The slam of fist on wood was loud enough to pull most of the tavern's patrons out of their own conversations—if only for a moment.
"You fucking cheat! That's six games in a row!" the loser exploded.
"Easy, easy, Dirk," drawled the man opposite him, legs thrown up on the table in lazy defiance. His eyes wandered along the ceiling as he shuffled the deck. "You knew exactly how much you were putting down. If you've got complaints, take them up with Seraphel… and with yourself, obviously."
"My complaint is with you, bastard! In a fair game no one loses six times in a row without a single win back!" Dirk leaned over the table as if there were any chance his shouting hadn't been heard already.
"Dirk…" the shuffling man sighed, "you throw rules around like you were the one who wrote them."
"Don't tell me you wrote them," Dirk roared, drawing even more attention with another thunderous blow to the table. "Hand over my coin, or start getting used to picking your teeth up off the floor."
"I've got a better idea. How about—" the man leaned forward eagerly, gaze locking onto Dirk's with sudden intensity "—we play one more, double or nothing?"
Dirk hesitated. He didn't have anything left.
Then the thought of finally getting back at this smug bastard hit him harder than the ale had. No one could lose six times in a row. That was a rule—an unwritten one, sure, but only because Seraphel had never let anyone get that far before. The rule probably kicked in at seven. Yeah. Definitely seven. Just imagine the satisfaction of wiping that stupid little smirk off his face…
"If I win, I take everything," Dirk said slowly. "And if I lose?"
"Simple." The man still hadn't broken eye contact. "If you lose, you leave me alone."
"Deal," Dirk snapped without a second's doubt, drumming his fists on the table. "Deal the cards, Radion."
The man finally leaned back and broke their gaze.
"We're going to play something else," he said, cards whispering between his fingers as he shuffled before Dirk could cut in. "You'll draw one card, and I'll guess which one it is. Fortune's on your side."
Dirk glanced around the tavern as if searching for a hidden hook in the offer. Dozens of eyes were on their table. He assumed it was because of his yelling and, more than anything, the repeated hammering of his fists on the wood—but despite his confidence, a knot of unease tightened in his gut.
He searched the faces watching them, looking for anyone who might try to interfere, anyone who might give Radion a signal about which card he picked. He couldn't trust a single look—whether it belonged to Old Bill swaying on his stool like it was rolling on ocean waves, or any of the newcomers who always seemed to flood in at the end of the week.
A thousand thoughts swirled through his head when Radion's voice cut through the drunken din like a knife.
"If you're looking for the door, dear Dirk, it's directly behind you," he went on, still amused, before Dirk could answer. "And if you're looking for someone to drag you out of this, well… you know where the door is."
"Just give me the damn cards," Dirk snapped, as if jolted out of a trance. Now fully focused on the supposed cheat, he barely noticed Radion's eyes drifting lazily over the gathered patrons, momentarily more entertained by the spectacle than the wager itself. "You're not going to cheat fate, Radion."
Still not looking at him, Radion fanned the deck out in a smooth, almost mechanical motion—practiced, yet fluid. More and more customers turned their attention to the bet; some leaned in close, others twisted around in their seats just to catch a glimpse of the loudest argument in the room.
Dirk's hand darted back and forth along the spread cards, fingers hovering over one, then another, then another.
He definitely planted this one. That one he'll remember. The middle one's calling me…
Radion's focused stare slowly turned bored, and when his blue eyes caught Dirk's muddy brown ones again, the gambler's train of thought was cut off as cleanly as if someone had taken a knife to it.
The instant Dirk grabbed his card, it felt as if the entire tavern held its breath. Maybe that was just his imagination. Maybe it was the thrill of the coming triumph. Grinning wide, with satisfaction already written across his face, he pulled the card to his chest, lifted it as high as he could, and only then peeled it away just enough to see what he'd drawn.
"What the…?" he muttered, frowning. "That's not a face card, it's a—what is this, a rune?"
"Exactly," Radion said, suddenly interested again. His boots landed back on the floor with a soft thud. "And if I remember correctly…"
He pointed at the card in Dirk's hand. A small, almost lazy motion of his outstretched fingers was all it took for the rune on the card to flare with light.
Dirk didn't even manage a word of surprise before a blast threw him several meters back. Every eye in the room snapped toward the players, but the only sound anyone could hear was the echo of the detonation, still ringing in the ears of those closest to the table.
"…I remember correctly," Radion finished, satisfied.
No one's ears rang quite like Dirk's, though.
He couldn't trust his eyes. The world was a blur. He tried to push himself up by reflex, but it felt as hard as winning anything tonight. Luckily, his futile effort was interrupted by another card landing beside him—the same symbol glowing on its face.
Light. Another thunderclap.
This time the blast hurled him clean through the already open door.
The silence that followed could have been cut with a knife. Radion's stupid little grin and arrogantly raised chin didn't falter, but with every passing heartbeat they felt more and more like a mask.
"Well, there goes the loudmouth," Old Bill slurred from his stool, barely conscious.
At the old man's words, the tavern burst back to life—cheers, whoops, and plain drunken yelling. "Again!" someone shouted from the bar. "Blast that one too!" Another table started flinging cards at each other in a clumsy imitation of Radion's trick, half mockery, half applause.
Radion let out a quiet breath of relief and started gathering his winnings. Money earned, consequences dodged. Now all that was left was to find a bed and—
A hand landed on the table in front of him. Firm, but calm. It stopped him mid-rise.
It belonged to a hooded man who, as Radion looked up, pushed his hood back. He was middle-aged, with a warm smile and eyes that had clearly seen far more than his only-just-graying hair would suggest.
"I have a job offer for you," the man began, his voice clear, steady, and full of authority. He finished the thought as he sat in the empty chair opposite. "If you don't mind, I'd rather discuss the details right here."
"I don't take jobs," Radion replied, studying the stranger with open curiosity. "You've got me confused with someone else."
"Radion Frey, I assume," the man said, propping his chin on the back of his hand. "Twenty-four years old. Born and raised in Agra. Currently unemployed. Two years at the Ledger—dropped out. Not registered with the Consortium." One brow lifted a hair. "So far, so good?"
"Whether it is or not," Radion leaned back in his chair, "your informants should also have told you I don't take jobs."
"But you do take bets, don't you?"
A flicker of emotion crossed Radion's face. His eyes searched for an exit, but the stranger's chair blocked his clean path away from the table. More importantly, the idea of playing against someone who wasn't just another Dirk lit a familiar spark in his chest.
He wasn't sure if his hesitation was really that obvious, or if it was just the man's expertise at reading people, but it didn't take long for that reluctance to be used against him.
"Let's make an agreement," the man said, laying a heavy leather purse on the table. He tapped it with one finger. "If you win, this entire purse of denars is yours. From what I've heard, it's more than you've made in the last few months combined."
"Is there anything you don't know about me?" Radion rolled his eyes.
"If I win," the man continued with a warm smile, ignoring the jab, "you listen to my offer—and you accept it."
"Deal." Radion's gaze hardened, fixed directly on his challenger. "What are we playing?"
"Blackjack," the man replied, at last settling comfortably into the chair. The choice of game sent a jolt of excitement through Radion. He could almost feel the weight of that purse already hanging from his belt.
"I hope they've told you I don't lose at blackjack," he said, shuffling the deck between his fingers.
"Relax," the man said smoothly. "Neither do I."
Radion set the deck down on the table. Maybe it was the thought of actually losing—of losing this bet—but for a fraction of a second the world felt quieter than it should have. The tavern noise thinned to a dull hum, as if wrapped in cotton.
He forced the feeling away. No use getting spooked now. Confident as ever, he dealt the first round.
Two cards each.
The stranger's cards: a ten and a king.
Radion's: a queen and a nine.
"Twenty for you, nineteen for me," Radion summed up under his breath.
"I'll stand," the man said at once, the moment Radion's second card turned over.
"Hardly any chance of an ace," Radion muttered, eyeing his own total. "But just as little chance of a two."
He took a card anyway. It was habit—pride more than reason. The card hit the felt. Too high. He didn't bother to say the number out loud.
The pot went to the stranger.
"Don't worry," the man said calmly. "Let's play to five. Give yourself time to warm up."
"Let's make it three," Radion shot back, already dealing the second round.
This time Radion drew twenty again. The stranger had sixteen.
"Hit me," the man said.
"On sixteen? Bold," Radion commented, but the sarcasm stung him more than his opponent when the next card slid free—a five.
"…on sixteen," the winner confirmed, settling his chin back on his hand.
Silence settled between them for a heartbeat.
"What's your name?" Radion finally asked, masking his unease with curiosity.
"Thornheaven. Why are you asking only now?"
Radion raised a brow, studying him more closely.
"That Thornheaven?"
"It's possible," the man allowed, amused.
"Good," Radion said, feeling his fighting spirit return. "Now I know who to curse when I lose."
Thornheaven let out a low, genuine chuckle.
This time luck appeared to side with Radion. He drew twenty yet again; Thornheaven showed twelve. No real need to think.
"I stand," Radion said, leaning back with a proud grin.
"As you should," Thornheaven replied, taking one more card. "Though in our current situation, even that won't be enough to beat me in a game to three."
He turned his card over. A nine. Twenty-one.
Radion's thoughts wouldn't settle. Elbows braced on the table, his face resting in his hands, he stared at the deck in front of him and tried to rationalize the loss. He barely heard the tavern now—if there were any shouting or banging nearby, it was nothing compared to the uproar of a blast or a brawl. A quiet conversation between two men at a corner table drew no attention at all.
Good.
Three in a row. That's new. Maybe I really should start cheating. And why the hell did I insist on playing to three? If we'd gone to five, I'd have had a chance to bounce back.
"I'm very glad we've reached an understanding, Radion," Thornheaven said, entirely unsurprised by the outcome. "From this moment on, you'll address me as sir, boss, teacher, or mentor. We'll get something to eat, and then head out to your new base of operations."
"And the job?" Radion blinked himself back to the moment. "What exactly is it you want me to do?"
"I need your help," Thornheaven said, smiling as if discussing the weather, "to kill my brother and topple the Empire."