving it in his face—stepped forward. Her poker face was gone. She looked polite now. Almost deferential.

"Magus Sylla," she said. "What does this discovery mean? For the world?"

Adom looked at her.

The world.

Yeah. That had been the goal all along, hadn't it? The world. How to save it. How to fix the things that were broken, prevent the things that would break in the future if left alone.

This—what had just happened in that room—was part of it. A small part in the grand scheme of things, maybe, but still part of why he'd come back at all. It wasn't just about the big catastrophes or the wars he knew were coming. It was about moments like this too.

A woman, fourteen years asleep. A case everyone had given up on, including some of the best healers in the known world. And now she was awake, sitting up in bed, holding her son and daughter and teasing her husband about his greying beard like no time had passed at all.

People needed to see things like that. Not just the destruction magic could cause—the wars, the catastrophes, the chaos he knew was coming whether anyone was ready for it or not—but the other side of it too. The hope.

He took a breath.

What he was about to say would probably be remembered. That felt pretentious to think, but the evidence was right in front of him—a dozen journalists with quills poised, recording crystals raised, all waiting for him to explain what had just happened. They'd write this down. Print it. Distribute it across the kingdom and beyond.

And Adom knew what was coming. Not tomorrow or next month, but in the years ahead. Wars that would tear the continent apart. Catastrophes like the World Dungeon that would make people desperate for answers, for someone to blame. Mages always made convenient scapegoats. He'd watched it happen once already, seen the fear and suspicion grow until even the most benign magic user couldn't walk down a street without people crossing to the other side.

If he had a chance now—while people were still watching a miracle instead of a disaster—to shape how they thought about magic and the people who wielded it, he should probably take it.

In the days and years ahead, people would need to have faith in mages. They'd need to see them not just as agents of destruction or walking weapons, but as people who could actually make things better when given the chance.

He should say something that mattered.

"I think," he said slowly, "it means we're not done yet. Any of us."

The quills started moving again. Scratching across paper, recording his words.

What else? He wasn't particularly good at this—speeches, public statements, whatever this was turning into. But the journalists were waiting, staring at him with that focused intensity that meant they were going to write down whatever came out of his mouth next.

He kept going.

"I know magic gets a reputation. Sometimes it's deserved, people see what it can destroy, and they're right to be cautious about it." His hand moved toward the door behind him, then stopped halfway. The gesture felt awkward, so he let his arm drop. "But that's not all it is, and I think we forget that sometimes. What happened in there—" He tilted his head back toward the room where Sam's family was. "That's what magic can do when people work together. When they're willing to try something new, take a risk, push past what's supposed to be possible."

One of the journalists in the front row was nodding. Another had her quill moving so fast it was practically a blur.

Adom looked at them. At his friends standing around him—Damus had his arms crossed, expression unreadable; Kim was watching him with something that might've been approval; Eren looked vaguely annoyed, probably because he was still holding back two journalists who kept trying to push forward. At his mother, who was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

He searched for the next words.

"I'm not going to stand here and tell you we're heroes," he said finally. "We're not. We're just people who know how to do a few things, and we're trying to do them well." That sounded weak. He pushed forward anyway. "But I will tell you this, there are a lot of us. Mages, I mean. Healers, alchemists, druids. People who've spent their lives learning how to make things better, safer, stronger. And we're not going to stop."

The scratching got faster. He could see the journalists leaning in, hanging on his words. The woman with the recording crystal had moved it closer again, not quite touching his face this time, but close enough that he could see the faint glow of the activation rune on its side.

How to finish this?

"The world's got problems," he continued, buying himself time to think. "Big ones. Some of them are coming whether we're ready or not."

A few of the journalists exchanged glances at that. Probably wondering if he meant something specific.

He did, but he wasn't about to explain it.

"But if we can solve the small ones—" He paused, reconsidered. "The things that seem hopeless. The cases everyone's given up on, like the woman in that room. If we can do that, then maybe we'll be ready for the big ones when they arrive. Maybe we'll have built enough trust, enough skill, enough proof that magic isn't just a tool for war or power."

What was the word he wanted?

"It's a tool for fixing things," he said. "For healing. For making life better."

That was close enough.

He paused, trying to find the right words to end this. The silence stretched. Someone coughed. A quill kept scratching.

"So that's what it means," he said finally. "It means we're going to keep trying. And we'd appreciate it if you'd trust us to do that."

Silence again.

It was different this time. Quiet. Thoughtful, maybe. Or maybe they were waiting to see if he'd say more.

He didn't have more.

His mother's hand found his arm. Her fingers squeezed once, firm and grounding. Her lips curved slightly.

Good job, she mouthed.

Adom let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Then the moment shattered.

"Magus Sylla!" someone shouted from the back of the crowd. "Do you think you'll be the next Archmage?"

Well, that was unexpected.

Another voice, closer: "What about the Magisterium, will they recognize this breakthrough as a new field of study in runicology and healing?"

"Are you planning to establish a new school of magical theory?"

"How old are you exactly? There are rumors you're younger than the official reports!"

"Is it true you've developed seventeen new artifacts in the last year alone?"

Adom closed his eyes.

Should've seen that coming.

Chapter 180. If You're Scared, Then Do It Scared

I'm really sorry about the releases lately as I'm much slower than I'd wish I were right now. I can't really use my hands at the moment, so I've been editing through dictation, which is also the sole reason the chapters were slowed down even on Royal Road, as I couldn't edit them the way I wanted to.

This chapter was supposed to come out on Sunday, and here it is now. I'm seated and working on editing the rest of them. Will try to update the chapters, as well as two more of The Gamble King, this Wednesday before 8pm.

I hope it's enjoyable, and I'll see you tomorrow!

The hospital room smelled like burnt sage and copper.

Adom stood near the wall, out of the way, watching his mother and Mia work. The preparation table was covered in alchemical equipment—glass vessels, burners, measuring tools, containers of reagents he recognized and several he didn't. Sam's mother lay on the bed behind them, still and silent except for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Her name was Celene.

The family was outside now, along with Kim, Lysandra, and about half a dozen other people Adom didn't know well. He could hear them through the door. Quiet murmuring. The occasional nervous laugh. Someone was pacing.

Inside the room, it was just the four of them. Three conscious, one not.

The potion base hissed softly as it heated. Mia adjusted the flame underneath it, her movements precise. She'd been doing most of the physical preparation while his mother handled the more complex mana work—layering preservation spells, stabilizing the mixture's magical properties, making sure nothing degraded before it was ready.

The liquid in the vessel was gray. Thick, almost paste-like. It looked deeply unappealing.

"Temperature's holding," Mia said.

Maria nodded. She had both hands raised, fingers moving in small, deliberate patterns. Mana rippled in the air around the vessel, visible as faint distortions like heat shimmer. "Good. Keep it there for another two minutes, then we'll add the bloom."

Adom shifted his weight. He'd been standing here for forty minutes while they worked through the preliminary stages. It was fascinating to watch, but also nerve-wracking. This was Sam's mother. If something went wrong—

"Stop that," his mother said without looking at him.

"Stop what?"

"Whatever anxious thing you're doing. I can feel your mana fluctuating from here."

Ah. Healers were known to have a high mana sensitivity. Adom made a conscious effort to settle himself. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just breathe."

He breathed.

Mia glanced at the timepiece on the table. "Two minutes done."

"Alright." Maria lowered her hands. The shimmer around the vessel stabilized, then faded. "Adom, the bloom."

He pulled the container from his bag and opened it carefully. The Somnusbane Bloom inside still looked perfect—petals intact, stem firm, the faint violet glow undimmed. He'd kept it under preservation spells for the entire trip back.

He handed it to his mother.

She took it gently, examining it for a moment. "This is excellent quality. Well done."

"Thanks."

Maria held the bloom over the vessel. "Watch carefully. This part is delicate."

She dropped it in.

The bloom hit the surface of the gray mixture and immediately began to dissolve. Not melting—dissolving, like sugar in hot water. The petals separated first, their violet color bleeding into the gray, and then the stem followed, breaking apart into fine particles that dispersed through the liquid.

But not everything dissolved evenly.

Maria's hands rose again, and this time the mana work was different. More focused. Surgical. Adom could see the spell taking shape—a decomposition array, designed to separate useful compounds from inert material at the molecular level.

The bloom's remains began to separate inside the vessel. Some parts condensed, sinking toward the bottom. Others rose to the surface, forming a thin film. Maria's fingers moved, guiding the process, isolating what was needed and pushing aside what wasn't.

"Active compounds settling," Mia murmured, watching the vessel closely. "Looks good."

The gray mixture was changing color now. Slowly at first, then faster. Gray shifted to purple—not the bloom's original violet, but something darker, richer. Then the purple deepened to black, an opaque, lightless black that seemed to absorb the glow from the heating element beneath it.

Adom leaned forward slightly. He'd never seen a potion do this before.

The black held for maybe ten seconds.

Then it started to lighten.

The change was gradual. Black to dark gray. Dark gray to lighter gray. The liquid's consistency shifted too, becoming thinner, more fluid. It began to steam, wisps of white vapor rising from the surface.

Lighter gray to pale gray.

Pale gray to off-white.

"Almost there," Maria said quietly.

The liquid continued to pale until it was the color of milk. Pure white, smooth, with a faint luminescence that hadn't been there before. The steam stopped rising. The hissing from the heating element faded as Mia reduced the flame.

"That's it," Maria said. She lowered her hands and exhaled. "We're done."

Mia extinguished the flame completely and carefully lifted the vessel from the stand. The liquid inside barely moved, thick and stable. She carried it over to where Adom stood.

His mother followed, looking tired but satisfied. "Are your hands clean?"

Adom looked down at his hands. He'd washed them twice before entering the room. "Yes."

"Good." Maria gestured to the vessel Mia was holding. "I'm going to need you to dip your hand into the mixture. Just your fingers will do. We need the rune in direct contact with the liquid for the amplification to work properly."

Adom nodded and held out his hand, the one with the tattoo.

"It's still hot," Mia warned. "It won't burn you—the preservation spells prevent thermal damage to organic matter—but you'll feel the temperature."

"Understood."

Mia tilted the vessel slightly. The white liquid inside shifted, catching the light.

Adom extended his index and middle fingers and dipped them into the mixture.

It was warm. Very warm, but not painful. The sensation was strange—like putting his hand into bathwater that was slightly too hot, except there was no discomfort. Just warmth. The liquid clung to his skin, it was thick and smooth.

He channeled mana into the rune.

The tattoo flared to life immediately, golden light spreading across the lines etched into his forearm. The warmth in the vessel intensified. Not burning, just present, growing stronger. The white liquid began to glow.

Faintly at first.

Then brighter.

Adom kept the mana flowing, steady and controlled. The glow built, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. The liquid's color shifted—white to pale gold to something richer, more saturated. The luminescence intensified until the vessel itself seemed to be filled with light.

His mother and Mia watched in silence.

The transformation peaked, then settled. The glow stabilized into a steady, saturated gold.

Adom felt the enhancement lock into place, that distinct sensation of the rune's work completing. He withdrew his hand. The liquid remained changed, glowing softly in the vessel.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

His mother stared at the potion. Mia stared at the potion. Neither of them moved.

"Is it..." Adom started. "Is it good? Did it work?"

Maria leaned closer, her hand rising. Mana channeled through her fingers as a sort of diagnostic spell took shape around the vessel. The spell shimmered, probing the liquid's properties.

She frowned slightly. Not in displeasure, but in concentration. Her eyes tracked something Adom couldn't see.

The silence stretched.

"I don't know what this is," Maria said finally.

Adom's stomach dropped. "What?"

"It's not the same potion anymore." She glanced at Mia, who looked equally uncertain. "The base compounds are still there, but the magical structure has completely changed. It's more potent—significantly more potent—but I've never seen anything configured quite like this."

"Is that... bad?"

"No. I don't think so." Maria studied the glowing liquid. "It should work. It should work better than what we had before. But I can't tell you exactly how much better, or what side effects there might be, or—"

"Mother, will it wake her up?" Adom interrupted.

His mother looked at him. She didn't answer immediately.

Adom felt his chest tighten. What if it wasn't enough? What if he'd enhanced it wrong somehow? What if the bloom hadn't been the right ingredient, or he'd mistimed the channeling, or—

A hand patted the top of his head.

He blinked and looked down at his mother. She was smiling at him. Not her healer smile, the real one. The one she used to give him when he was younger and had worked himself into a panic over something he couldn't control.

"You've done everything you could have done," she said gently, "given everything you had. More than anyone could have reasonably expected, honestly."

She paused, then added, "Don't worry so much about things you can't control. We'll know whether it worked or not when she drinks it."

Adom smiled back at her. A small, tired smile. She was right. He knew she was right. He had a tendency to spiral when he couldn't see the outcome clearly, and it never helped anything.

He took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to settle the anxious energy in his chest.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Multiple sets. Voices followed, low murmurs at first, then clearer as they approached the door.

One voice stood out among them.

Sam's.

Adom's head turned toward the sound. Sam was here.

The door slammed open.

Not opened—slammed. The sound of wood hitting stone echoed through the room, and Adom's head snapped toward it.

Sam stood in the doorway, breathing hard. His chest heaved. His hair was disheveled. Sweat dampened his collar. He looked like he'd sprinted the entire way here.

Behind him, the hallway was packed.

Adom saw Elena first, her face tight with worry. Then Sam's father, one hand on his daughter's shoulder. Kim was there too, and Lysandra. Damus stood near the back, arms crossed. Karion beside him. Naia and Emma were pressed against the wall, trying to see past the crowd.

Gus was there too, positioned strategically near the doorway with Luna at his side. The two of them seemed to be acting as a barrier, keeping the crowd from pressing forward into the room.

Hugo and Kaius, their seniors from the combat athletics club were present as well as a few other faces Adom recognized from Xerkes but couldn't name.

And then there were the people he didn't recognize at all.

A fox beastkin woman with a notebook in her hands stood near the front of the crowd, her ears twitching as she tried to catch what was happening inside the room. A journalist, Adom realized. And once he noticed her, he saw the others. Three more, maybe four, clustered in the lobby beyond the hallway. One of them was arguing with someone—probably a staff member trying to keep them out. Another had what looked like a magic pencil, the kind that could sketch what the user saw with unsettling speed and accuracy.

It was a sea of people. Too many people. The lobby looked like it had tripled in size and still wasn't large enough.

"What—" Adom started.

"I asked for the room to be closed," Maria said sharply. She was looking past Sam, toward the crowd. Her voice had gone cold. "There was a leak. Someone mentioned there might be a... miracle happening here. Or a revolution in healing. I don't know what word they used. But it spread fast."

"Hence the chaos," Mia muttered.

Adom looked back at Sam.

Their eyes met.

He'd had seen Sam in a lot of states. Calm and focused during training. Relaxed and joking around with their friends. Frustrated when a technique wouldn't click. Tired after a long day. Excited when something went right.

He'd never seen this before.

Sam looked like he was barely holding himself together.

"Hey," Adom said quietly.

Sam blinked. He seemed to register where he was for the first time—standing halfway into the room, people staring at him, his mother still unconscious on the bed behind Adom. He straightened slowly, his breathing starting to even out.

Then he turned and looked at the door.

The handle was bent. The wood around the frame had splintered. He'd broken it.

Sam turned back to face the room. His face reddened slightly.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, his voice strained. "It's just—I heard—and I thought—"

"It's alright," Adom interrupted.

Sam stopped. "Is it?"

It wasn't really a question about the door.

Adom glanced at the potion in Mia's hands. The golden liquid still glowed softly, luminescent and warm. He reached out and took the vessel from her carefully. She let him have it without protest.

He held it for a moment, feeling the weight of it, then looked back at Sam.

"Why don't you check?" he said.

Sam hesitated.

Adom walked toward him, the vessel held steady in both hands. The crowd in the hallway quieted. He stopped in front of Sam and held the potion out to him.

"Go ahead," he said.

Sam reached out and took the vessel.

His hands were shaking. "I'm scared," he said quietly.

Adom almost took it back. The liquid was still glowing, still precious, and if Sam's trembling got worse he might spill it or drop it or—

But he stopped himself.

Sam had always struggled with this. With fear. With the weight of things he couldn't control. And Adom had spent too much time trying to shield him from it, trying to make things easier, smoother, safer.

Maybe that wasn't helping.

"If you're scared," Adom said, "then do it scared."

Sam swallowed hard. His throat worked. He looked past Adom toward the bed, then back at the potion in his hands.

Behind Adom, footsteps. Elena and Sam's father had entered the room. They stood close, not speaking. Just there.

Sam turned around and walked to his mother's bedside.

He sat down slowly, carefully, the vessel still clutched in both hands. The bed dipped under his weight. His mother didn't move. She hadn't moved in fourteen years.

There was a tube. It ran from the corner of her mouth to a stand beside the bed, one of the feeding mechanisms that had kept her alive all this time. Sam's hands hesitated over it, then he looked at Mia.

She stepped forward and removed it gently, efficiently. "We can administer it directly," she said. "It'll be more effective that way."

Sam nodded. He lifted the vessel to his mother's lips.

The room went silent.

Adom watched. He couldn't look away. Sam tilted the vessel slowly, letting the glowing liquid trickle into his mother's mouth. A little at a time. Steady. His hands were still shaking, but he didn't spill a drop.

The potion disappeared bit by bit. Golden light reflected off Sam's face.

Adom's chest felt tight. The same thoughts came, again and again. What if it didn't work? What if he'd miscalculated something, enhanced it wrong, chosen the wrong ingredient—

He forced the thoughts down. This was do or die. The moment was already happening. Overthinking again wouldn't change anything now.

The silence behind him was thick. Palpable. No one moved. No one breathed louder than they had to.

Sam finished. The vessel was empty. He set it down on the bedside table and stayed where he was, sitting next to his mother, staring at her face.

Waiting.

Adom wasn't sure what to expect. Would it wake her up instantly? Would there be a delay? Or would there be nothing at all?

The instant passed.

Several seconds went by.

Still nothing.

Maybe a delay then? He wanted to believe that was the case. It had to be.

Elena's breathing hitched behind him. A sob, barely contained. Sam's father was breathing heavily, each exhale audible in the quiet. Someone was praying, low, murmured words in a language Adom didn't recognize. Another prayer in a different tongue overlapped it. The scribbling of the journalists' magic pencils continued in the hallway, sketching the scene.

More seconds passed.

Sam's mother remained motionless.

The young man was still looking at her, his back to everyone. His shoulders trembled slightly. He was murmuring something. Barely audible. Just loud enough for Adom to hear.

"Please... please... please..."

Adom hadn't noticed how tense he'd been until he felt a hand grab his.

He looked down.

His mother was holding his hand. She was looking up at him, smiling. Warm and steady. She nodded once.

It'll be okay. Wait and see.

Adom exhaled. He held her hand and turned back to watch.

More seconds.

Sam's mother didn't move.

Adom closed his eyes.

Suddenly, a gasp.

His eyes snapped open and he looked at the bed.

Sam's mother—her skin was changing. The pallor that had clung to her for years, that sickly, greyish-white color of someone hovering at the edge of death, it was fading. Warmth was returning. Color. Pink touched her cheeks. Her lips lost their ashen hue.

Then her fingers twitched.

Just one hand. A single, small movement.

But it was movement.

Then her chest rose. Fell. Rose again. The rhythm changed—less mechanical, more natural. Her breathing deepened.

Her eyelids fluttered.

Someone gasped behind Adom. He wasn't sure who.

Sam leaned closer, his hand hovering over his mother's, not quite touching. Afraid, maybe, that contact would break whatever was happening.

Her eyes opened.

Slowly and sluggishly. Like someone waking from the deepest sleep imaginable.

Brown eyes. Unfocused at first. Confused.

She blinked.

Her hand moved. Slowly, trembling, it lifted from the bed. Her fingers reached toward Sam's face, hovering uncertainly before touching his cheek.

The touch was feather-light. Tentative. Like she wasn't sure he was real.

Adom could hear Sam's sobs. Quiet at first, then breaking through completely as his mother's fingers traced his jaw, his cheekbone.

Her lips moved. The sound that came out was barely more than a whisper—hoarse, rough, unused for so long it hardly sounded human.

"Sam?"

The word cracked in the middle.

Sam's breath hitched. He pressed his hand over hers, holding it against his face.

"It's me, Mother," he said.

His voice broke on the last word.

She stared at him. Her eyes moved over his face, taking in features that must have seemed impossible. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been seven years old. Small. A child.

Now he was nineteen. Taller than her. Broader. A man.

Her expression shifted—confusion, disbelief, then something that looked like grief and joy tangled together.

"It worked," someone whispered behind Adom.

"It worked!" Elena's voice, louder now, breaking. "It worked!"

The room erupted. Voices overlapping. Relief. Disbelief. Joy. Someone was crying. Multiple people were crying. The journalists in the hallway were shouting questions, trying to get closer, but Gus and Luna held the line.

Adom felt his knees go weak.

Relief hit him like a wave. Pure, overwhelming relief.

His first thought was simple.

Delay it was, then.

Chapter 179. Sam

Sam's report to Magister Everett was almost complete.

He'd managed to keep his voice steady through most of it. Professional. Clear. The kind of tone that said I am fine, this is routine, everything is under control. The magister sat across from him in his office—wood-paneled walls, shelves packed with administrative documents, a window overlooking the tower grounds—and listened without interruption.

Sam appreciated that about Everett. The man knew when to just let someone talk.

"—and the preliminary assessment suggests the northeastern wards will need recalibration within the next two weeks," Sam finished. "I've compiled the specifics in the written report. Should be on your desk by tomorrow morning."

Everett nodded slowly, his hands folded on the desk. He was older, maybe mid-fifties, with a face weathered from decades of managing the Archmage's correspondence and putting out administrative fires. Gray hair. Sharp eyes. A perpetual look of mild concern that never quite left his expression.

"Thank you, Sam," he said. "This is good work."

"Just doing my job."

"You didn't have to do this report."

Sam blinked. "Sir?"

Everett leaned back in his chair. "I told you last week you could take time off. As much as you needed. Given your current situation—"

"I'm fine."

"Sam."

The name landed with weight. Not harsh. Not pitying. Just… firm. The way someone spoke when they knew you were lying and wanted you to know they knew.

Sam looked down at his hands. They were resting on his knees. Steady. No trembling. That was good. He'd been worried about the trembling.

"I know what you're dealing with," Everett continued. His voice was gentler now. "I know where you've been spending your time. I'm not going to force you to take leave, but I want you to know the option is there. The Archmage is aware of your circumstances. We're not going to penalize you for prioritizing your family."

Sam nodded. He should say something. Thank the man, probably. Agree that yes, he appreciated the understanding, and yes, he'd consider taking time if he needed it.

Instead, what came out was: "It helps."

Everett raised an eyebrow. "The work?"

"Yeah." Sam looked up, meeting the magister's gaze. "The work. Having something to do. It helps me decompress. I've been at the hospital for days now and—" He paused. "It's taking a toll. On my mental health. I think. So coming here, doing the reports, checking the wards… it gives me something else to focus on. Something I can control."

The office was quiet for a moment.

Everett's expression softened. "I understand."

"I know it sounds—"

"It doesn't sound like anything except what it is," Everett said. "You're doing what you need to do to stay functional. That's smart. Just make sure you're also taking care of yourself."

"I am."

"Are you?"

Sam smiled. It felt thin on his face, but it was there. "I'm trying."

Everett studied him for another moment, then sighed. "Don't lose hope, Sam. Medicine has come a long way. Magical medicine even further. There are always options."

"I know."

"Do you?"

Sam's smile didn't waver. "I do. Thank you, Magister."

He didn't.

There was no hope left. Sam knew that. He'd known it for a while now, even if he hadn't said it out loud. Even if he kept showing up at the hospital every day, sitting beside his mother's bed, talking to her like she could hear him. Even if he kept nodding when the healers gave their updates and assured him they were doing everything they could.

He knew.

Adom knew too. Sam could tell.

He hadn't seen Adom in a few days. That was unusual. They'd been practically joined at the hip since the diagnosis—Adom showing up at the hospital unannounced, sitting with him in silence when Sam didn't want to talk, bringing food when Sam forgot to eat. Reliable. Constant.

And then, ten days ago, Adom had stopped coming.

Sam knew what that meant. Adom was off looking for a solution. Some obscure remedy, some experimental treatment, some miracle that existed only in theory. That was how Adom worked. When faced with a problem he couldn't solve, he threw himself at it until either the problem broke or he did.

But the last time Sam had seen him—standing in the hospital corridor, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the floor like it held answers—Adom's face had told him everything.

He'd given up.

Not out loud. Never out loud. Adom wouldn't do that. But the look in his eyes had been hollow. Resigned. The expression of someone who'd run out of ideas and didn't know how to admit it.

Sam understood. He didn't blame him.

There was nothing left to try.

"Sam?"

He blinked. Everett was watching him with that same concerned expression, waiting.

"Sorry," Sam said. "What?"

"I asked if you needed anything else."

"No. No, I'm good. Thank you, Magister. For everything."

Everett nodded. "Take care of yourself."

"I will."

Sam stood, gave a polite nod, and left the office.

The corridor outside was empty. Quiet. The tower always felt quieter in the late afternoon, when most of the administrative staff had gone home and the mages were either in their labs or off handling field assignments.

Sam walked slowly, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor.

He should go back to the hospital. That's what he always did. Finish his work, head straight back, sit beside his mother's bed until visiting hours ended.

But right now, he didn't want to.

Right now, he just wanted to walk.

So he did.

The comm crystal suddenly pulsed in his pocket.

Sam felt it—the familiar warmth, the gentle vibration that meant someone was trying to reach him. He kept walking. The streets of Arkhos were busy this time of evening, people heading home from work, mages in robes weaving between merchants closing up their stalls. The sun was already setting, giving the sky shades of orange and pink that Sam barely noticed.

The crystal pulsed again.

He didn't want to talk. Not right now. Not to anyone.

He knew who it probably was.

Elena.

His little sister had been calling more frequently lately. Every day, sometimes twice a day. Sam had answered the first few times—brief conversations where he'd assured her everything was fine, that the healers were doing their best, that she should focus on her studies and not worry too much.

The lies had gotten harder to tell.

So he'd stopped answering.

Sam pulled the crystal out of his pocket, glanced at it, then slipped it back. The pulsing continued for a few more seconds before fading.

Coward.

The word sat heavy in his chest. He'd thought he'd moved past that. Years of training, pushing himself, proving he could be more than the scared kid who'd nearly destroyed everything. He'd worked so hard to become someone reliable. Someone strong.

And yet here he was, refusing to face his fourteen-year-old sister.

Elena was fourteen now. She'd been an infant when their mother had gone into the coma. She'd never known her laugh. Never heard her voice. Never seen her smile in person, or watched her cook, or heard her sing the old songs from their grandmother's village. Hell, she'd never even felt what it was like when their mother got angry, and that was quite a sight.

Her face would get red as a tomato, her hair—the same color as Sam's—seemed to take on a life of its own. It was always scary, but never once had Sam felt she wanted to hurt him, even in that state. There was always exasperation and warmth underneath it all.

Elena had missed everything a mother could give her child.

Because of Sam.

If he hadn't awakened that day—if it hadn't been so violent, so uncontrolled—none of this would have happened. Their mother would have been there for Elena's first steps, her first words, her first day of school. She would have been there for all of it.

Instead, she'd been unconscious.

For fourteen years.

And if she died now—when the coma finally took what little was left—it would be because Sam had put her there in the first place.

He'd be the one who killed his own mother.

That was the hardest part. The reason he couldn't face Elena's calls. The reason he avoided his father, who'd come to Arkhos a month ago and kept trying to have conversations Sam didn't want to have.

He'd be the killer of their mother and wife.

The crystal pulsed again.

Sam ignored it.

He turned a corner onto a smaller street, one he'd walked a hundred times before. Familiar shops lined both sides—a bookstore, a tailor, a place that sold enchanted trinkets that mostly didn't work. And there, near the end of the block, was the Weird Stuff Store.

The lights were still on.

Sam hadn't planned to come here. He'd just been walking, letting his feet take him wherever. But now that he was here, he realized what he wanted.

A Frosty.

The craving hit him suddenly and intensely. Sweet, cold, perfectly blended. The kind of thing that had no nutritional value whatsoever but somehow made the world feel slightly less terrible.

He pushed open the door.

The bell chimed overhead—a cheerful little sound that felt out of place with Sam's mood. The store was exactly as he remembered. Shelves packed with candies, chocolates and random objects, some magical, some mundane, all vaguely absurd. Enchanted paperweights. Self-stirring spoons. A taxidermied lizard wearing a tiny hat. Oh no, wait. It was moving, so it was a real lizard. He... supposed?

And there, against the back wall, was the Frosty machine.

Mr. Biggins had upgraded.

The new model was sleeker, shinier, with more buttons too. Still the same concept though—mind magic that somehow knew exactly what you wanted and dispensed it perfectly. Illegal and convenient in equal measure.

Sam smiled despite himself.

He kind of missed those days. The simpler days. When he and Adom were still students at Xerkes, spending too much money on Frosties and arguing about rune theory in the corner booth of whatever café would tolerate them. Nerds with too much time and not enough common sense.

It had its highs and lows. The academy wasn't exactly easy. But it was nicer than whatever he was feeling right now.

"Hello."

He looked up.

There was a woman behind the counter. Thessarian, if he remembered correctly. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, a friendly smile, the kind of person who seemed genuinely pleased to see customers even at the end of a long day.

Their eyes met.

Sam realized he'd been standing there, staring at the Frosty machine with a smile on his face like an idiot.

"Oh. Hey." He cleared his throat, feeling heat creep up his neck. "I was just—I'm gonna get a Frosty."

Smooth.

Thessarian nodded, her smile easy and unbothered. "Go for it."

She went back to her reading—some kind of biology book with a garish cover—and Sam was grateful she didn't make it weird.

He walked over to the machine. It hummed softly, a low vibration that he could feel in his chest. He focused on the flavors he and Adom used to take—Cloud Nine, Summer Sunset—and watched as the machine whirred to life.

Two streams of blended ice poured into a cup. Swirls of pale blue and orange mixing together in a way that shouldn't have worked but somehow did.

The classic.

"Six coppers," Thessarian said when he returned to the counter.

Sam reached for his coin pouch.

The crystal pulsed again.

He felt it through the fabric of his pocket, warm and insistent. His jaw tightened.

"You gonna pick that up?" Thessarian asked.

Sam looked up at her. What was her problem? But he kept his expression neutral, polite. "I'll do it later."

She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. "You're Adom's friend, right? Sam, I think?"

Sam blinked. "Uh. Yes. How did you—"

"He talks about you." She said it casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Comes in here pretty regularly. Always mentions his best friend Sam when he's browsing the shelves. You'd think I'd know you personally by now with how much he goes on."

Sam wasn't sure what to say to that. His hand was still hovering over his coin pouch, six coppers pinched between his fingers. "Oh."

"He was in here a couple days ago, actually." Thessarian leaned against the counter, her expression brightening like she'd just remembered something interesting. "Bought a bunch of stuff. Seemed pretty focused. Said he was working on a cure for his best friend's mother."

Sam froze.

"A cure?" The words came out quieter than he'd intended.

"Yes. I don't know the details—he was quite vague about it—but he seemed determined. Spent a lot of time asking about rare ingredients, compatibility with healing magic, that sort of thing." She paused, then smiled. "That would be you, yes? The best friend?"

Sam couldn't breathe.

A cure.

Had Adom found a cure?

That's why he'd disappeared. He wasn't giving up. He was—

"You okay?" Thessarian asked.

Sam realized he was staring at her. His throat felt tight. "Yeah. I'm—yeah."

The crystal pulsed again.

Thessarian's smile widened. "Pick it up next time it does that, yes?"

Sam nodded mechanically. He placed the six coppers on the counter, his hand shaking slightly.

"Thanks," he managed.

"Anytime."

He turned and walked toward the door, the Frosty clutched in one hand, the other pressed against the pocket where his comm crystal sat.

Hope.

It flickered in his chest like a candle flame—small, fragile, dangerous.

He didn't want to hope. Couldn't afford to. Because if he let himself believe, if he let that spark grow into something real, and then it didn't work—if the cure failed, if Adom's determination wasn't enough, if his mother died anyway—

He'd die from it. That alone, he was sure of.

The door swung shut behind him.

The crystal pulsed again.

Thump-thump.

Sam's hands were trembling. He hated that. Hated the loss of control, the visible proof that he was falling apart. He needed to sit down.

He looked around. There—a bench. Or maybe stairs? He wasn't sure. His vision had gone slightly blurry at the edges, and his feet were moving without much input from his brain.

He sat.

The Frosty went beside him on the bench. Yes, it was a bench. In a park. Probably. There were trees. Or maybe lampposts. Did it matter?

Four times.

The crystal had pulsed four times in a row now.

That meant something. It had to mean something. Either his mother was dead—had finally slipped away while he was buying a goddamned Frosty like an idiot—or this was the hope he'd been running from. The possibility that Adom had actually found something.

His breath came faster.

His pulse hammered in his ears.

His palms were slick with sweat, and when he pulled the crystal from his pocket, it nearly slipped through his fingers. He caught it. Barely. Held it in both hands because one wasn't steady enough.

Thump-thump.

His heartbeat.

Loud. Too loud. Like it was trying to break through his ribcage.

He pressed the crystal's activation rune.

Thump-thump.

"Hello?" His voice came out rough. Strained.

Thump-thump.

"Sam!" Elena's voice crackled through. "Where were you? I've been calling you like four times!"

Sam looked around. He was in a park. Definitely a park. There was a fountain nearby. Water burbling. The sound felt very far away.

"I'm—" He swallowed. "I'm at a park."

"Never mind that," Elena said, and there was something in her voice. Something tight and high-pitched. Emotional. "You need to come to the hospital. Right now."

Thump-thump.

Sam's throat closed. The world tilted sideways, and he gripped the edge of the bench with his free hand to keep from toppling over.

He couldn't speak. Couldn't ask. Because if he asked, she'd tell him, and if she told him, it would be real.

His mother. Dead. People crying around her bed. His father's face. Elena's tears. The healing artifacts finally silent. The silence. The end. The thing that was his fault, had always been his fault, would forever be his fault—

"Why?" The word scraped out of him. He was barely holding his voice together, barely keeping it from cracking completely. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat, and he pressed his free hand against his mouth.

Elena's voice wavered. She sounded close to tears herself. "Just come, okay? Please."

There were voices in the background. Muffled. Urgent. People talking over each other.

Sam's eyes burned. His chest felt like it was caving in.

Please, he thought desperately. Any god. All the gods. Please don't make me see it. Don't make me walk into that room and see what I'm thinking about right now. Please.

"Sam." Elena took a shaky breath. "Adom found a cure."

Gamble King Chapter 35. Predator

Wendigos were creatures born from winter's cruelest appetites.

They stalked the deepest reaches of the northern wilderness, where civilization thinned to scattered settlements and lone hermitages. Most travelers who encountered one never lived to describe the experience, which made accurate information scarce and precious.

What the scholars did know painted an unsettling picture.

The creatures preferred the cover of darkness for their hunts, moving with unnatural silence through snow and undergrowth. Daylight made them cautious but not helpless—they would strike during bright hours if the opportunity proved irresistible. Their senses were acute beyond those of natural beasts, particularly their ability to track scent across vast distances. A wendigo could follow a blood trail for days, or detect the fear-sweat of prey from miles away.

They killed without clear purpose. Not for food, though they would consume their victims. Not for territory, though they defended their hunting grounds viciously. The killings seemed driven by something closer to compulsion, a need to destroy that went beyond simple predation.

Most disturbing was their intelligence.

Wendigos studied their prey before attacking, learning patterns and weaknesses. They showed tactical thinking, setting ambushes and using terrain to their advantage. Some accounts described them using tools or manipulating their environment in ways that suggested reasoning abilities approaching human levels.

The creatures possessed unnatural stealth, moving without sound even through dense undergrowth or over loose stones. Their natural camouflage was so effective that they could remain motionless within yards of alert sentries without detection. Combined with their patience, this made them nearly perfect ambush predators.

Once a wendigo marked prey, it would never abandon the hunt. Distance meant nothing—they would track their chosen victims across hundreds of miles if necessary. Time meant nothing—they would follow for weeks, months, even years until the opportunity arose. The only ways to end a wendigo's pursuit were escape beyond its territorial boundaries or killing it outright. Wounded wendigos became more dangerous, not less, driven by pain and rage to increasingly reckless attacks.

Fire was their one reliable weakness. Flames caused them immediate and severe pain, forcing even the most determined wendigo to retreat. The pain seemed to overwhelm their usual cunning, reducing them to simple flight responses. Extreme cold beyond their natural tolerance could slow their movements, but such temperatures were rare in their preferred hunting grounds.

Multiple attacks to the same location could cause permanent injury. Like any creature, they could be worn down through persistent damage. But getting close enough to inflict such damage typically required surviving their initial assault, which few managed.

The bestiary's final note was grimly practical: "Avoidance is the preferred strategy. If engagement becomes unavoidable, use fire and maintain group cohesion at all costs. Remember that a wendigo will never stop hunting once it has chosen its prey."

Max closed the leather-bound book and looked up at his three companions. They'd listened to his reading in increasingly tense silence, their expressions growing more serious with each detail.

The morning light filtering through the cave entrance seemed less welcoming now. Outside, the wilderness that had felt merely dangerous an hour ago now held the promise of something actively malevolent.

"So," Dan said, his voice carefully neutral. "What's your plan?"

Max reached into his pack and withdrew a small glass vial filled with amber liquid.

All three men went very still.

"Is that..." Skeld started.

"The Heightening," Max finished. "Yes."

"By Fel's balls," Dan breathed.

Marcus frowned. "The Aspect of Gluttony? Isn't she female?"

"Both," Dan replied matter-of-factly.

"Both what?"

"Both male and female. Depends on the moon cycle."

Bubbles shook his head. "That's not right. Fel's always been—"

"Always been what?" Varn interrupted. "You've seen the Aspect personally?"

"Well, no, but the stories—"

"The stories change depending on who's telling them," Dan said. "Some say balls, some say tits, some say both."

"That's disgusting," Marcus muttered.

"That's theology," Dan corrected.

Max was about to redirect the conversation when Bro lifted shot a long stream of fire at the cave ceiling. The sudden roar and burst of flame made both squires jump.

"Shit!" Marcus yelped.

"Seven hells!" Bubbles cursed, clutching his chest.

The small white spider on Max's shoulder turned toward him and glowed orange for a moment. Max patted him with satisfaction.

Attaboy.

In the sudden quiet that followed, Bubbles cleared his throat and looked back at the vial in Max's hand.

"Where did you get that?" he asked.

"Gerth," Max said simply. "The wendigo's been stalking us, waiting for the right moment to attack. When we're separated or distracted."

Dan leaned forward. "So?"

"So we give it what it wants. Make it think we're vulnerable." Max turned the vial between his fingers. "But we'll know exactly where it is."

"You're going to use Heightening to track it," Dan said slowly.

"That's the idea. Enhanced senses mean I can locate it before it strikes. We set up positions, let it think it has the advantage, then hit it from multiple angles."

The three young men exchanged glances.

"That stuff could kill you," Marcus pointed out. "If you're not trained for it."

"I've built up some tolerance."

"Some tolerance isn't enough," Marcus said. "Combat-strength Heightening is different. Stronger."

Max shrugged. "Then I guess we'll find out."

Bubbles shook his head. "This is insanity."

"Staying passive is insanity," Max countered. "That thing's getting bolder. Eventually it'll attack when we're not ready. At least this way, we choose the ground."

Dan scratched his chin thoughtfully. "It could work. In theory."

"In theory," Marcus agreed grimly. "Assuming the Heightening doesn't stop your heart first."

Max held the vial up to the cave's dim light, watching the amber liquid catch the glow from their small fire.

"Right then," he said, uncorking it with his thumb.

The others watched him like he was about do something potentially fatal. Which he was, to be fair.

Max tilted his head back and let three drops fall under his tongue.

The taste hit immediately—bitter, chemical, like licking a copper coin that had been soaked in pine sap and sadness.

He grimaced, corked the vial, and stood there.

The silence stretched.

"So?" Dan asked.

Marcus leaned forward slightly. "Feeling anything?"

Bubbles was frowning. "You're making a face."

"It tastes like shit," Max said, working his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "That's what I'm feeling."

"That's it?"

"Takes time," Max said, tucking the vial back into his pack. "The effects don't just—"

And that's when his heart kicked.

Not sped up. Kicked. Like someone had thumped him in the chest from the inside.

"—happen instantly," he finished, his voice tight.

The second kick came harder. His heart was suddenly racing, each beat distinct and forceful enough that he could feel it in his throat, his wrists, behind his eyes.

His breath caught.

It was exactly like plunging into ice water—that total, shocking loss of air that made your lungs seize. Max tried to inhale and got maybe half of what he needed. Tried again. Not enough. His chest felt compressed, like invisible hands were squeezing.

"Harek?" Bubbles's voice sounded strange. Too loud and too distant at the same time.

Max's vision sharpened all at once.

The cave walls snapped into crystalline focus. Every ridge in the stone, every shadow, every tiny variation in texture suddenly visible with impossible clarity. He could see individual grains in the rock face twenty feet away. The firelight wasn't just orange anymore—it was a spectrum, reds bleeding into yellows bleeding into white-hot cores that hurt to look at directly.

Sound hit next.

The crackle of burning wood became a symphony of tiny explosions. He could hear sap pockets bursting, wood fibers splitting, air rushing through the gaps. Beyond that, water dripping somewhere deep in the cave, each drop distinct. Dan's breathing, Bubbles's breathing, Marcus's breathing, all separate rhythms overlaying each other. The rustle of fabric as someone shifted weight. A mouse or something small skittering across stone fifty feet away.

His sense of smell exploded.

Smoke, yes, but not just smoke—birch wood, with traces of pine resin, and the lamb fat from last night's meal still coating the air in greasy layers. Sweat—four different people's sweat, each one distinct. Leather, wool, steel, the mineral tang of cave stone, something rank and musky that might be bat droppings. And under everything else, the clean sharp scent of snow and winter air flowing in from the entrance.

"Fuck!" Marcus lunged forward.

Hands grabbed Max's shoulders. He could feel every individual finger, the pressure points, the warmth bleeding through his cloak.

"Harek, can you hear me?"

Max tried to answer but his lungs still weren't cooperating. The cold-water feeling was spreading, his whole body seized with it. His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might crack a rib.

Control. Focus.

He'd experienced this before, months ago, but damn—this batch was strong.

Max forced himself to slow down. Not his heart, he couldn't control that yet. But his breathing. One breath. Hold. Release. Another. Hold. Release.

The world wasn't just sharp anymore. It was alive.

He could see the individual fibers in Bubbles's cloak moving as he breathed. Could track the pulse in Dan's throat. Could count Marcus's eyelashes if he wanted to. The fire wasn't a single flame but hundreds, each one dancing to its own rhythm while somehow staying part of the whole.

"Give him space," Dan was saying. "Let him—"

"He's not breathing right!"

"He's breathing fine, just let him—"

Max drew in a full breath. Held it. Let it out slowly.

His heart was still racing but the panic was fading. The compression in his chest eased. He could feel his body adjusting, compensating, finding equilibrium with whatever the Heightening had done to his nervous system.

It had been a while since he’d taken this stuff, but holy shit, this was stronger than what he’d used before. Which… was to be expected, now that he thought about it, given that the one he’d taken before was a diluted version.

Reality felt sharper. Every sense cranked past normal human limits and still climbing.

Bubbles was staring at him, face close, eyes wide.

"Your eyes," he said.

Max blinked. The movement felt strange, like his eyelids were moving through something thicker than air. "What about them?"

"They look like..." Bubbles trailed off, searching for words. "Like an eagle's."

Max could feel it now—his pupils had dilated so far they'd probably swallowed most of his blue iris. Everything was too bright and too detailed at the same time, his eyes drinking in light and information faster than his brain could fully process.

If this was a game, Max thought distantly, this item would be legendary-tier at minimum. The kind of consumable that dropped from raid bosses and sold for obscene amounts of gold.

Max wasn't sure how long the effects would last. The Heightening varied from person to person—some maintained peak enhancement for an hour, others for five or six. But judging from his experience with the other version, they had at least three hours. Probably.

His body was already adapting to the sensory overload. The initial shock had faded, leaving behind a strange new baseline where every texture, every sound, every scent was simply more. Not overwhelming anymore. Just available.

"Alright," Max said, his voice sounding strange in his own ears—he could hear the vibration in his throat, the way air moved past his teeth. "Time to start."

***

The snow crunched under Max's boots with a sound like breaking glass.

Each footstep was a sounded like tiny fractures—ice crystals shattering, compressing, grinding against each other. He could hear the individual grains shifting beneath his weight and feel the cold seeping through the leather even though it shouldn't be able to penetrate that quickly.

The plan was simple in the way that terrible plans often were: separate, make himself prey, wait for the wendigo to commit, then burn it to ash before it could kill him.

The others were behind him somewhere. Not close enough to spook the wendigo, but close enough to intervene if things went catastrophically wrong. Probably. That was the theory, anyway.

Max kept walking when suddenly something moved in the sky.

He stopped, tilting his head back.

High above, almost invisible against the pale winter sky, a shape circled. At normal human vision it would've been a dot, maybe not even that. But Max's enhanced eyes caught every detail.

A harpy.

The creature's wings spread wide. Its body was roughly humanoid—woman-shaped, if you were generous—but the details were all wrong. Arms that ended in talons instead of hands. Skin that looked like it had been stretched too tight over bones that weren't quite the right shape. And the face.

God, the face.

It was smiling.

Not a pleasant smile. Not even a predatory smile. Something worse—anticipatory, patient, like it knew it just had to wait for gravity and mortality to do their work.

Harpies were scavengers. Opportunistic carrion-eaters that followed the scent of blood and waited for things to die. They didn't hunt. They didn't need to. The north provided enough corpses that patience was always rewarded.

There was a belief, Max remembered from the bestiary, that harpies only circled prey that was already doomed. Like an omen.

Max looked at the ugly thing wheeling overhead and thought: Not me.

A sound reached him.

It was soft. So subtle that without the Heightening he would've missed it entirely. But now, with his hearing cranked past human limits, it registered as clearly as a shout.

Footsteps in snow. They were lighter than his own, more careful, the sound of something trying very hard not to be heard.

Max kept walking, maintaining his pace, giving no indication he'd noticed.

The smell hit him next.

Musk and rot, sweet decay mixed with something sharper, more animal. Like a predator's den that hadn't been cleaned in years, where old kills composted in dark corners. The frigid air should've killed the scent, frozen it out of the atmosphere entirely, but Max's nose caught it anyway.

The wendigo.

It was walking upright. Two feet, human gait, trying to pass for one of the lost travelers that sometimes wandered these woods. The footfalls were quite measured.

Female, Max supposed. It made sense judging with his senses. The pattern of weight distribution, the slightly narrower spacing between steps. Wendigos could take human form when it suited them, though the bestiary hadn't been clear on whether they actually transformed or just... wore the shape like a costume.

Max didn't particularly want to find out.

He kept moving, angling gradually toward a small clearing he'd scouted earlier. The wendigo followed, staying just at the edge of his hearing. Patient. Waiting for the right moment.

The trees thinned.

Max stepped into open ground—a natural depression in the landscape, roughly circular, maybe thirty feet across. Snow lay thick here, undisturbed except for a few animal tracks that crossed and recrossed each other. On the far side, a fallen log provided the only real cover.

Perfect.

He could still hear the wendigo. Closer now, maybe twenty yards back. Still on two feet, still playing at being human.

Max walked to the fallen log and sat down with a heavy sigh, like someone grateful for a rest. He unslung his bow, laid it across the log beside him. The quiver followed, arrows within easy reach but not in hand.

Bro shifted on his shoulder.

"Just a quick break," Max said quietly, pitching his voice to sound tired. "Then we'll keep going."

The spider didn't respond, but Max felt the tiny body tense. Bro knew what was happening.

The clearing was exactly where Max wanted to be. Open ground, good sight lines, nowhere for something large to hide. And more importantly—he strained his hearing, filtering through the ambient noise of wind and creaking trees—he couldn't quite make out the others.

Which meant they were far enough away not to spook the wendigo, but close enough to reach him when things eventually start.

The trap had worked. The wendigo had followed the separated prey, away from the safety of the group, into terrain where it could strike without interference.

Footsteps.

Closer. Still two feet, but the rhythm was changing. The careful human gait becoming something else.

Max sat very still, eyes half-closed like he was resting, but his awareness was completely focused on the sounds behind him.

Ten yards.

Eight.

The footsteps stopped.

For a moment, nothing. Just wind and the distant call of a bird and Max's own heartbeat hammering in his chest.

Then the sound changed.

What had been two feet became four. The soft crunch of boots in snow became something heavier, clawed. Max heard joints popping, bones grinding, the wet sound of flesh reshaping itself into something that had never been human. The breathing changed too. Deep, rasping inhalations that pulled air through a throat not designed for it.

Five yards.

Max began building the Thoughtshape.

Purpose: Create methane gas. Form: CH4 molecular structure. Source: Atmospheric carbon and hydrogen. Volume: Maximum he could manage. Distribution: Concentrated stream, directional.

Four yards.

The breathing was louder now. Anticipatory. The wendigo knew it had him. Prey, sitting with its back turned, weapons laid aside, completely vulnerable.

Three yards.

Max compressed the Thoughtshape into its final form. The framework crystallized in his mind, ready to activate the instant he reached for the Source. Two seconds from thought to execution.

Two yards.

He could hear its heart now. Massive, slow beats that shook the air between them. Could smell the accumulated filth of countless kills. Could feel the displacement of air as something very large moved very carefully toward his unprotected back.

One yard.

The wendigo coiled.

Max felt it more than heard it—the shift in weight, muscles bunching, joints tensing for the leap. Every enhanced sense screaming that something was about to happen.

The creature launched.

Max spun.

His hand came up, palm open, already reaching for the Source as he turned. The Thoughtshape activated instantly—methane streaming from his palm in a concentrated column aimed directly at the airborne monstrosity.

The wendigo was huge. Easily eight feet of muscle and bone and wrong angles, arms that ended in claws like daggers, a face that was deer-shaped but stretched and distorted into something that grinned with far too many teeth and nightmarish antlers. It hung in the air for what felt like forever, close enough that Max could count the individual hairs on its chest, close enough to see the intelligence in its eyes shift from triumph to confusion as it registered what he was doing.

"Flame on, Bro!"

The spider's abdomen blazed blue-white.

The jet of superheated flame shot straight into the methane stream.

The gas ignited.

A roaring column of fire erupted from Max's palm, engulfing the wendigo mid-leap. Orange and yellow flames rolled over the creature's body, spreading impossibly fast as the methane found every surface and ignited in sequence.

The wendigo's scream was inhuman.

It hit a pitch that shouldn't have been possible, a sound like metal tearing and animals dying. The creature crashed into the snow ten feet from Max, still burning, thrashing and rolling as fire consumed it.

Max didn't stop.

He kept the methane flowing, kept Bro's flame concentrated, pouring fire onto the writhing mass. The wendigo tried to run but its legs wouldn't work right. Tried to pat out the flames but its hands just spread the burning methane further. The smell was apocalyptic—burning fur and flesh and that underlying rot all cooking together into something that made Max's enhanced nose scream for mercy.

The creature rolled. Thrashed. Screamed in that terrible voice that echoed off the surrounding trees. It burned.

And burned.

And—

The thing suddenly moved.

Its head snapped up, one eye melted shut, the other wide and wild and fixed on Max with an intelligence that should've been burned away. Its mouth opened—half the jaw was exposed bone—and it screamed.

Then it lunged.

Max cut the spell, threw himself sideways. The creature's claws raked the air where his head had been a second before, close enough that he felt the displacement.

He hit the snow, rolled, came up with his bow in one hand and the quiver in the other. Muscle memory from weeks of practice took over—nock, draw, loose.

The arrow punched into the wendigo's shoulder.

It didn't slow down.

The creature thrashed in the snow, flames still eating at patches of its hide, movements erratic but fast. Another lunge. Max sidestepped, drew and fired again. This arrow caught it in the ribs, sank deep.

The wendigo screamed and charged.

Not at Max this time. It ran straight at the tree line, head down, antlers lowered like a battering ram.

It hit an old pine dead-center.

The impact was enormous. The tree exploded—trunk shattering at the point of contact, splinters the size of daggers spinning through the air. The upper half toppled sideways in a shower of snow and broken branches.

The wendigo staggered back, shook its head, wheeled toward Max.

Still dangerous. Still very, very dangerous.

Max could hear them now. The others, crashing through the forest at a dead run. Maybe a minute away. Less.

He drew and fired. Drew and fired. Drew and fired.

Each arrow found its mark—throat, chest, gut. The wendigo absorbed them like they were annoyances rather than fatal wounds. It came at him again, slower now but no less determined.

The creature got within ten feet.

Bro's abdomen flared blue-white and the spider breathed a concentrated jet of flame straight into the wendigo's ruined face.

The thing recoiled, shrieking, pawing at its head with claws that just spread the burning methane residue still clinging to its fur.

"Attaboy, Bro!" Max shouted, already nocking another arrow.

He fired. The arrow sprouted from the wendigo's neck.

Drew. Fired. One in the shoulder.

Drew. Fired. Deep in the chest, maybe close to the heart if it still had one.

Drew. Fired. Through what was left of its ear.

Drew. Fired. Another in the chest.

Drew. Fired. Gut shot.

Draw.

Nothing.

Max's hand closed on an empty quiver.

He looked down. Every single arrow was gone. Twenty-three shafts, all of them now decorating the wendigo like the world's most violent pincushion.

The creature swayed on its feet, smoke rising from a dozen different wounds, flames still licking at patches of exposed flesh. It was close to death—had to be—but it was still standing, moving, and furious.

It fixed its remaining eye on Max and shrieked.

Footsteps, very close now.

Dan burst into the clearing first, sword drawn, breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile. Which he had. Marcus came right behind him, spear ready, eyes wide. Bubbles emerged last, looking between Max and the flaming, arrow-riddled monstrosity with an expression of profound disbelief.

They spread out automatically, forming a loose circle around the wendigo.

"What the fuck," Bubbles said.

The wendigo was somehow more horrifying in its current state than it had been at full strength. Burned flesh hung in strips. Bone showed through in patches. The arrows stuck out at odd angles, some broken off, some still intact. Flames flickered in spots where the methane hadn't fully consumed itself. And through it all, the creature stood, breathing in wet rasps, its one good eye tracking between the four of them.

"That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen," Dan said, not lowering his sword.

"It was prettier before I set it on fire," Max replied.

The wendigo's head swiveled toward Marcus, who was trying very hard to look confident despite the fact that his hands were shaking.

"Is it... is it supposed to still be alive?" Marcus asked.

"Apparently," Max said.

The creature took a step forward.

Then another.

Its gait was wrong—limping, unsteady, joints bending at angles that suggested most of its bones were broken from clashing with the trees earlier. But it was moving.

"Spread out!" Dan called.

They did, widening their circle. The wendigo's head tracked between them, trying to decide which one to kill first.

It chose Marcus.

The creature lunged with a speed that shouldn't have been possible given its injuries. Marcus dove sideways, barely avoiding antlers that tore furrows in the snow where he'd been standing. The wendigo overshot, momentum carrying it past the group entirely.

And kept going.

Not toward any of them. Away. Into the forest.

Running.

"No!" Max shouted. "It's getting away!"

The wendigo crashed through the underbrush, leaving a trail of blood and melted snow and the occasional dropped arrow. It was wounded, maybe dying, but it was moving.

"Come on!" Max grabbed his bow, pointless as it was without arrows. "We chase it! Now!"

Dan didn't argue. None of them did.

The hunt had begun.

Chapter 178. Worm

Kim was holding Adom's forearm like it was holy.

Which, to be fair, was standard Kim behavior when confronted with new magical phenomena. The fact that the rune happened to be etched onto an arm, and that arm was attached to a person—his former student, no less—seemed entirely irrelevant to him.

He'd done the same thing with the recording runes they'd designed for the tower climb, examining the activation sequence for twenty minutes while Adom's hand went progressively more numb. Adom had learned to just let it happen.

"It's beautiful," Kim breathed, tracing his finger just above the lines of the rune without quite touching it. "Look at the flow here—do you see how it loops back on itself? That's not degradation, that's intentional recursion. And this junction point—"

"Professor Kim," Lysandra said from over his shoulder, "manners, please."

"I am not—" Kim looked up, indignant, then immediately looked back down at the rune. "Okay but look at this symmetry though."

Adom stood in the middle of the warehouse with his sleeve rolled up, surrounded by the four mages like he was some kind of exotic specimen. Which, he supposed, he was. The late afternoon sun cut through the high windows, illuminating dust motes and the faint shimmer of mana that still clung to the tattoo's lines.

Maria crouched down to get a better angle, her professional healer's gaze sharp and analytical. "The ink is holding the pattern stable. How long did you say it took to set?"

"About two hours," Adom said. "I've been experimenting with it since this morning. Maybe eight hours total? I healed a pigeon earlier. Broken wing. It flew off fine after."

"Of course you did," Lysandra muttered. "Test subject availability."

"It was convenient," Adom said.

"How broken was the wing?" his mother asked.

"Compound fracture, I think. It was dragging on the ground."

She nodded, processing that. "And it healed completely? No lingering damage?"

"Flew off like nothing happened."

"Good," she said, smiling at him and returning to examining the rune.

Kim finally released Adom's arm, but his eyes stayed locked on the tattoo. "I've once spent six months trying to understand one junction point on a third-circle runic array. One junction point. And you decoded the core concept of primordial healing magic in eight hours."

"It's not complete," Adom said. "The full rune is way more complex. This is just enough to grasp how it works."

"Could you please show us how it works?" Lysandra said immediately.

Adom nodded and channeled mana into the rune. The lines flared to life with that same soft golden light, and he pressed his palm against a small cut he'd made on his other forearm earlier for testing.

The skin knitted together in seconds. Clean. Painless. Perfect.

"Okay," his mother said slowly. "Okay, that's—that's definitely working."

"It accelerates natural healing," Adom explained. "Enhances it. Makes it efficient. But here's the thing I found—" He paused. "Mother, did you bring those potions I asked for?"

Maria stepped forward with a cloth bag. "Twelve low-grade healing potions. Like you asked."

Low-grade healing potions were the bottom tier of alchemical healing. Cheap, widely available, and largely ineffective for anything beyond the most minor injuries. Adventurers on tight budgets still bought them for dungeon runs because they could at least slow bleeding and prevent infection, but that was about it. The actual healing process took anywhere from fifteen minutes to half an hour, and even then the results were mediocre at best.

Mia's nose wrinkled as his mother handed one of the vials to Adom. "You're testing it with those?"

"Yeah."

"Those barely do anything."

"That's the point," Adom said. He looked at Kim. "Can I use you for this?"

Kim was already rolling up his sleeve. "Please. Cut me."

Hmm. That was a bit too enthusiastic. Was he okay?

"Are you sure—"

"Absolutely. I need to see this. Cut me."

Adom pulled out a small knife and made a shallow cut along Kim's forearm. Nothing deep. Just enough to bleed.

Kim didn't even flinch. He was too busy staring at the vial in Adom's other hand.

"First, the baseline," Adom said. He uncorked the vial and let a few drops fall onto the cut.

Nothing happened.

They waited.

Still nothing.

"It takes about fifteen minutes to start working," Adom said. "And even then, you won't see much. It'll just slow the bleeding a bit, maybe close the wound halfway after thirty or forty-five minutes."

"Riveting," Lysandra said dryly.

"Now watch." Adom dipped his finger into the vial while channeling mana into the rune. The moment his skin—marked with the rune—touched the liquid, the reaction started.

The potion began to glow.

It wasn't bright at first. Just a faint shimmer, like light through water. But it built. The glow intensified, pulsing in rhythm with Adom's heartbeat, and the pale pink liquid started to darken. Deeper. Richer. The color shifted from barely-there pink to a vibrant crimson, the kind of saturated color that marked some high-grade healing potions. The kind that cost fifty times as much.

"My, oh my," Kim whispered.

The glow peaked, then faded. Adom pulled his finger out. The liquid in the vial was completely transformed. It looked like liquid rubies now, dense and potent.

He poured it onto Kim's cut.

The effect was immediate.

The potion sizzled. Actual steam rose from the wound, wisps of white smoke curling up into the air. Kim's arm twitched.

"Ow—it stings—"

"Sorry," Adom said quickly, pulling back.

"No!" Kim grabbed his wrist, holding him in place. His eyes were wide, almost feverish. "Don't stop—it's working—look!"

The cut was closing. Not slowly, nor even gradually. It was sealing itself in real-time, the skin pulling together like it was being sewn by invisible thread. In ten seconds, it was gone. Not even a scar remained.

The warehouse was dead silent.

Maria reached out and touched Kim's arm where the cut had been. Her fingers traced over smooth, unblemished skin. "That was a low-grade potion."

"Was," Mia said. Her voice was very quiet.

Lysandra sat down on a nearby crate. She looked like she needed to sit down. "You turned a bottom-shelf healing potion into..."

"Something stronger," Adom finished. "A lot stronger. The rune does heal on its own—I cut myself a few times testing it. Just channeling mana through it works. But it has limits."

He held up his other arm, showing faint marks where he'd tested earlier. "I tried different amounts of mana. Small cuts healed fine. Deeper wounds took more mana but still closed. The pigeon's broken wing healed completely, which makes sense—smaller body, less complex injury relative to the mana input. I figured it would scale with humans too. More mana, more healing."

"But?" Mia prompted.

"But at a certain point, it just... stops. I kept channeling more and more mana into a deeper cut, and after a threshold, nothing changed. The healing plateaued. No matter how much power I fed it, the wound wouldn't close any faster or any better."

Kim frowned. "A hard limit on the rune's function?"

"That's what I thought at first. Then I got thirsty and touched some water to cool it down, and the rune activated. The water started glowing and—" Adom paused. "It purified it. Completely. I could taste the difference."

"Water purification," Lysandra said slowly. "That's not healing."

"No. But it's enhancement. Amplification. Taking something that exists and making it better, stronger, purer." Adom lifted the vial. "That's when I realized what the rune actually does. Its main function isn't just healing. It's amplification. So if it could purify water..." He looked at Kim's now-unmarked arm. "What could it do to a healing potion?"

Kim was staring at his arm like he'd never seen it before. "You could take any healing agent and supercharge it. Potions, salves, natural remedies—anything."

"Anything," Adom confirmed.

There was a silence for some time, as they were running the implications of this discovery in their head. This could change so many thing...

Maria was the first to speak. Her voice was carefully controlled. "Sam's mother."

Adom nodded.

There was a plant called 'Somnusbane Bloom', that was the primary component in the alchemical treatment designed for deep cognitive damage. It was one of the few substances that could address the kind of magical injury that left people catatonic, trapped in their own minds.

The bloom reconstructed neural pathways on a cellular level, but it required immense potency to work on extensive damage. Sam's mother's case had been severe. The treatment had shown minor improvement—small flickers of brain activity, some reflexive responses—but she'd never woken up. The issue had always been potency. The remedy simply hadn't been strong enough to bridge the gap her condition required.

Mia's eyes had gone distant. "If I remember correctly, Sam told me the bloom worked partially. She showed minor improvement. But the damage was too extensive for the flower's natural potency to bridge the gap."

"The healers said she'd need something ten times stronger," Maria added. "And that didn't exist."

Adom held up the vial. The transformed potion still gleamed like liquid gemstones in the fading light. "It does now."

"I can prepare the medical setup," Maria said. "We'll need to stabilize her before the procedure, run preliminary tests, make sure her body can handle—"

"And someone needs to get the bloom," Lyssandra said.

Everyone stopped talking.

They all looked at Adom.

He looked back at them. "Yeah. That would be me."

*****

If things were as easy as they could be, it would apparently offend fate. Or the universe. Or whatever governed this whole mess, if anything was governing it at all.

The Somnusbane Bloom wasn't particularly rare. That was the frustrating part. In dungeons with the right environmental conditions—humid, low-light areas with soil rich in mana—it grew well enough. Not abundantly, but consistently. The problem wasn't scarcity. It was demand.

Healers bought it the moment it hit the market. Alchemists hoarded it for complex remedies. Adventuring parties grabbed whatever stock they could find because cognitive damage was one of the few things standard healing magic couldn't fix reliably. The bloom moved fast. Always.

Adom had asked Css to use Wangara and check their dungeon venture stocks first. The guild had access to multiple dungeon harvesting operations now, so it seemed reasonable to hope they'd have some tucked away in storage somewhere.

They didn't.

"We had twelve stems last month," Cass had told him over the communication crystal. "Sold them all within a week. Good profit margin. Should I put in an order for the next harvest cycle?"

"How long would that take?"

"Three weeks, maybe four. Depends on the dungeon's respawn rate for flora."

Too long.

Adom had tasked Cass next. She knew every black market, gray market, and semi-legal market in the capital. If anyone could find Somnusbane Bloom on short notice, it was her.

She'd come back with leads. Five vendors had stock. But when Adom went to examine them personally, the quality was wrong. The blooms were old—not dead, but past their peak potency. The petals had started to fade at the edges, the stems were brittle, and the magical signature was weaker than it should be.

For most remedies, that would be acceptable. For what Adom needed—something he was going to amplify with the rune—starting with degraded material seemed like asking for complications. He wanted fresh blooms. Peak condition. No compromises.

Which meant going into a dungeon himself.

*****

A rooster screamed somewhere in the distance.

It was an angry, indignant sound, like the bird was personally offended by the existence of 3 AM.

Adom sympathized.

He yawned, wide enough that his jaw cracked, and rubbed at his eyes. The dungeon entrance loomed in front of him—a standard portal frame, inactive for now, surrounded by the usual security infrastructure. Guard posts. Mana barriers. A small administrative building off to one side where the guild managing this particular dungeon kept their scheduling logs.

The sky was still dark. Properly dark, not even the faint gray of pre-dawn. Stars were visible overhead, which would've been nice under different circumstances. Right now, it just reminded him that most reasonable people were asleep.

"Early pass secured," Cass had told him last night. "Rival guild owed me a favor. You've got access at three-thirty, before their regular morning teams deploy."

"Three-thirty."

"You wanted fresh blooms. You go in early, you get first pick."

She wasn't wrong. It still didn't make waking up at 2 AM feel any less miserable.

Anything for Sam though.

Adom rolled his shoulders one last time and walked toward the administrative tent. A single light was on inside. Through the window, he could see someone moving around—probably the duty officer managing early access permits.

The tent opened before he reached it.

A woman stepped out. Older, maybe late forties, with the kind of weathered face that came from years of dungeon work. She looked him up and down, unimpressed.

"You're the early permit?"

"That's me."

"Identification."

Adom handed over his adventurer's card. She examined it with a small crystal device, checked something on a ledger, then handed it back.

"Portal activates at three-thirty. You've got until six. After that, morning teams start coming through and you're on your own if there's congestion on the upper zones."

"Understood."

"What are you harvesting?"

"Somnusbane Bloom."

She raised an eyebrow. "That's all?"

"That's all."

"You know where to find it?"

"Windy peaks, near the water features."

She nodded, satisfied. "Good. Don't wander. Don't touch anything you're not harvesting. Don't antagonize the dungeon's ecosystem more than necessary. If you die, we're not liable."

"Standard terms. Got it."

She looked at him for another moment, like she was trying to decide if he was competent or just lucky. Then she shrugged. "Portal activates in twelve minutes. Wait by the frame."

She went back inside.

Adom walked over to the portal frame and sat down on a nearby bench. The air was cold. He could see his breath. Somewhere in the distance, that same rooster screamed again, even angrier this time.

He yawned.

Twelve minutes.

He really, really wanted some tea.

The appointed time arrived with a soft chime from the portal frame.

Adom looked up from the bench. The woman from the tent hadn't reappeared, but someone else was walking toward him—a man in guild operator attire, carrying a clipboard and looking thoroughly unenthusiastic about being awake.

"Law?" he called out.

Adom stood, brushing off his pants. "That's me."

The name on his forged identification was 'Law Meridian.' Not particularly creative, but it worked. Adom had deliberately hidden anything that could make him recognizable. The enchanted face mask he wore showed a completely different face—older, harder features, a scar across the cheek that didn't exist on his real skin. He was a Magus, after all. Quite well-known at that.

Not that he was doing anything illegal. But discretion in one's activities always felt better. This would be quick work. In and out. No one needed to know Adom Sylla had been here at three-thirty in the morning harvesting dungeon flora.

The man checked his clipboard without much interest. "Your time slot is active. Portal's open for the next two hours and thirty minutes. After that, you're competing with the morning rush."

"Understood."

The portal frame hummed to life behind them. Reality twisted inside the archway, colors bleeding together until they resolved into the characteristic shimmer of an active dungeon gate. Through it, Adom could see the entrance chamber—stone walls, torchlight, the standard staging area most guild controlled dungeons maintained near their entry points.

"Try not to die," the man said, already turning back toward the tent.

"I'll do my best."

Adom stepped through.

The transition was instantaneous. One moment, cold pre-dawn air. The next, the musty warmth of enclosed stone. The dungeon's ambient mana pressed against his skin like humidity. Not unpleasant, just present. A reminder that he'd crossed into a space where normal rules bent slightly.

The staging chamber was empty. Good. He pulled out the dungeon map he'd purchased yesterday—a standard commercial copy, nothing fancy, but it showed the layout clearly enough. The Somnusbane Bloom grew in the Windy Peaks zone, accessible via a vertical shaft that cut through the Cave Systems zone. Experienced adventurers could bypass the Fungal Groves zone entirely if they knew the route.

Adom knew the route.

He walked through the Entry zone without incident. The corridors were wide, well-lit by the dungeon's natural phosphorescence. A few slimes oozed along the walls, but they didn't register him as a threat or a target. He was moving too quickly, and his mana signature was probably too dense for them to process as food.

The Cave Systems zone opened into a network of interconnected caverns. Adom consulted the map, oriented himself, and headed east. The air shaft was marked clearly—a natural formation the dungeon had incorporated into its structure, leading straight up through what would normally require traversing the Fungal Groves and emerging near the peak zones.

He found it without trouble. The shaft was wide enough to fly through comfortably, maybe fifteen feet across, and disappeared into darkness overhead. Wind whistled down from above. Hence the name.

Adom channeled mana and weaved [Flight].

The spell engaged smoothly. His feet left the ground, and he rose into the shaft, accelerating as he focused. The stone walls blurred past. Wind buffeted him from above—not enough to destabilize the spell, but enough that he had to adjust his trajectory a few times to avoid scraping against the rough rock.

The ascent took maybe two minutes. When he emerged at the top, the environment had changed completely.

The Windy Peaks weren't actually peaks in the traditional sense. They were elevated plateaus of stone and hardy vegetation, separated by deep chasms that funneled wind through the dungeon's upper zones with enough force to make standing upright difficult. Moss clung to every surface. Small streams trickled between rocks, fed by condensation and the dungeon's internal water cycle. The air smelled clean. Almost fresh, if you ignored the underlying mineral tang of this particular dungeon's mana.

Adom landed on a flat section of stone and dismissed [Flight]. He checked the map again. Somnusbane Bloom preferred areas near water features with high wind exposure. There were three marked locations within reasonable distance.

He started toward the nearest one, moving carefully across the uneven terrain. The wind was stronger than he'd expected. It came in gusts, howling between the rock formations with enough force to—

The ground trembled.

Adom stopped.

That wasn't wind.

The tremor came again. Rhythmic. Directional. Something large was moving beneath the stone.

He reached out with his druidic senses, carefully extending his awareness into the earth. The skill had always been useful for reading natural environments, understanding the flow of life and mana through living systems. Dungeons were strange, but most of them mimicked his world's nature closely enough that the principles still applied.

What he felt made him take a step back.

Large. Very large. Moving through the stone itself like it was water. The mana signature was aggressive, territorial, and currently heading directly toward him.

A dungeon worm.

Adom had read about them. Native to the deeper zones, they burrowed through solid rock and ambushed prey from below. Mostly they targeted other dungeon creatures, but they weren't picky. Adventurers counted as food.

The tremors intensified.

He could try talking to it. His druidic senses allowed for rudimentary communication with natural creatures, and some dungeon monsters retained enough instinct to be reasoned with. It was worth attempting.

Adom knelt and pressed his palm against the stone, channeling mana into the connection. He shaped the intent carefully—non-aggression, passage, mutual disinterest. The mental equivalent of 'I'm just passing through, please leave me alone.'

The worm's response was immediate and unambiguous.

Hunger. Territory. Kill.

No negotiation. No recognition of his attempt at communication. Just raw, primal aggression.

Adom sighed and stood up.

No wonder even druids had died when the World Dungeon had arisen and monsters had come out. Some creatures simply didn't want to listen.

The ground exploded thirty feet to his left.

Rock and dirt sprayed into the air as the worm burst from below, its body coiling upward in a grotesque arc. The thing was massive—easily forty feet long, its segmented body as thick around as a barrel. Its head was a nightmare of circular rows of teeth, each one the size of a dagger, arranged in a spiraling pattern that rotated as it opened its maw. No eyes. It didn't need them. It hunted by vibration and mana sense.

The worm crashed back down, slamming into the plateau with enough force to crack the stone. Adom had already moved, [Flight] reactivated, lifting him twenty feet into the air.

The worm's head snapped toward him. It could sense him. Obviously. His mana signature was probably bright as a torch to its senses.

It lunged.

The worm launched itself upward with disturbing speed for something that size, its maw opening wide enough to swallow him whole. Adom twisted in midair, angling left, and the creature's teeth snapped shut on empty space. The sound was like a steel trap closing. Loud. Very loud.

Adom channeled mana into his hand and weaved [Arcane Arrows]. Three bolts of concentrated force materialized and shot toward the worm's exposed side as it fell back toward the ground.

The arrows impacted with sharp cracks. The worm's hide split where they hit, ichor spraying out in dark streams. It thrashed, slamming its body against the stone in what might have been pain or rage or both.

Then it dove.

The worm plunged straight down into the plateau, disappearing into solid rock like it was diving into water. The stone sealed behind it, leaving only cracks and a faint tremor as evidence it had been there at all.

Adom hovered in place, scanning the ground below. The tremors were moving. Circling. The worm was repositioning for another attack.

He descended slightly, stopping about ten feet above the plateau. Close enough to be a tempting target. Far enough to react.

The worm erupted from directly beneath him.

Adom had been expecting it. He shot upward, gaining altitude fast, and the worm missed again by a comfortable margin. But this time, as it reached the apex of its leap, Adom didn't just evade.

He dove.

[Flight] pushed him downward at speed, and he extended his hand as he descended, mana coalescing into a different shape this time. Not Arcane Arrows. Something with more stopping power.

"[Force Lance]."

The spell manifested as a solid beam of compressed force, five feet long and narrow as a spear. It shot from his palm and punched straight through the worm's body, entering just behind the head and exiting through the midsection.

The worm's shriek was a high-pitched, scraping sound that echoed across the peaks. It convulsed in midair, ichor spraying in thick arcs, and crashed down onto the plateau with a wet, heavy impact.

Adom landed a safe distance away and watched.

The worm thrashed for another few seconds, its segmented body coiling and uncoiling in spasms. Then it went still.

He waited. Dungeon creatures sometimes played dead.

After a full minute of no movement, he approached cautiously and nudged the corpse with a light kinetic push. It didn't react.

Dead, then.

Adom dismissed the spell and looked around. The fight had been loud. Other creatures might investigate. He needed to move.

He pulled out the map again, oriented himself, and headed toward the nearest water feature. The wind was still gusting, but it felt less oppressive now. Or maybe he was just getting used to it.

The stream appeared five minutes later, trickling between two rock formations and pooling in a small basin before continuing down a crevice. The water was clear, almost crystalline, and moss grew thick along the edges.

And there, growing in a sheltered cluster near the water's edge, were the blooms.

Somnusbane Blooms.

Adom knelt beside them and exhaled slowly.

They were perfect.

The petals were a deep, luminous violet, almost glowing in the dim light. The stems were firm and green, showing no signs of age or damage. Each bloom was roughly the size of his palm, with delicate internal structures that pulsed faintly with mana. There were seven plants total, which was more than he'd hoped for.

He reached out carefully, activating a minor preservation spell as he harvested the first bloom. The stem separated cleanly under his knife, and he placed it into a specially prepared container designed to maintain freshness.

One by one, he harvested them all.

When the last bloom was safely stored, Adom stood and looked at the container in his hands.

Seven perfect Somnusbane Blooms.

Enough for Sam's mother. Enough to try.

He smiled.

Chapter 177. Crypted

Seven days.

That's how long the research lasted before Adom found himself sitting alone in the warehouse on the evening of the seventh day, staring at the rune spread across three different sheets of parchment like it might suddenly decide to explain itself.

Seven days of five different minds—healer, alchemist, three runicologists—all focused on a single objective: figure out how to save a woman who'd been unconscious for fourteen years.

It had felt... achievable at the start. Almost exciting, in that way complex magical problems sometimes were when you hadn't yet discovered how impossible they actually turned out to be.

The first day had been all energy and optimism. Kim had filled an entire blackboard with his initial breakdown of the rune's structure. Lysandra had contributed observations about the manipulation aspects. Maria had provided medical context about what kind of healing would actually be required. Mia had started compiling lists of alchemical compounds that might be relevant.

Adom had mostly coordinated, which was its own kind of exhausting.

Day two was when the optimism started cracking.

They'd hit their first real wall around mid-afternoon. The rune's activation sequence—the specific order and timing of mana inputs required to make it actually work—was encrypted somehow. Not in the sense that someone had deliberately obscured it, but in the sense that the symbols themselves seemed to shift meaning depending on which angle you approached them from.

Kim had spent three hours trying to trace a single pathway through the formula before admitting he had no idea if he was following the correct logic or just chasing his own assumptions in circles.

"It's like trying to read a book where every word means three different things depending on which sentence came before it," he'd said, chalk dust covering his hands and most of one sleeve. "And also the sentences are in the wrong order. And possibly upside down."

Day three brought the first breakthrough, which was also somehow the thing that made everything more complicated.

They'd been stuck on a particular cluster of symbols—nine interlocking glyphs that seemed to form some kind of regulatory mechanism for the rune's mana flow. Adom had been convinced they were looking at a safety feature, something designed to prevent the rune from drawing too much power and killing the patient. Lysandra had been quiet for most of the morning, just watching as he and Kim argued about interpretation.

Then she'd said, very calmly, "What if they're not regulatory at all? What if they're diagnostic?"

Adom had turned to look at her.

"Diagnostic," he'd repeated.

"The rune needs to know what it's fixing," Lysandra had continued, her eyes still fixed on the blackboard. "You've been assuming it reads the patient's original genetic template, but what if it doesn't work that way? What if these symbols are instructions for the rune to assess the current state of damage first, and then calculate what 'healthy' should look like based on that assessment?"

Something had clicked in Adom's head. Not a complete solution, but a shift in perspective—like tilting a puzzle piece and suddenly seeing where it might actually fit.

He'd spent the next four hours following that thread, Kim and Lysandra both contributing observations, Mia checking alchemical references, Maria occasionally interjecting with medical realities they couldn't ignore.

It had felt promising.

Right up until it led to a dead end around midnight when they realized that even if Lysandra's interpretation was correct, they still had no idea how to actually input the diagnostic parameters the rune would need.

Day four was mostly just exhausting.

They'd started trying to deconstruct the rune into smaller, more manageable components. Not literally taking it apart—that would have been phenomenally stupid—but breaking down the symbol clusters into isolated functions they could analyze separately.

Adom, Kim, and Lysandra did most of the heavy lifting on this part. Runic analysis was specialized work, the kind of thing that required both theoretical knowledge and practical intuition about how magical runes actually behaved when you fed mana into them.

It was slow. Tedious. The kind of work where you could spend two hours on a single glyph and still not be entirely sure you'd interpreted it correctly.

Adom used [Riddler's Bane] three times that day.

The artifact helped. Sort of. It didn't just hand him answers, but it gave him... directions. Gentle nudges toward productive lines of thinking. A sense of when he was getting warmer or colder in his interpretations.

But it was also slow. [Riddler's Bane] worked best with puzzles that the user understood already. This rune was neither clear nor particularly logical by any standard Adom understood.

Day five they brought in a consultant.

Not about the rune specifically—Adom was keeping that part quiet, for obvious reasons. A primordial healing rune wasn't the kind of thing you advertised before you understood it. But they needed expertise on long-term coma damage, so Maria had reached out to a colleague at the Magisterium medical wing.

The conversation had been depressing.

Fourteen years of unconsciousness did catastrophic things to a body. Muscle atrophy was just the beginning. Bone density loss. Organ degradation from lack of use. Neural pathways that had gone dormant for so long they might never reactivate even if you somehow restored the brain tissue that controlled them.

Sam's mother—Eryna was her name, though Sam rarely used it, usually just saying "my mother" in that flat voice that suggested he was trying very hard not to think about her as a person—was in about as bad a state as you could be while technically still alive.

She'd lost maybe a third of her body weight over the years. Her skin had that translucent quality that came from never seeing sunlight. The healers at the hospital kept her muscles from completely atrophying through regular movement spells, but there was only so much magic could do when the person inside the body had been gone for more than a decade.

Adom had visited the hospital twice during the research week.

Not alone. Never alone. Their old classmates had maintained a sort of informal rotation over the days—people dropping by to sit with him for a few hours, keep him company, make sure he ate something. Eren came by most frequently, but Damus made an appearance, and Karion, and Emma. Mia went almost every day since the research started, sometimes with Adom, sometimes on her own.

Naia had shown up once with an entire basket of food from her family's kitchen and bullied Sam into eating three sandwiches .

Sam had left his duties at the Magisterium. Just... stopped going. Sent a letter saying there was a family emergency and he needed time.

Nobody had questioned it. Sam's situation was well enough known that people generally gave him space when he needed it.

He'd been at the hospital every time Adom visited. Just sitting beside his mother's bed, sometimes reading aloud from whatever book he'd brought, sometimes just sitting in silence.

Adom hadn't told him about the research.

It had felt cruel to give Sam hope for something that might not work. That probably wouldn't work, if he was being honest with himself. Better to let him grieve in peace than to dangle a possibility that could be snatched away.

If they actually succeeded—if they somehow figured this out and the rune worked—then Sam could know. Then it would be a gift instead of a promise that might get broken.

Day six had been more of the same. Slow, grinding progress that felt simultaneously significant and completely inadequate.

They'd managed to isolate what they were fairly certain was the rune's power regulation system. Not the activation sequence, but the mechanism that would prevent it from drawing too much mana too quickly and just burning out the patient's entire nervous system in one catastrophic surge.

It was something. A piece of the puzzle.

Just not enough pieces to see the full picture yet.

Kim had left around sunset, frustrated and exhausted. Mia had gone with him. Maria had stayed until well past dark, but eventually she'd needed to get home to Ada.

Lysandra had been the last to leave besides Adom.

She'd paused at the door, looking back at him still bent over the parchment spread across the worktable.

"This rune was designed by someone who knew exactly what they were doing," she'd said quietly. "Whoever made this didn't want it to be easy to use."

"I know."

"But they also wouldn't have made it impossible. There's a logic here. We just haven't found it yet."

Then she'd left, and Adom had been alone.

Day seven.

He'd come back to the warehouse at dawn, before anyone else arrived. Kim had shown up mid-morning with coffee and a new theory about the diagnostic symbols. Lysandra had appeared an hour later. They'd worked through lunch.

Maria had stopped by in the afternoon to drop off food and check on their progress, taken one look at the three of them surrounded by parchment and blackboards covered in increasingly desperate annotations, and quietly left again.

By evening, Kim and Lysandra had both admitted defeat for the day.

"We'll try again tomorrow," Kim had said, though he'd sounded less certain than usual.

Lysandra had just nodded and gathered her notes.

Now it was just Adom.

The warehouse was quiet except for the distant sounds of the city outside. Somewhere a dog was barking. Cart wheels on cobblestones. The evening crowd at a tavern two streets over.

Adom stared at the rune.

Seven days of work. Five brilliant minds. They'd made progress—real, measurable progress. They understood more about this rune than Adom had managed alone in weeks.

But it still wasn't enough.

The person who'd designed this had made it deliberately difficult. The symbols were layered with meaning. The activation sequence was obscured. The whole thing felt like it was designed to be almost impossible to use without specific knowledge that Adom simply didn't have.

Except...

Law had made these runes. Law, who'd given them to Adom specifically. Who'd known exactly who Adom was and what he'd be facing.

If Law had given him the runes, that meant they could be used. They weren't just theoretical. They weren't meant to sit in a vault gathering dust.

Which meant Adom had been given the tools to understand them.

The only tool that helped him understand complex magical problems was [Riddler's Bane].

What if...

Adom looked down at the parchment in front of him.

Adom reached for his glasses and adjusted them slightly, activating the Riddler's Bane embedded in the frames.

The world didn't change visually. The warehouse still looked like a warehouse, the parchment still looked like parchment. But something shifted in how he perceived the rune in front of him—like his brain had suddenly gained an extra sense specifically designed for spotting patterns that shouldn't exist.

He started with the outer ring of symbols. The ones Kim had spent six hours analyzing on day two.

If Law had made this rune specifically for Adom—and that was a big if, but it was the only theory that made sense—then it wouldn't be decoded through pure academic knowledge. It would be decoded through Adom's specific experiences. Things only he would recognize.

He stared at the first cluster of symbols.

Through Riddler's Bane, they looked... different. Not in form, but in function. Like he was seeing the skeleton beneath the skin. The way they connected to each other, the flow of intent between them.

It reminded him of something.

The golems. Not the way they moved or what they did, but how their control runes were structured. When Adom had reverse-engineered them to take control, he'd had to wade through layers of encryption that looked incredibly complex until you found the right angle to approach them from.

Then they'd been almost embarrassingly simple.

Like someone had built a maze, but if you knew to look at it from above instead of walking through it, you could see the path was just a straight line with a lot of decorative walls.

He looked back at the healing rune.

The outer symbols weren't regulatory. They weren't diagnostic. They were noise.

Adom felt something click in his chest. Not excitement yet—he'd been wrong too many times this week to get excited—but recognition.

He moved to the next section. The diagnostic cluster Lysandra had identified.

With Riddler's Bane active, he could see how the symbols linked together. Not just on the surface level—that was obvious enough—but underneath. The actual flow of magical intent.

It was like looking at a river and suddenly being able to see all the underground streams feeding into it.

And there, buried in the middle of the diagnostic cluster, was something that didn't belong.

A simple symbol. Almost absurdly simple compared to everything around it. It looked like a plus sign, or maybe a cross, with tiny connective threads extending from each of its four points.

That was the anchor. The thing everything else connected to.

The same basic structure he'd seen in the golem control runes. A central command buried under layers of complexity that only looked important if you didn't know what you were looking for.

Adom started pulling the rune apart in his mind, following each thread of connection back to that central symbol. The more he looked, the more Riddler's Bane showed him details he'd missed. Little inconsistencies in how the surrounding symbols were structured. Places where the flow of intent doubled back on itself in ways that made no sense unless you understood they were intentionally obscuring the real pathway.

It was the same encryption method. The same logic.

Once you had the context—once you'd seen this pattern before and knew how to reverse-engineer it—it was almost easy.

Not simple. But easier than spending seven days trying to decode it the hard way.

Law had buried the actual functional rune inside layers of complexity that looked important but were basically just magical padding. You could spend years analyzing the outer symbols and never realize you were looking at the wrong thing.

Unless you knew what to look for.

Unless you'd already reverse-engineered this exact encryption method while trying to take control of very advanced golems.

Adom grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment and started sketching.

Not the whole rune. Just the parts that mattered. The plus-sign symbol and the six—no, seven—connective pathways that actually fed into it. Everything else was decoration.

It took him an hour.

By the time he finished, he had something that looked almost insultingly basic compared to the massive complex formula they'd been wrestling with all week. Just a central glyph with seven smaller supporting symbols arranged around it like points on a compass rose.

This couldn't be right.

Adom sat back and stared at what he'd drawn.

Seven days of five brilliant people breaking their brains against this problem, and the solution was to take it apart, then proceed to ignore ninety percent of it and focus on the one part that looked too simple to be the most important.

He wouldn't have gotten here without the others. Kim's initial breakdown had given him the framework. Lysandra's observation about the diagnostic function had pointed him in the right direction. Mia's alchemical research had confirmed which symbols were actually doing transmutation work versus which ones were just for show.

But he also wouldn't have gotten here if he'd been anyone else.

Only someone who'd reverse-engineered the golems' encryption would have recognized the pattern. Only someone with Riddler's Bane would have been able to see through the obfuscation.

Law had made this rune for him specifically.

The realization was both gratifying and slightly terrifying.

Adom looked at his simplified diagram. Then at the runic ink he'd brought with him—the expensive kind, meant for temporary tattoos that would conduct mana for a few hours before fading.

He was probably about to do something stupid.

But if he was right...

He rolled up his left sleeve and uncapped the ink.

The application took longer than the actual decoding had. Runic tattoos needed to be precise. One line out of place and the whole thing could fail, or worse, succeed in ways you hadn't intended.

Adom worked slowly, carefully, referring back to his diagram every few seconds to make sure he was getting it right.

The plus-sign glyph went on his forearm, about three inches above his wrist. The seven supporting symbols arranged in a circle around it, each one connected by a thin line to the central anchor.

When he finished, he had something that looked vaguely like a decorative bracelet if you didn't know what you were looking at.

He let the ink dry, then capped the bottle and set it aside.

Now for the test.

Adom looked at his right hand. Then, feeling ridiculous, pinched the skin on the back of it hard enough to hurt.

The skin reddened immediately, a bright angry pink that would probably bruise if he left it alone.

He felt vaguely annoyed at himself for that—everything for science, right?—but the annoyance faded quickly.

This was it.

Either he'd just cracked the primordial healing rune, or he was about to look very stupid and have a bruised hand for no reason.

Adom channeled mana into the tattoo on his left forearm.

It didn't take much. The rune lit up with a soft silver glow, the kind of light that felt warm without producing actual heat. He could feel it humming against his skin, active and waiting.

He touched his left hand to the reddened skin on his right.

The relief was immediate.

Not just relief—correction. The pinched skin smoothed out, the angry red fading to normal color, the slight ache vanishing like it had never existed at all.

Adom hadn't weaved a healing spell. Hadn't spoken any words or formed any complex magical patterns.

He'd just channeled mana through the rune and touched the injury.

That was it.

His eyes widened.

The whole process had taken maybe five seconds. The pinch was gone. His skin looked completely normal, like he'd never touched it at all.

Adom stood up so fast his chair toppled backward and clattered against the floor.

He stared at his hand. Then at the tattoo on his arm. Then back at his hand.

He'd done it.

"I... did it?"

He'd actually done it!

The primordial healing rune—simplified, decoded, and reduced to its essential components—worked.

Adom walked toward the warehouse door without saying a word, barely aware he was moving. His mind was racing too fast for coherent thought. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the evening air.

The warehouse had started to feel suffocating. Seven days of stale air and chalk dust and the weight of failure pressing down on him every time he looked at those symbols.

He'd lost hope, if he was being honest with himself.

Not completely. Not the kind of giving up where you stopped trying. But the quiet kind. The kind where you kept working because stopping felt worse, but you didn't actually believe it would matter anymore.

Sam's mother had been unconscious for fourteen years. Fourteen years of her body slowly breaking down, her muscles atrophying, her mind—if there was still a mind in there—trapped somewhere Adom couldn't reach.

He'd thought he could fix it. Thought this rune was the answer.

And maybe it was, but with every day that passed, with every dead end they hit, the possibility had felt more and more like a cruel joke. Like Law had handed him a puzzle box with no solution, just to watch him struggle.

But now...

Adom looked down at his arm. At the tattoo still glowing faintly with residual mana.

Now he had it.

He had the answer.

The thought was so big he didn't know what to do with it. His chest felt tight. His hands were shaking slightly, and he couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or adrenaline or something else entirely.

A sound pulled him out of his thoughts. A soft cooing from above.

Adom looked up.

A pigeon was on the roof. Same one from a week ago—he recognized the pattern of grey feathers on its chest. It was preening itself, completely absorbed in the task.

He reached out with his druidic sense, mostly just because he needed to do something other than stand there vibrating with nervous energy.

Hey.

The pigeon's awareness flickered toward him, mildly curious.

You again.

Yeah, Adom said. Me again.

Did you bring food?

No. Sorry.

The pigeon went back to preening, apparently deciding Adom wasn't interesting if he didn't have food.

Adom should have left it at that. Gone back inside, or gone home, or done literally anything productive.

Instead he said, I just deciphered a very powerful rune.

The pigeon paused mid-preen.

What is... rune?

It's— Adom stopped. How did you explain runic magic to a pigeon? It's a way of doing magic. This one heals people.

Oh. The pigeon sounded vaguely interested but not particularly impressed. That is good, I think?

Yeah, Adom said quietly. It's good.

He didn't know why he was still talking to the pigeon. Didn't know why it felt important to tell someone—even if that someone was a bird who barely understood what he was saying.

Maybe because the pigeon didn't know Sam. Or the weight of what this meant. It was just... there. A neutral presence that wouldn't ask questions or expect anything from him.

I thought I'd failed, Adom admitted. I thought I couldn't do it. But I did.

The pigeon bobbed its head in what might have been acknowledgment or might have just been pigeon movement.

Then it shifted, and Adom caught sight of something wrong with the way it was holding its left wing.

He frowned, looking closer.

The wing was tucked awkwardly against its body, and now that he was paying attention, he could see the pigeon wasn't putting weight on that side properly.

Are you hurt?

The pigeon's thoughts turned wary. Hunt-cat caught me. Three days past. Wing hurts. Cannot fly.

Adom felt something settle in his chest. Not quite calm, but... focus.

Can you come down here?

Cannot fly down. Wing broken.

Right. Obviously.

Adom looked at the roof. It wasn't that high. Maybe fifteen feet.

The jump took maybe three seconds. The pigeon watched him the entire time, head cocked to one side.

When Adom pulled himself onto the roof tiles, the pigeon shuffled backward slightly, still wary.

I want to try something, Adom said. I need to make sure I'm not dreaming. Can I touch your wing?

The pigeon considered this for a long moment.

Will it hurt?

I don't think so. I'm trying to heal it.

...Heal?

Make it better. Fix the damage.

The pigeon's thoughts turned cautious but hopeful. It extended its injured wing slightly, still ready to pull back if things went wrong.

Adom reached out slowly and touched the torn membrane with his right hand. He could feel where the bone had fractured, where the tissue had torn. Not a clean break—more like the cat had grabbed the wing and wrenched it hard enough to do damage in multiple places.

With his left hand, he channeled mana into the tattoo.

The rune lit up again, that same soft silver glow. He felt the magic flow through him, through his hand, into the pigeon's injury.

The torn membrane began to knit itself back together.

It wasn't instant. Adom could actually watch it happening—the edges of the tear moving toward each other, the tissue rebuilding itself, the bone fragments realigning and fusing. Cell by cell, the wing restored itself.

The pigeon made a startled cooing sound.

Strange! Warm! Wing feels... good?

It took maybe twenty seconds total. When Adom pulled his hand back, the wing was completely healed. No scar, no weakness, like the cat had never touched it at all.

The pigeon extended its wing experimentally, then flapped it a few times. Then, apparently overwhelmed by the sheer joy of being able to fly again, it launched itself off the roof and did several celebratory loops through the air above the warehouse.

FLYING! FLYING AGAIN! Tall-walker is GOOD tall-walker! Very good! Best tall-walker!

Adom barely heard it.

He was staring at the tattoo on his arm, then at his hand, then back at the tattoo.

He'd just healed a living creature using a primordial rune he'd decoded himself.

A translucent system window materialized in front of him, the text crisp and clear in the evening light:

[Path Discovered Through Study and Practice]

Through dedicated research and successful experimentation, you have achieved true understanding of fundamental healing principles.

Path of the Healer (Novice) has been recognized.

Current Paths:

- Runicologist (Expert)

- Alchemist (Fundamental)

- Druid (Expert)

- Battle Mage (Expert)

- Healer (Novice)

Adom read the notification twice.

Then he sat down on the warehouse roof, legs dangling over the edge, and just stared at his arm.

The pigeon was still doing aerial loops above him, broadcasting pure joy into the evening sky.

And somewhere in Arkhos, Sam was sitting beside his mother's bed, probably reading to her like he did every evening, not knowing that everything was about to change.

Chapter 176. Late

The wind screamed past Adom's ears as he dropped through the morning sky like a stone with wings made of fire.

He was late.

Five minutes late, which wasn't the end of the world, except that he'd been the one to call this meeting in the first place. Being late to your own emergency gathering was the kind of thing that set the wrong tone entirely. It suggested disorganization. Lack of seriousness. Like you didn't actually care about whatever crisis you'd assembled people to discuss.

The problem was that he'd overslept.

Not intentionally, mind you. He'd set three different wakey-birds specifically to prevent this exact scenario. But apparently [Resonance] had other plans.

Adom had woken up wreathed in flames.

It was neither burning nor painful. Just... fire. Phoenix fire, to be specific, flowing across his skin in gentle waves that felt more like warm bathwater than combustion. The flames hadn't damaged his sheets or his clothes or anything else. They'd just been there, responding to something happening deep in his connection with Bennu.

The skill had activated on its own during the night.

It took him a solid thirty seconds of groggy confusion to realize what had happened. The bond between him and Bennu had deepened while he slept, [Resonance] kicking into gear without any conscious input from either of them. And they'd been dreamwalking together.

Flying over an endless ocean, actually. Just the two of them and empty sky and water stretching to the horizon in every direction. It had felt completely real—the salt spray on his face, the wind resistance, the effort of maintaining altitude. Bennu had been in his phoenix form, streaking ahead with that effortless grace that came from being a creature literally made for flight.

Adom had been keeping pace using wings that felt more natural in the dream than they did in waking life.

They'd flown for what felt like hours. Maybe they had. Dream time didn't always match reality.

The moment Adom became aware that he was dreamwalking—the moment conscious thought intruded on the experience—everything had fractured. The ocean below had dissolved into abstract colors, Bennu's form had flickered like a candle flame in wind, and Adom had felt himself being pulled back toward consciousness with the inevitability of a fish on a hook.

He'd woken up on fire and forty minutes late.

Which meant he'd had approximately negative ten minutes to handle his morning responsibilities.

Maria had already left. She'd kissed him on the forehead before going—he had a vague memory of that, filtered through layers of phoenix-dream—and reminded him that Ada would need breakfast. The meeting they'd scheduled was important. She'd see him there.

What she hadn't accounted for was Adom sleeping through three alarms because his bond with a primordial bird was evolving in ways neither of them fully understood.

Ada had been standing beside his bed when he finally pulled himself together, still surrounded by fading phoenix fire. She'd watched the flames dance across his arms with the calm acceptance of a five-year-old who'd already seen enough weird magic to be mostly immune to surprise.

"You're glowing," she'd observed. "Also Bennu ate all the jam and I'm very hungry."

What followed was thirty-five minutes of barely controlled chaos.

Ada wanted eggs, but only if they were "the fluffy kind," which meant he had to whisk them for approximately three thousand years while she supervised and offered critiques. Then she'd spilled milk across the table, which led to her attempting to clean it herself with a dishrag that turned out to be Bennu's favorite nesting cloth, which led to Bennu squawking indignantly in his human form while hopping around on one foot because he'd also somehow stepped in the spilled milk.

The whole time, Adom could feel the phantom sensation of ocean wind on his face.

[Resonance] reaching Level 2 clearly meant something. The bond was reinforcing itself, probably strengthening with each use. And if Bennu's natural state included dreamwalking over metaphysical oceans, then maybe that was just part of what they'd be doing now. Sharing dreams. Sharing experiences.

He'd have to ask Biggins about it. Or the witch. Someone who understood bonds between humans and primordial creatures better than he did.

But that would have to wait until after this meeting.

By the time Adom had gotten everyone fed, clothed, and convinced that no, they could not all go to the meeting with him because it was "boring adult business," he was already running five minutes behind schedule.

His father still hadn't returned from the dungeon raid. Three days now. Probably fine—Arthur could handle himself—but it meant the household responsibilities fell entirely on Adom's shoulders until someone came back.

He angled his body, adjusting the phoenix fire wings that sprouted from his shoulder blades. The sensation was still new enough to be distracting. Like having extra limbs that responded to thought but didn't quite feel like part of his body yet. The wings weren't physical—they looked like flame, translucent and shifting—but they caught air currents the same way real wings would.

Arkhos spread out below him, all narrow streets and peaked roofs and the morning smoke rising from thousands of chimneys. From up here, the city looked almost peaceful. You couldn't see the crime or the poverty or the political maneuvering. Just architecture and geometry and the occasional flash of magical wards catching sunlight.

The warehouse district was coming up fast. Adom could see the building Cass had prepared—one of Wangara's properties, chosen specifically for its privacy and the fact that nobody would question unusual activity there. It sat at the edge of the district, backing up to an empty lot that had once been used for lumber storage.

He tucked his wings and dove.

This wasn't as smooth as a good old [Flight] spell, but he figured he would have to get used to it if it consumed no mana at all.

The acceleration was immediate and intense. Wind became a physical force trying to peel his skin off. His eyes watered behind his glasses. The ground rushed up with the kind of speed that would have terrified him years ago.

Now it just felt exhilarating.

The warehouse roof came into clear focus. Weathered tiles, a few missing. A broken chimney on the left side. He could make out individual shingles.

Adom spread his wings at the last possible moment.

The deceleration was violent enough to rattle his teeth, but the phoenix fire caught air and he stopped mid-dive, hovering for just a moment before dropping the final ten feet to land in a crouch on the cobblestones of the alley beside the warehouse.

The impact sent a small cloud of dust billowing outward.

And also apparently ruined someone's breakfast.

A scraggly orange cat that had been creeping along the alley wall toward an oblivious pigeon let out a yowl of surprise and fury as Adom materialized directly in its stalking path. The pigeon took off in a flurry of startled wing-beats, and the cat whipped around to glare at Adom with outrage.

The hiss it directed at him could have stripped paint.

"Sorry about that," Adom said, and meant it.

He'd spoken aloud, but the apology carried weight that normal speech wouldn't have. His druidic abilities opened channels of communication that went deeper than language—intent and meaning flowing directly between minds.

The cat received his apology, processed it, and clearly decided it was insufficient.

Its thoughts came back sharp and accusatory: Clumsy. Loud. Ruined everything. Was so close. So close!

"I really am sorry," Adom tried again. "I'm running late and I wasn't paying attention—"

Don't care. Stupid tall-walker. Always stomping around. Never looking.

The cat turned and stalked away with its tail lashing, radiating feline contempt with every step.

Adom looked up at the pigeon, which had settled on the warehouse roof. It was preening its feathers with a smug satisfaction.

He reached out with that same druidic sense, just curious.

The pigeon's thoughts were simpler than the cat's, more immediate. Mostly it was thinking about how clever it was. How fast its reflexes were. How it had totally seen that cat coming the whole time and was never in any real danger.

It ruffled its feathers and cooed something that felt distinctly like mockery directed at the departed cat.

Pigeons weren't exactly rare animals in general, but they were uncommon in Arkhos. The local bird population ran more toward crows and gulls and the occasional hawk. Pigeons had been brought in by traders over the years, mostly by accident—stowaways on ships and cargo wagons—and they'd established themselves in small populations around the port district and some of the warehouse areas.

This particular one seemed very pleased with itself for existing.

Thinking about traders reminded Adom of the message he'd received. Queen Nhyssa and her brother Lyralei were confirmed to arrive in Arkhos next month. A formal visit, though the "formal" part was mostly for show. The real purpose was treaty negotiations and possibly establishing a more permanent Silvandrosi presence in the Empire.

Which meant Adom needed to have this whole "who's trying to kill me" situation resolved well before then. Having assassins targeting him while hosting elven royalty seemed like poor form.

The pigeon cooed again, still radiating smug satisfaction.

Adom dismissed the connection and turned his attention to the warehouse door.

It was large—built for loading cargo—with iron reinforcement and a heavy lock that looked imposing but was actually purely decorative. The real security was in the wards Cass had laid around the building. Nothing too aggressive, just enough to discourage casual break-ins and alert Wangara's people if anyone tried to force entry.

Adom pulled a small key from his pocket and approached the side entrance, a smaller door cut into the larger frame. He fitted the key into the lock and turned it with a heavy click that echoed in the quiet alley.

The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing darkness beyond.

He stepped inside.

The warehouse interior was larger than it looked from outside, which was typical of Wangara's properties. High ceilings, exposed beams, and enough open floor space to fit a small airship if you really wanted to. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the roof tiles, creating diagonal shafts of dusty light that cut through the dimness.

Four people stood in the center of the space, arranged around a large blackboard that someone had dragged in and propped against a stack of crates.

They all turned to look at him.

Adom's entrance had not been subtle. The door's hinges might have been well-oiled, but the latch still made a distinct click, and his boots on the wooden floor announced his presence like a town crier.

Maria stood closest to the blackboard, arms crossed, wearing her healer's robes and the expression of a mother who knew exactly why her son was late but was willing to hear him try to explain it anyway. Mia was beside her, holding what looked like a leather-bound notebook, her silver hair tied back in a practical braid. Professor Kim was practically vibrating with barely contained excitement, one hand extended toward the blackboard where a piece of chalk was writing complex runic formulas entirely on its own, suspended in mid-air by what had to be a levitation spell with very precise control.

And Lysandra Kallistrate stood slightly apart from the others, her posture perfect, her expression neutral in that way that suggested she was forming opinions but keeping them to herself for now.

The chalk stopped moving mid-symbol.

Four pairs of eyes tracked Adom as he closed the door behind him and stepped fully into the warehouse.

He sighed. This was going to require an apology, and he needed to make it good enough to sound sincere without getting into the specifics of why he'd overslept. Explaining that he'd been dreamwalking with a supposedly-extinct phoenix felt like the kind of detail that raised more questions than it answered.

"I'm sorry," he said, moving toward them. "I overslept. There was a... magical mishap this morning. I disrupted my wakey-bird. By the time I woke up, I was already behind schedule."

"What's a wakey bird?" Kim asked immediately, because of course he did. The man's curiosity about magical phenomena was both his greatest strength as a researcher and his most predictable trait.

"A mana induced device me and Sam made during our years in Xerkes," Adom said carefully. "It's a bit complex, and needs to be put back together all the time because you have to destroy it to make it stop."

Kim looked like he wanted to ask seventeen follow-up questions, but Maria spoke first.

"Are you alright? No adverse effects from the unexpected activation?"

"I'm fine. Just woke up later than planned."

"And Ada?" Maria's expression softened slightly. "Did she eat?"

"Fed, dressed, and currently under Zuni's supervision at home. Though I'm not entirely sure who's supervising whom at this point."

Mia smiled at that. "My money's on Ada. She's got that look in her eyes. The 'I'm five years old and therefore invincible' look."

"She absolutely does," Adom agreed.

He reached the group properly now, close enough to see what Kim had been writing on the blackboard. Runic formulas, as expected, but specifically ones related to biological transmutation and energy manipulation. The chalk was still hovering nearby, waiting for Kim to resume whatever explanation he'd been giving before Adom arrived.

Lysandra hadn't said anything yet. She was watching him with that same neutral expression, but there was something in her eyes that suggested she'd already catalogued his appearance, his explanation, and the timing of his arrival, and had drawn her own conclusions about all of it.

"Well," Kim said, clapping his hands together, "now that our illustrious organizer has finally graced us with his presence—"

Adom resisted sighing at that.

"—I suppose we can actually get started. Though I should mention I already briefed everyone on the urgency of the situation." He gestured toward the blackboard. "Young Sam's mother. Coma for fourteen years. Magical trauma, neural damage, the whole catastrophic mess. And you think you've found a rune that might be able to fix it."

"Might being the operative word," Adom said. "It's complex. More complex than anything I've worked with before."

"Which is why you assembled the dream team," Mia said, grinning. "Healer, alchemist, two runicologists. We're like a very specialized adventuring party, except instead of fighting dragons, we're fighting six years of magical trauma."

"And time itself," Maria added quietly. "The longer someone's been in a coma, the more damage accumulates. We're not just fighting what happened to her. We're fighting everything that's happened since."

"Exactly why we need to move quickly," Mia said, though her grin had faded somewhat.

Kim was already turning back to the blackboard, his chalk resuming its movement. "I took the liberty of getting us started while we waited. Based on the notes you sent me yesterday—which, by the way, were fascinating but also completely maddening because you left out half the contextual information I needed—I've begun breaking down the rune's primary structure."

The chalk drew a large circle, then began filling it with smaller symbols that branched off in multiple directions like a tree growing sideways.

"The central core appears to be a biological reconstruction matrix," Kim continued, his words coming faster as he got more excited. "But it's not just healing in the conventional sense. It's more like... instructing the body to rebuild itself according to a specific template. Which raises the question: what template? Is it reading the patient's original genetic structure? Is it working from some idealized human baseline? Does it require external input to know what 'healthy' looks like?"

"That's where the alchemical components come in," Adom said. "I think. The rune has transmutation symbols embedded in it, which suggests it needs specific compounds to fuel the reconstruction process."

Mia flipped open her notebook. "I've been going through the historical records of primordial-era alchemy. The good news is that they were absurdly advanced and created compounds we can barely replicate today. The bad news is that most of those compounds require ingredients we don't have easy access to."

"How difficult are we talking?" Maria asked.

"Depends on which specific compounds the rune needs. Some might be synthesizable with modern methods. Others..." Mia shrugged. "We might need to get creative."

Lysandra finally spoke, her voice calm and measured. "The temporal aspect concerns me most."

Everyone turned to look at her.

"Your friend's mother has been in this state for fourteen years," Lysandra continued. "That's fourteen years of neural degradation, muscle atrophy, and systemic damage from prolonged unconsciousness. Even if this rune can rebuild damaged tissue, can it account for that much accumulated deterioration?"

It was a good question. The kind of question that made Adom remember why Lysandra had been such an effective mentor in his original timeline.

She'd agreed to participate a few days ago, during their meeting in his office. To most people, she probably looked exactly as she always did—stoic, composed, professional. But Adom had known her for years in his previous life. He could see the excitement in the way her gaze kept returning to the blackboard, the slight forward lean when Kim said something particularly interesting about the rune's structure.

A mage was nothing if not passionate about magic.

"I don't know," he admitted. "That's part of what we need to figure out."

Kim's chalk was still moving, adding more symbols to the growing diagram. "The way I see it, we have three primary challenges. First, decode the rune's activation sequence. Second, identify and acquire the necessary alchemical components. Third, determine the proper application method to account for the patient's specific condition."

"Four challenges," Maria said quietly. "We also need to make sure we don't accidentally kill her in the process."

The warehouse fell silent for a moment.

"Right," Kim said, slightly subdued. "That too."

Chapter 175. Assembling A Team

Adom turned another page in the Book of Primordial Runes, his finger tracing down the ancient symbols carved into the parchment. The candlelight flickered across the intricate drawings, casting shadows that made the runes seem to shift and writhe.

"Where is it..." he muttered, flipping to the next section. "Where is it..."

He'd been at this for over an hour now, cross-referencing his notes and checking every healing-related entry he could find. The book was organized in the most inconvenient way possible—not alphabetically, not by function, but according to some primordial logic that probably made perfect sense to whoever had compiled it thousands of years ago.

Three more pages. Nothing.

Two more pages. Still nothing.

One more page, and—

"Ah."

There it was. A rune that looked like a stylized heart with radiating lines extending outward like veins, surrounded by smaller symbols that seemed to pulse even on the static page.

He knew it was related to healing. The surrounding context made that much clear. But the exact mechanics, the specific applications, the precise way to activate it—all of that remained locked behind layers of meaning he hadn't been able to crack.

Until now, maybe.

Adom leaned back in his chair, staring at the rune while his mind worked through the problem Sam had presented him with. Sam's mother had been in a coma for over six years now, ever since the magical accident that had nearly killed her when Sam first awakened to magic. According to Sam, his whole room had been blasted apart by the uncontrolled surge of power, and his mother had been caught in the aftershock.

It was a hard thing for the young man even now, at nineteen. He blamed himself for not growing up with his mother, for his little sister basically not knowing her either. The guilt had been eating at him for years, a constant weight that he carried but rarely talked about.

The problem was that conventional healing magic had its limits.

Healing worked by accelerating the body's natural recovery processes and providing the energy needed for rapid cellular regeneration. A skilled healer could mend broken bones in minutes, close wounds that would normally take weeks to heal, even regrow lost fingers or toes given enough time and mana.

But there were thresholds. Lines that, once crossed, couldn't be uncrossed with ordinary magic.

Brain damage was one of those lines. When neural tissue was destroyed rather than simply damaged, when entire sections of the brain had been burned away by magical fire, conventional healing could only do so much. The body's natural healing processes didn't include regenerating complex neural networks. You could heal the skull, repair the blood vessels, even regrow brain tissue—but the memories, the personality, the intricate web of connections that made someone who they were... that was beyond what most healing magic could restore.

Sam's mother had also been technically dead for several minutes before the healers had managed to restart her heart. When the brain was deprived of oxygen for that long, when the heart stopped pumping blood for extended periods, damage accumulated that went beyond what simple healing could address.

The healers had managed to save her life, but the person who woke up—if she ever woke up—might not be the same person who had gone to sleep that night years ago.

Adom had considered other options over the years. The alchemical method he'd used on Helios back when they were stuck in the dungeon was one possibility, but that process was incredibly dangerous. Adom had nearly died during that transmutation, and he'd been relatively healthy and prepared. Sam's mother was already in a fragile state. The shock of the process alone might kill her.

Also, vampires were not as common as one might think, which—and Adom was surprised he was even considering this—was a pity in this moment.

Which left him with one solution, really.

The Primordial Rune of Healing.

Adom adjusted his glasses, the familiar weight of the enchanted lenses settling on his nose. The left lens held [Riddler's Bane], which helped him understand magical constructs and their underlying logic. The right lens contained [Revealer's Eye], which let him perceive hidden runes and magical writing that would normally be invisible to the naked eye.

Through the dual enchantments, the Primordial Rune of Healing became clearer. Not completely clear—he wasn't that lucky—but the hidden layers of meaning started to make some sense.

The central heart symbol was actually composed of dozens of smaller runes, each one representing a different aspect of biological function. Blood flow, neural activity, cellular regeneration, immune response. The radiating lines weren't just decorative—they were instruction sets, detailing how the healing energy should be distributed through the body.

And underneath it all, barely visible even with his enhanced sight, were alchemical formulas. Symbols that looked suspiciously like transmutation circles, mixed with medical diagrams that predated modern anatomy by millennia.

It was a complete biological reconstruction protocol.

Adom had never spent too much time on this particular rune before, partly because its complexity had seemed overwhelming and partly because he'd never had a pressing need for healing magic of this magnitude. His own [Primordial Body] made most injuries irrelevant, and the few times he'd needed serious healing, conventional magic had been sufficient.

But now he was determined to find a solution. Sam's face when he'd spoken about his mother, the quiet desperation behind his friend's careful composure—that was worth whatever effort this would require.

The problem was that what he could not have deciphered in years, he would probably not be able to crack in months. Not alone, at least.

He'd need help. Help from people in other fields who could fill in the gaps in his knowledge.

A healer, definitely. Someone who understood the medical side of what this rune was trying to accomplish. His mother would be the obvious choice, Maria had years of experience with complex healing cases, and she knew Sam personally.

An alchemist would be essential too. Those transmutation symbols embedded in the rune's structure suggested that this healing process involved more than just magical energy. It might require specific compounds, carefully prepared solutions, maybe even physical transformation of the damaged tissue before the healing could take effect. Mia would be perfect for that. She had the expertise and, more importantly, she'd be willing to work on something this experimental.

For runicologists, which would be the most important part of deciphering the rune's actual activation sequence, he had himself and Kim. Kim's approach to runic analysis was different from his own—more intuitive, less systematic—and that complementary perspective might be exactly what he needed to crack this thing.

And then his eyes widened as another possibility occurred to him.

There was Vivian's mother. Lysandra Kallistrate.

Footsteps suddenly echoed in the hallway outside his room, followed by a gentle knock at the door.

"Come in," Adom called, not looking up from the book.

His mother's head appeared around the doorframe, her dark hair slightly mussed and her robes wrinkled from what had probably been a long day. She took in the scene—Adom hunched over the ancient tome with his enchanted glasses on, candles burning low, papers scattered across his desk—and her expression shifted to that particular blend of concern and exasperation that mothers seemed to perfect.

"Bennu told me what happened this morning," Maria said, stepping fully into the room. "The advancement, the runes, the voices. Are you alright?"

Adom finally looked up, blinking as his eyes adjusted to focusing on something more than six inches away. "I'm okay. Still processing it all, but okay."

"You've been in here for hours. Have you eaten anything?"

"I had breakfast."

"That was eighteen hours ago."

Had it really been that long? Adom glanced toward the window and was surprised to see that the full moon. No wonder the candles were burning so low.

"I... got distracted," he admitted.

Maria moved closer, her healer's instincts automatically assessing him for signs of exhaustion or magical strain. "The advancement didn't cause any lingering effects? No headaches, no disorientation?"

"Nothing like that. If anything, I feel better than usual. More... balanced."

"Good. Though I'd like to examine you properly tomorrow, just to be safe. Spontaneous advancement is rare, and when it involves unknown runic inscription..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Well, it's not something I want to leave to chance."

Adom nodded absently, his mind already shifting back to the problem at hand. His mother's presence here was actually perfect timing.

"Actually," he said, "there's a favor I need to ask you. And it's good that you're here."

"What is it?"

"It's about Sam."

*****

The day after...

"Alright, everyone," Adom called out as he stood from his desk, a stack of graded exams in his hands. "Time to see how badly I've crushed your academic spirits this week."

A ripple of nervous laughter went through the classroom. Twenty-three students sat forward in their chairs, some with confidence, others with the resigned expression of people about to receive disappointing news.

Adom began making his way through the rows, placing papers face-down on desks. He'd learned years ago that the anticipation was almost worse than the actual grades, so he tried to move quickly while still offering his usual commentary.

"Miss Chen," he said, placing her paper down with a small smile. "Eighty-seven. Your theoretical framework on mana binding was particularly well-reasoned."

The girl beamed, clearly relieved.

"Mr. Aldrich." Adom set down the next paper. "Seventy-nine. Your practical applications section was creative, though I'm not entirely convinced that using runic amplification to heat bathwater counts as 'advanced magical theory.'"

A few students chuckled. Marcus looked sheepish but pleased with his grade.

"Miss Hartwell, eighty-three. Solid work across the board, but next time try to write legibly enough that I don't need to consult an ancient divination ritual to read your answers."

More laughter. The girl in question grinned and immediately started examining her paper.

Adom continued his circuit, offering encouragement and gentle ribbing in equal measure. Most of the class had done well—grades in the seventies and eighties, with a few outstanding papers scattered throughout. The material was challenging, but his students were rising to meet it.

"Mr. Whitmore," he said, approaching Thomas's desk. "Eighty-one. Much better than your last exam. Apparently being caught cheating was exactly the motivation you needed."

Thomas flushed red but managed a smile. "Thank you, Professor."

"Though I do hope you've retired that communication device permanently."

"Yes, sir. Definitely, sir."

Adom moved on, suppressing his amusement. The boy had been a model student ever since the cheating incident, probably terrified of being caught in any further academic misconduct.

He approached Eren's desk and set the paper down with perhaps more flourish than strictly necessary.

"Ninety-six," he announced. "Second highest in the class."

Eren looked up with raised eyebrows. "Second?"

"Don't let it go to your head. You missed a few points on the practical applications section. Apparently, all that confidence doesn't automatically translate to perfect execution."

"Who got first?" Eren asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer.

Adom didn't respond immediately, instead continuing to the front row where Vivian sat with her hands folded neatly on her desk, her expression carefully neutral.

"Miss Hartwell," he said, placing her paper down with ceremonial precision. "One hundred out of one hundred. Again."

A few students groaned good-naturedly. Vivian's perfect scores had become something of a running joke in the class—not because anyone resented her for it, but because her consistency was almost supernatural.

"Show-off," someone called out from the back of the room, followed by more laughter.

Vivian's cheeks turned slightly pink, but she managed a small smile. "I just study hard."

"Study hard?" Adom repeated with exaggerated disbelief. "Miss Hartwell, I'm fairly certain you could recite the theoretical principles of advanced runic manipulation in your sleep. At this point, I'm considering just giving you the answer key and having you grade your own exams."

"Please don't," Vivian said quickly, looking genuinely alarmed at the prospect.

"Don't worry. I wouldn't deprive myself of the pleasure of reading your perfectly formatted, completely correct responses to my carefully crafted questions."

He finished distributing the remaining papers and returned to the front of the classroom.

"Overall, I'm pleased with your performance," he said, settling back against his desk. "The average was eighty-two, which suggests you're actually paying attention during my lectures instead of just pretending to take notes while planning your weekend activities."

A few guilty looks were exchanged among the students.

"However," Adom continued, "I notice that several of you are still struggling with the practical application portions of these exams. Remember, runic theory is only useful if you can actually implement it in real-world scenarios. Next week, we'll be spending more time on hands-on exercises."

A student in the middle row raised her hand. "Will we be working with actual runes, Professor?"

"Basic ones, yes. Nothing that will accidentally level the classroom." He paused for effect. "Probably."

More nervous laughter.

"Any other questions about the exam?" Adom looked around the room. "No? Good. Then that concludes today's lesson. Remember, chapter twelve for next week, and I want a two-page analysis of the historical development of binding runes. Not one and three-quarter pages. Not 'two pages' written in eighteen-point font. Two actual pages of substantive analysis."

Students began gathering their belongings with the usual post-class chatter and rustling of papers. Chairs scraped against the floor as people stood and stretched.

"Oh, and those of you who scored below seventy-five," Adom added, raising his voice slightly over the noise, "my office hours are Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. I recommend taking advantage of them unless you enjoy the thrill of disappointing grades."

The classroom began to empty in the typical pattern—eager students rushing out to their next destination, others lingering to discuss their grades with friends, a few approaching his desk with questions about specific answers.

Adom fielded the usual inquiries with patience. Yes, the question about mana resonance frequency was meant to be that difficult. No, he wouldn't accept a regrade request based on "I think I deserved more points for creativity." Yes, the material would be on the next exam as well.

As the last of the question-askers departed, Adom noticed Vivian gathering her materials with her usual methodical precision. She was taking longer than necessary, which typically meant she had something on her mind.

He approached her desk as she was sliding her perfect exam into her perfectly organized folder.

"Miss Hartwell," he said quietly, "I was wondering if I could speak with your mother again. As soon as possible, if that's convenient."

Vivian looked up, her expression shifting to something more attentive. "Of course, Professor. Is everything alright?"

"Nothing urgent," Adom assured her. "I have a research question that falls into her area of expertise."

"I'll let her know tonight. I'm sure she'll be happy to meet with you." Vivian finished packing her bag and stood. "Should I have her contact you directly, or would you prefer to arrange something through me?"

"Either way works. Though sooner rather than later would be appreciated."

"I understand." Vivian slung her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the door. "I'll make sure she knows it's a priority."

"Thank you."

Adom watched her leave, then began organizing his own materials. The classroom was nearly empty now, just the usual post-class detritus of forgotten quills and crumpled papers scattered across the floor.

He was reaching for his grade book when he realized someone was still sitting in the back row.

Eren hadn't moved from his seat. He was staring down at his exam paper, but his posture suggested he wasn't actually reading it. More like he was using it as an excuse to remain in the classroom.

Adom finished gathering his things and waited. Experience had taught him that when Eren lingered after class like this, he usually had something important to discuss. Pushing him to speak before he was ready rarely produced good results.

The silence stretched for nearly a minute. Then Eren finally looked up and made eye contact.

Without a word, he stood and made his way down to the front of the classroom, his footsteps echoing in the now-empty space.

Chapter 174. Natural Rune

[Mana Pool: 10023/10023]

[You have reached Second Circle!]

Adom stared at the notification floating in his vision, blinking slowly.

Just like that?

...Well, it wasn't exactly "just like that." He'd just experienced pain in a way he hadn't since gaining [Primordial Body], which was saying something. But still. Second Circle. After years of careful advancement and measured progress, he'd apparently gained a new circle because some alien voices had burned runes into his back.

The mana pool increase was substantial too. He'd been sitting at around eight thousand for months, and now he was over ten thousand. That was the kind of jump that usually took years of dedicated meditation and core refinement.

Magic was definitely weird sometimes.

"Are you injured? Should I fetch Maria? Or maybe we should return home immediately and—"

"Bennu." Adom held up a hand, still processing what he was seeing. "I'm okay. Just... give me a moment."

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing sand off his knees. Everything felt different. Not dramatically so, but like someone had taken a musical instrument he'd been playing for years and retuned every string. His balance was better. His awareness sharper. Even the way air moved across his skin felt more vivid.

And inside his chest, something was definitely not the same as it had been five minutes ago.

"You are making that face again," Bennu said, hovering nearby with concern. "The face you make when you are thinking very hard about magical theory."

"Because I am thinking very hard about magical theory." Adom closed his eyes and turned his attention inward, focusing on his Axis core the way he'd done thousands of times before. "And what I'm seeing doesn't make sense."

What he found there made him forget to breathe.

His core had transformed entirely.

Where before it had been a sphere with a single ring rotating around it—the mark of First Circle—now there were two rings. The new one was smaller, spinning in the opposite direction, and where the two rings intersected, tiny sparks of energy jumped between them like miniature lightning.

But more than that, the core itself looked different. More complex. Like a heart, with chambers and pathways that channeled energy in ways his old core never could have managed. The central sphere pulsed rhythmically, pumping both mana and Fluid through his body without any conscious effort on his part.

It was beautiful. It was also completely unprecedented.

"This is incredible," he murmured.

"What is incredible?" Bennu asked, settling onto the sand beside him. "You are sitting very still and your breathing changed."

"My core. It's completely different now. The second ring formed, but it's not just sitting there like a static enhancement. It's actually working in conjunction with the first one."

Adom watched in fascination as his mana channels expanded in real time. The pathways that carried magical energy through his body were growing wider, more efficient, branching into new configurations he'd never seen before. Like his circulatory system was being upgraded while he observed.

The old system had been simple. His Axis core produced energy, and he consciously directed that energy into either mana for spellcasting or Fluid for physical enhancement. It required focus, meditation, deliberate control.

This new system was running itself.

Mana flowed through dedicated channels, ready to be shaped into spells at a moment's notice. Fluid moved through separate pathways, continuously strengthening his muscles and reinforcing his bones. And somehow, his core was managing both processes simultaneously while also drawing in ambient mana from the environment.

"Hold on, let me test something."

Adom raised his hand and weaved [Wind], a simple spell he'd used countless times. A gentle breeze stirred the sand around them, carrying the salt scent of the ocean.

[-3 Mana]

The notification appeared and disappeared almost instantly, replaced by another.

[+3 Mana]

Eight seconds. It had taken less than eight seconds for his core to absorb ambient mana from the environment and replenish what he'd used. Without any meditation, without any conscious effort, without even thinking about it.

"That's not how mana recovery is supposed to work," he said aloud.

"What is not how it is supposed to work?"

"I just weaved a spell, and my core replaced the used mana automatically. That should take at least ten minutes of meditation, not eight seconds of... nothing."

Bennu tilted his head. "Is that bad?"

"It's impossible. Or it should be impossible. But apparently—"

He was interrupted by another realization. The Fluid that normally required careful meditation to produce was now flowing through his body continuously. He could feel it strengthening his muscles, reinforcing his bones, enhancing his reflexes. The same power he'd learned to control over years of careful practice was now as automatic as his heartbeat.

Adom had grown used to managing his supernatural strength ever since it had increased so dramatically a few years back. Learning to write without crushing quills, shake hands without breaking fingers. Fluid enhancement was nothing new. But having it constantly active, produced and distributed by his core without any input from him...

That was entirely different.

He flexed his hand experimentally. The power was there, waiting, perfectly controlled. His body seemed to know exactly how much strength to apply for any given task. Like the core was managing the distribution of Fluid with the same unconscious precision it used to regulate his heartbeat.

"I think I need to test the Axis manifestation," he said.

"The what manifestation?"

"You'll see."

Adom took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, allowing the two energies to merge the way they did when he pushed his abilities to their limit.

The white energy that was Axis—part mana, part Fluid, something more than both—erupted around his body like controlled flame.

Fwoosh.

The energy enveloped him from head to toe, crackling with power that made the air itself seem to hum. It felt like standing in the center of a lightning storm while also being perfectly safe.

Now it felt as natural as breathing. The energy responded to his will instantly, shaping itself around his body like a second skin.

Adom stood there for a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer exhilaration of it. Axis always brought excitement, a rush of potential that made everything seem possible. But this was his power, flowing through him as naturally as blood, ready to be shaped by his will without any of the usual strain.

"You are glowing like fire," Bennu said, eyes wide with wonder. "And you look very happy."

"I feel very happy. This is—"

Another notification appeared.

[Primordial Body has reached Level 2!]

The white energy gradually faded back into his skin, leaving Adom feeling more balanced and powerful than he had in years. Maybe ever.

"Okay," Adom said, looking down at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. "That was definitely not supposed to happen this fast."

"What was not supposed to happen? And what was that white fire?"

Adom met Bennu's concerned gaze and realized he didn't have a good answer. The transformation from First to Second Circle usually took years of careful advancement. Skills didn't normally jump levels without warning. And he wasn't aware that natural runes burned themselves into people's backs while alien voices whispered in languages that predated human civilization.

"I think," Adom said slowly, "we might need to have a much longer conversation about what just happened. And possibly consult an old dragon when we get home."

*****

"Hmmm."

Adom looked up from where he was sitting shirtless on one of Biggins' chairs, craning his neck to try and catch the old dragon's expression. "Is this a good hmm, or a bad hmm?"

Biggins adjusted his spectacles and leaned closer to the runes on Adom's back, his breath tickling between the shoulder blades. "It is an 'I am not sure what this is' hmm."

Adom sighed and reached for his robes. "Well, that's reassuring."

"Oh, don't be like that," Biggins said with a smile, stepping back to give Adom room to dress. "I'm sorry, my dear fellow, but I'm not as well-versed in natural runes as I'd like to be. You're the expert on that, actually, not me. I deal more in the 'weird magical artifacts that probably shouldn't exist' side of things."

"Right." Adom pulled his tunic over his head, wincing slightly as the fabric brushed against the still-tender skin. "I should have thought of that."

"However," Biggins said, his eyes lighting up with sudden interest, "I am quite curious about these voices you mentioned. That's much more my area of expertise."

Adom settled back into the chair properly now that he was clothed. "I don't really understand them. They spoke in a language I've never heard before, but the cadence felt familiar. Like something I'd encountered previously."

"And where might you have encountered something like that?"

"When I played the war of tongues with the witch. In the fae realm. She mentioned something about the original form of magic, and her voice carried the same... resonance, I suppose."

Biggins nodded thoughtfully. "Ah yes, the witch. She's significantly older than I am, you know. Was already a prominent figure in the primordial age. She would know more about that time's mysteries than someone like me, who's spent most of his existence seeking them rather than living through them."

"This is one more reason to visit her, maybe."

"Indeed. Though I suspect she'll want something in return for that knowledge. She always does."

Adom leaned slightly back in the chair, considering. "Eren also has a rune on his back. He told me he's had it since infancy."

"Ah, now that's interesting." Biggins perked up considerably. "You should ask a bit more about Eren's birth circumstances, I think."

"How is that relevant?"

"Well," Biggins said, beginning to pace around the small room in that peculiar way he had when he was working through a problem, "you got this rune after using [Resonance], which is a skill you share with Bennu. A bond skill, if I understand correctly."

Adom nodded. He'd taken Bennu home before coming to the Weird Stuff Store, not wanting to expose the young phoenix to whatever strange theories Biggins might propose.

"So by that same logic..."

"Eren might have formed a bond, whether consciously or not, with a being that allowed him to have this rune?" Adom completed the thought, then frowned. "But then again, wouldn't that being have manifested by now? It's been years."

"If it did and it was on Arkhos, I would have known about it," Biggins said with the confidence of someone who made it his business to know about unusual magical phenomena.

"So either there's no bonded being, or..."

"Or it's somewhere else entirely. Another realm, perhaps. Or dormant in some way." Biggins shrugged. "But the best way to understand your rune more would be to ask the person who's had a similar thing for years already."

Adom considered this. It made sense, in the straightforward way that most of Biggins' advice did once you got past the initial eccentricity.

He got up from the chair, stretching slightly. The runes on his back gave a small twinge when he moved, but nothing like the burning sensation from earlier. Just a reminder that something fundamental had changed in his magical anatomy.

"I'll talk to Eren tomorrow, after classes."

"Excellent plan. Do bring me whatever you learn. I have a feeling this is just the beginning of something quite interesting." Biggins was already turning back to one of his many projects, a contraption that appeared to be half telescope and half tea kettle.

Adom waved goodbye and made his way out of the Weird Stuff Store, the little bell above the door chiming as he stepped back into the bustling afternoon streets of Arkhos.

The excitement from his advancement was still there, humming through his veins like a low-grade fever. Second Circle. The words kept repeating in his mind, accompanied by the memory of white fire wreathing his body and the sensation of his core pumping energy through newly expanded channels. He felt different walking through the city now—more aware, more connected to the magical currents that flowed beneath the surface of everyday life.

The streets were alive with their usual afternoon energy. Merchants called out prices for fresh bread and exotic spell components. Students hurried between classes, their robes flapping behind them as they navigated the crowds. A new group of halfling musicians had set up near the fountain in Commerce Square.

Adom was making his way through the afternoon crowds when he spotted a familiar figure near the fountain in Commerce Square. Old Jack was there, but instead of performing his usual fire magic, he was handing out colorful flyers to passersby.

"Entertainment for the whole family!" Jack called out with the same enthusiasm he'd once used to announce his street performances. "Grand opening next week!"

Adom pulled his pointy hat down slightly, casting his face in shadow as he approached. Jack was holding out flyers to anyone who passed.

"Step right up, sir!" He called out as Adom drew near, not recognizing him beneath the hat's brim. "Jack's Magical Menagerie—finest entertainment in all of Arkhos! Opening night spectacle you won't want to miss!"

He pressed a colorful flyer into Adom's hands. The advertisement promised "Fire Dragons, Elemental Wonders, and Family-Friendly Magic Shows Every Evening."

Jack looked different. Better. His clothes were clean and well-fitted, his hair was trimmed, and there was a confidence in his posture that hadn't been there during his street performing days.

"Proper venue this time, sir," Jack continued with pride. "No more street corners for old Jack. Got myself a real stage, lighting, comfortable seating for the whole family."

Adom nodded politely, keeping his face in shadow. He remembered watching Jack's fire dragons dance through the air when he was just a child visiting Arkhos with his parents. The man had been performing on street corners for decades, entertaining crowds for whatever coins they'd drop in his hat. Seeing him take this step into legitimate business ownership, knowing that Wangara had helped him secure the funding to make his dreams reality, filled Adom with quiet satisfaction.

"Thank you," Adom said simply, his voice muffled by the hat.

"My pleasure, sir! Hope to see you there!"

Adom continued through the streets with a warm feeling in his chest. It was good to see people moving forward, building something better for themselves. He tucked the flyer into his robes, already planning to attend opening night.

He was still smiling and considering whether to stop by the Academy early to review his lesson plans or head straight home to check on Ada and Bennu when a flash of familiar red hair caught his attention.

That particular shade, bright and slightly unkempt, belonged to exactly one person in Arkhos.

Adom looked closer through the crowd and confirmed his suspicion. Sam was walking about fifty feet ahead of him, moving slowly along the main thoroughfare. His head was down, hands shoved deep in his pockets, completely oblivious to the world around him.

A grin spread across Adom's face. Perfect timing.

With everything that had been happening lately—Council meetings, research breakthroughs, mysterious phoenixes learning to be human, and now magical advancement that shouldn't have been possible—he and Sam had barely seen each other outside of official business.

Adult life really was like that.

When they'd been students, they could spend entire afternoons just wandering around the city or arguing about magical theory in the library. Now they were both professionals with responsibilities and schedules, and their friendship had gotten compressed into the spaces between work.

But that didn't mean he couldn't have a little fun.

Adom activated a minor spell, dampening his footsteps and blending more naturally with the crowd around him. Sam was walking slowly enough that it was easy to keep pace while staying in his blind spots. The red-haired mage seemed lost in thought, barely paying attention to where he was going.

That made this almost too easy.

Adom crept closer, timing his approach with the natural ebb and flow of foot traffic. A cart full of vegetables rolled between them, providing perfect cover for his final approach. When the cart passed, Adom was close enough to reach out and touch Sam's shoulders.

He waited for the perfect moment—Sam was stepping around a small group of chattering Academy students—and struck.

"BOO!"

Sam jumped about three feet straight up, spinning around mid-air with his hands already weaving the opening gestures of what looked like a very dangerous combat spell. His face went through a rapid succession of expressions: shock, fear, recognition, and then annoyance.

Adom burst out laughing. "It's me! It's me! Don't incinerate me!"

"Adom?" Sam's hands dropped, the half-formed spell dissipating into harmless sparks. "You—" He stopped mid-sentence, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. "Hey."

The laughter died in Adom's throat immediately.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. Sam's response had been all off—too quiet, too subdued. And now that Adom was looking properly, he could see that Sam's eyes were red. Not the red of someone who'd been surprised or startled, but the puffy, irritated red of someone who'd been crying. Recently.

"Were you crying?"

Sam turned his face away immediately, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve in a gesture that was both automatic and futile. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

But Adom was already worrying about it. Sam rarely cried. In all the years they'd known each other, through Academy stress and failed experiments and romantic disasters and the general chaos of growing up, Adom could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Sam actually cry. And never in public.

"Sam." Adom stepped closer, his voice dropping to something more serious. "What's going on?"

Sam tried to hide his face further, angling his body away, but his shoulders were trembling slightly. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible over the street noise around them.

"It's my mother."

This felt like a physical blow. Sam's mother had been in a coma for years now, ever since the magical accident that had nearly killed her when Sam awakened to magic. She'd been stable for so long that Adom had almost... almost forgot.

"What..." Adom's mouth felt dry. "Is she..."

"No. Not yet." Sam's voice cracked on the words.

They stood there in the middle of the busy street, people flowing around them like water around stones. Adom waited, giving his friend the time he needed to find the words. A merchant's cart rumbled past, wheels clattering on cobblestones. Somewhere nearby, Jack was still giving flyers.

Sam took a shuddering breath. "The healers called me in this morning. They said—" He stopped, swallowed hard, tried again. "They said her condition has gotten worse. Her body is... shutting down."

Another pause. Sam was staring at the ground now, unable or unwilling to meet Adom's eyes.

"They don't think she'll live another month."

Chapter 173. Boring

Uncanny.

That was the only word that came to mind as Adom stared at the small boy standing in his hallway. Seeing Bennu in human form was deeply unsettling in a way he hadn't expected.

Even more uncanny was how the transformation had turned out.

"You look almost exactly like me when I was younger," Adom said aloud.

Ada clapped her hands together. "I told him! I said you two look like real brothers now!"

Bennu shifted his weight carefully, still getting used to standing on two legs. "I have been practicing with your appearance for weeks. I thought... I thought it would be easier to blend in if I looked like family." His voice carried the same articulate cadence as always, but coming from a child's throat it sounded strange. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not really," Adom said, though he was still processing the sight. "Just surprising. Very surprising."

"Does this mean I can come on adventures with you now?" Bennu asked, taking a tentative step forward and wobbling slightly. "I could be useful in this form. People would not suspect a phoenix walking beside you."

"Oh! Oh!" Ada bounced on her toes. "And I could come too! We could all go together and—"

"Absolutely not," Adom said immediately. "Neither of you are going anywhere dangerous."

"But Brother," Ada whined, "Bennu learned to be people! That means he's ready for—"

The front door opened, cutting off whatever Ada was about to say.

Maria walked in with several bags of groceries floating behind her in neat formation, her [Levitation] spell keeping them organized and stable. She was humming quietly to herself, looking relaxed after what appeared to be a successful shopping trip.

She took three steps into the hallway, looked up, and froze.

Her eyes moved from Adom to Ada to the unfamiliar boy standing between them. The grocery bags wobbled in the air as her concentration slipped.

"Um," she said slowly. "Who exactly is this?"

This would take a while.

*****

Morning.

The sand was cool beneath Adom and Bennu's bare feet as they walked along the shoreline. Dawn colored the sky in soft pastels, and the beach stretched empty in both directions. Perfect for what they were trying to accomplish.

Bennu took another careful step forward and immediately stumbled, windmilling his arms for balance before falling sideways into the sand.

"This is ridiculous," he said, spitting out grit. "I should be training magic now. It has been three days since I mastered shapeshifting. I do not need to learn how to walk like a toddler."

Adom chuckled and weaved [Levitation], gently lifting Bennu back to his feet. "Come on, try again. This is training."

"This is not training," Bennu protested, brushing sand off his tunic. "This is humiliating."

"No, it really is training." Adom fell into step beside him as they continued down the beach. "You're maintaining this form even in your sleep now. Do you realize what that means?"

Bennu looked at him blankly.

"You're weaving a continuous transformation spell. Constantly. Without break. Even I would have a hard time doing that."

"Really?" Bennu's eyes widened slightly.

"Really. So when you say this isn't training, you're wrong. Just staying in that form is incredibly advanced magic."

Bennu considered this, taking a few more tentative steps. "It does not feel difficult. It is like... like holding water in a cup that is exactly the right size. The water wants to stay in the cup shape, so you just have to make sure the cup does not tip."

Adom nodded, though he didn't pretend to fully understand. Trying to explain innate magical talent was like trying to describe color to someone who'd never seen. You either had the instinct or you didn't.

"The walking will get easier," Adom said instead. "Humans balance differently than phoenixes. We lean forward slightly when we move, and we use our arms for momentum."

He demonstrated, jogging a few steps ahead and then turning to face Bennu.

"See? The forward lean helps carry you into the next step. And watch how I swing my arms."

Bennu tried to copy the movement, managed three wobbly steps, then face-planted into the sand again.

"This is impossible," came his muffled voice.

"Up," Adom said, levitating him again. "Try it slower. Just walking first, not running."

They spent the next twenty minutes working on basic locomotion. Bennu's frustration was obvious, but gradually his steps became more confident. The wobbling decreased. His balance improved.

"Better," Adom said encouragingly. "Now try a light jog."

Bennu attempted to pick up speed and immediately tripped over his own feet.

"Again, why do humans make this look so easy?" he demanded from his position in the sand.

"Because we've been doing it since we were one year old," Adom pointed out. "You've had this form for three days."

"I suppose that is fair." Bennu stood up on his own this time, determination replacing irritation on his face. "Show me the running motion again."

Adom demonstrated, keeping his movements slow and exaggerated so Bennu could see the mechanics. The forward lean, the arm swing, the way each foot landed and pushed off.

Bennu watched intently, then tried again.

This time, he managed a few running steps before losing his balance. Progress.

"Good. Keep at it."

They continued down the beach, Bennu's attempts growing steadily more successful. After what felt like an hour of practice, something clicked. His movements became fluid, natural. He was still concentrating hard, but the awkwardness was gone.

"I think I understand now," Bennu said, jogging beside Adom with only minor wobbles.

"Excellent. Want to try going faster?"

Bennu nodded eagerly.

They picked up the pace. The cool morning air rushed past them as they ran along the water's edge. Bennu's face lit up with delight as spray from the waves splashed over their feet.

He laughed. "The sand feels so different from talons. And the water is cold!"

He began running faster, his earlier clumsiness completely forgotten. His strides lengthened, became more confident. Soon he was moving at a pace that would have been impressive for an adult human, let alone a child.

Adom had to work to keep up.

"Bennu, slow down a bit—"

But Bennu was laughing too hard to hear him. He was running with the same carefree abandon as Ada when she played in the waves, arms spread wide, hair streaming behind him. His feet barely seemed to touch the sand.

Actually, Adom realized with growing amazement, they weren't touching the sand.

Bennu was running on the surface of the water.

Each step landed on the foam of incoming waves, and instead of sinking, his feet found purchase on the liquid surface. He wasn't using magic—at least, not consciously. This was something else entirely.

"Bennu!" Adom called, but his voice was filled with wonder rather than concern.

Bennu finally heard him and glanced back, still running on water like it was solid ground. When he saw Adom's expression, he looked down at his own feet.

"Oh," he said, sounding surprised. "I did not realize..."

The moment he became conscious of what he was doing, he began to sink. But instead of panicking, he simply laughed and bounded back toward shore, each step still impossibly light.

Adom followed, pushing himself to match Bennu's incredible pace. The beach blurred past them, and he found himself grinning with the same infectious joy that seemed to radiate from his young companion.

Then he saw the wings.

They appeared gradually, translucent at first, like heat shimmer. Phoenix wings sprouting from Bennu's shoulder blades, growing more solid with each stride. Bennu didn't seem to notice them materializing.

But Adom did.

And suddenly, he felt something responding within himself. A warmth that started in his chest and spread outward, following pathways through his body that felt both familiar and completely new. The bond between him and Bennu pulsed with shared energy.

Without conscious thought, Adom used his skill [Resonance].

The effect was immediate and overwhelming. He felt phoenix fire course through his veins, felt his human limitations fall away like shed skin. His strides lengthened impossibly, and suddenly he was keeping pace with Bennu effortlessly.

No, more than keeping pace. They were moving together, their steps synchronized, their breathing matched. Two beings sharing one rhythm, one purpose, one joy in the simple act of running faster than physics should have allowed.

Bennu's wings spread wide, catching the dawn light, and he lifted into the air without breaking stride. But instead of flying away, he stayed low, just above Adom's reach.

The [Resonance] skill pulsed with untapped potential. Adom could feel layers of power he hadn't even begun to explore, connections between human magic and phoenix fire that ran deeper than he'd imagined possible.

They ran together along the endless beach, one in the air and one on the ground, both moving far beyond what either should have been capable of alone.

The warmth in Adom's chest intensified, spreading through his shoulders. He felt something pushing against his shoulder blades from the inside, an pressure that was both foreign and oddly familiar.

Then wings erupted from his back.

Not physical wings—these were made of pure flame, translucent and shifting like controlled wildfire. Just like the first time he'd used them when Biggins was watching. They spread wide without his conscious command, catching the morning light and casting dancing shadows on the sand below.

Adom nearly stumbled in surprise. He'd used [Resonance] before, but never like this. Never with such intensity. The skill had always felt like borrowing Bennu's strength.

When had he become so cautious about exploring his own abilities?

The realization that followed was oddly unsettling.

He should have been experimenting with this months ago. By nature, he was drawn to new magical phenomena like a moth to flame. Always had been, even as a child. Show him an unexplained spell effect or an unusual mana signature, and he'd normally drop everything to investigate.

So why had he been treating [Resonance] like an inconvenience to be managed rather than a mystery to be solved?

The answer came to him with uncomfortable clarity. Somewhere along the way, between Council meetings, teacher duties, research deadlines and the weight of literally having the world's fate resting on his shoulders, he'd... stopped being curious. He'd started seeing new discoveries as complications rather than opportunities.

Magic had become work instead of wonder.

He was a Magus, one of ten in the entire Empire. He sat on the Council that advised the Archmage. He published groundbreaking research on runes and other magical concepts. Students hung on his every word in lectures. Colleagues sought his opinion on projects that could reshape magical theory.

And he'd become boring.

Not boring to others, necessarily, but boring to himself. He'd gotten so comfortable in his roles, so focused on managing his responsibilities, that he'd forgotten what it felt like to chase after something simply because it fascinated him.

"Bennu," he called out, his voice carrying easily over the sound of waves. "Want to go higher?"

Bennu's laughter was bright with delight. "You want to fly? This is excellent! Yes, let us see how high we can go!"

Adom had no idea how to properly fly with wings made of fire, but [Resonance] seemed to handle the mechanics for him. The wings beat once, twice, and suddenly he was airborne, rising to match Bennu's altitude with an ease that should have been impossible.

The beach fell away beneath them as they climbed higher into the dawn sky. For the first time in months, maybe years, Adom felt like he was doing something purely because he wanted to understand it. Not because it advanced his research goals or fulfilled his duties or served some greater purpose.

Just because it was interesting.

[Resonance] worked through his body, making changes he was only beginning to comprehend. His Axis core felt different—more refined, more responsive. Like the skill was temporarily evolving his magical foundation into something more advanced.

Spells formed in his mind almost as quickly as he could think them. He tried some, and [Levitation] became effortless. [Light] responded before he even finished the mental command. Magic flowed through him with none of the careful precision he usually required for complex workings.

And then he heard something.

Whispers.

Adom stopped mid-flight, his fire wings keeping him suspended as he looked around wildly. The voices were right there, as close as if someone were speaking directly into his ear, yet he could see nothing but empty sky and Bennu climbing steadily above him.

The whispers weren't coming from outside. They were in his head. A language with no words he recognized, yet somehow achingly familiar, like a half-remembered lullaby from childhood.

Bennu, he called mentally through their bond. Did you hear that?

The phoenix stopped his ascent, wings beating to maintain position as he looked down at Adom with concern. "Hear what? You stopped moving. Are you well?"

Adom strained to listen, but the voices had faded the moment [Resonance] lessened its intensity. "Never mind. Keep going up."

He pushed for more power into the skill, feeling his core respond with that strange evolutionary leap. The fire wings burned brighter, and immediately the whispers returned, stronger now. Multiple voices speaking in overlapping cadences, creating complex harmonies that seemed to bypass his ears entirely and speak directly to something deeper.

Bennu continued climbing, oblivious, while Adom flew beneath him and tried to make sense of what he was experiencing. The voices weren't threatening. If anything, they felt... welcoming? Like they'd been waiting for him to listen properly.

He tested his theory, allowing [Resonance] to fade slightly. The whispers dimmed. He intensified the skill again, and they returned with renewed clarity.

Whatever this was, it was tied directly to his use of [Resonance]. And Bennu couldn't hear them at all.

The voices grew more insistent as they climbed higher, speaking faster, layering meaning he couldn't quite grasp. But there was something hauntingly familiar about the cadence, the rhythm of the alien speech. Where had he heard something like this before?

Then it hit him.

The witch. During their battle in the fae realm, when they'd played that deadly game of magical words. She'd mentioned something about the original form of magic, spoken in tones that carried the same otherworldly resonance he was hearing now.

Had she been hearing these same voices?

There had always been fringe theories about mana having some form of consciousness. Academic papers he'd read years ago suggesting that magic obeyed those it had affinity with because it chose to, not because of any mechanical law. Most scholars dismissed such ideas as mystical nonsense.

But if mana was semi-sentient, if it could communicate with those it favored...

The implications were staggering. And launching himself into an entirely new field of magical research when he already had students depending on him, Council meetings to attend, natural rune experiments to document, and the small matter of preventing the world's destruction seemed like exactly the kind of thing the old him would have done without hesitation.

The voices grew stronger the higher they climbed, more urgent. Not threatening, but demanding attention. Like they had something important to say and were frustrated by his inability to understand.

Adom focused on them, trying to parse meaning from the alien harmonies while maintaining his altitude. The language felt ancient. Definitely predated human speech entirely, maybe even leviathans?

But the more he listened, the more [Resonance] seemed to respond. His magical awareness expanded beyond anything he'd experienced, even during his most intensive research sessions. The voices layered and shifted, building toward something that felt almost like...

And for just a moment, he thought he caught something familiar in the incomprehensible whispers.

Something that sounded almost like his own name.

The voices grew louder.

What had started as whispers became a steady murmur, then a chorus. The warmth between Adom's shoulder blades intensified with each passing moment, spreading outward like spilled ink on parchment.

At first, it was merely uncomfortable. Then it became hot. Then it began to burn.

Adom gritted his teeth and kept flying, fascinated despite the growing discomfort. This was clearly connected to [Resonance], and he'd spent too many months avoiding investigation to stop now just because of a little pain.

But the burning intensified. The voices grew from a chorus to a cacophony, overlapping and building until they filled his skull with alien harmonies that made his vision blur.

The warmth became heat. The heat became fire. And suddenly it felt like someone was pressing a red-hot brand directly against his spine.

"Bennu!" he called out, his voice strained. "Come down. Now."

The phoenix wheeled around immediately, concern written across his young features. "What is wrong?"

Adom couldn't answer. The pain was spreading across his back like lightning, following pathways that felt disturbingly familiar. Like rune patterns being carved into his flesh with molten metal.

He began to descend rapidly, [Resonance] flickering as his concentration broke. The fire wings sputtered and disappeared entirely, leaving him falling toward the beach with only hastily weaved [Levitation] to slow his descent.

Bennu dove after him, wings folded for speed.

They hit the sand hard, Adom rolling and immediately trying to reach behind himself to claw at whatever was burning him. But he couldn't reach the spot between his shoulder blades where the pain was centered, couldn't do anything but writhe in the sand while the voices screamed in his head.

"Take off my shirt," he gasped, the words barely audible over the alien chorus that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. "Something's burning. Take it off."

Bennu's hands shook as he pulled at Adom's tunic, but the fabric came away easily. Adom rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face into the cool sand while the voices reached a crescendo that made his teeth ache.

"WHAT DO YOU SEE?" he shouted, hoping Bennu could hear him over the noise that only existed in his own head.

But even as he spoke, the voices began to dim. Slowly, gradually, like a flame being starved of air. As they faded, so did the burning sensation across his back. The pain receded from molten agony to sharp heat to mere warmth.

Adom became aware of his own breathing again. His heart hammering against his ribs. The sound of waves washing against the shore.

And Bennu crying.

"Are you alright? Are you alright? Please be alright, I do not know what to do if you are not alright—"

"Bennu," Adom croaked, lifting his head from the sand. His throat felt raw, like he'd been screaming. Maybe he had been. "Yes, I'm alright. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

He pushed himself up to his knees, wincing at the residual soreness across his back. "Is there anything there? Any burn marks or scarring? Something was definitely burning."

Bennu wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and leaned closer to examine Adom's back. His intake of breath was sharp and surprised.

"It... it looks like a rune."

"What?"

"There is a rune on your back. Or rather, an intricate assembly of runes. They are glowing very faintly, like embers."

Adom twisted around, trying to see what Bennu was describing, but the angle was impossible. "Are you sure? Not just irritated skin or—"

"I am certain. It is definitely runic. Very complex. More complex than anything I have seen before, even in your research notes."

The implications hit Adom like a physical blow. He'd been studying natural runes for years, documenting how they appeared. But they were magical phenomena, formed by ambient mana interacting with physical matter over long periods.

They rarely appeared on people. He'd only seen it once before—Eren had one in exactly the same location, between his shoulder blades. Eren hadn't known how he'd gotten his either, just that it had appeared one day during his infancy.

"Describe them," Adom said quietly.

"They are arranged in a spiral pattern, centered between your shoulder blades. The lines are very fine, almost like calligraphy. They pulse slightly with each heartbeat."

Huh.

A familiar text appeared in his vision.

[Resonance has reached Level 2!]