CHAPTER 59: THE GAMBLE

The chair creaked as I leaned back, the red sleeve draping carelessly off its arm. The poker chip spun across my knuckles, a little flicker of motion that drew more eyes than I cared to count.

The dealer’s gaze darted to me, then back to his cards. He tried to hide it, but I saw the sweat darkening the edge of his collar.

Fear was as useful a currency as gold in a place like this.

The table was full — a merchant with rings stacked so thick his fingers looked swollen, a young noble already drunk enough that his smile sagged, a woman in black silk whose eyes tracked every movement like a hawk sizing its prey.

Predators. Prey. The line between them blurred with every hand dealt.

"Buy in?" the dealer asked, voice clipped, trying to keep control of the room.

I let the silence drag until his knuckles whitened against the deck. Then I tossed a pouch onto the felt. The weight landed with a dull, satisfying thud.

The merchant’s brows lifted. The noble straightened, sobered by the sound. Even the woman in silk’s lips curved faintly, just a fraction.

"Plenty," I said, my altered voice curling smooth and low. "Enough to play. Enough to win."

The dealer swallowed and nodded. Chips were slid across to me, neat little towers of ivory and gold.

I didn’t even look at them.

Instead, I tapped the mask’s painted grin with one gloved finger, leaned forward, and let the chip in my hand spin onto the table. It landed flat, dancing once before stilling.

"Let’s begin."

The first hand was easy. Too easy. The noble across from me leaned in too far, his cards practically reflected in his wineglass.

He was a total amateur. His coin pile melted away within minutes.

The merchant was trickier. He played like a man who thought his wealth made him untouchable.

Always betting heavily, trying to force the table into submission.

But wealth makes you predictable. It blinds you to patience. I let him believe he was cornering me, losing a little here, folding a little there. All the while, I was watching and measuring him.

But the silk-clad woman was the real danger. She hadn’t spoken a word, but her eyes were sharp and calculating.

They never stopped moving. Every twitch of my fingers, every tilt of my head, I could feel her weighing and testing me.

’Try all you want.’

The cards came, the bets rose, and the table thinned.

The noble excused himself before he could lose his family estate, stumbling away red-faced. The merchant cursed and slammed the felt, stripped down to half his rings.

And still I stayed. Calm. Steady. Mask unchanging.

I didn’t need to win every hand. I just needed to win the ones that mattered.

Another deal. Another bet. The pile before me grew, higher and higher, until it was a small monument of ivory and gold.

The woman in silk finally leaned forward, resting her chin on her lace-gloved hand. Her smile was faint, knowing.

"You play boldly for a stranger," she said. Her voice was smooth, carrying just enough edge to suggest that boldness was a dangerous thing here.

I let the chip spin across my fingers again, catching it between two knuckles.

"Boldness," I said, my voice low enough that the whole table leaned in, "is only dangerous if you can’t back it up."

The grin painted on my mask never changed.

But behind it, I was smiling for real.

Because the night was still young. And the Jester had only just begun.

***

The table emptied until only the two of us remained.

The dealer cleared the cards away, and a new game was set up.

The game was simple to learn, but hard to win. That was what made it dangerous.

Two cups sat between us. One was filled with a mix of smooth stones — black and white.

Black meant death. White meant life. The second cup was empty, waiting like an open grave.

The rules were this: one player drew a stone from the first cup, kept it hidden in their hand, and then slipped it beneath the empty cup.

The other player had to guess the stone’s color without ever seeing it. Guess right, you survived the round. Guess wrong, you lost a point.

Three losses meant defeat.

It was a game of reading people, not stones. A game where silence, breathing, and the twitch of an eye were louder than words. The stones were only props. The lies were the real weapons.

The woman smiled as she drew first. Her hand dipped into the cup, fingers brushing the stones like she was picking jewelry.

When she hid her choice under the empty cup, she tapped her nails once against the wood. A little rhythm. A tell — or bait for me to think it was a tell.

Her eyes flicked to mine, playful and daring, as if she already had the round in her pocket.

"Black," I said.

She lifted the cup, revealing a white stone.

Her laugh rang sharp, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. "First point to me."

I only leaned back. "One to zero. Beginner’s luck."

When my turn came, I moved slowly, almost lazily.

I let her see how relaxed I was, how little I cared. My fingers dipped into the stone cup, but I gave her nothing — no hesitation, no flourish. Just silence.

I slid the stone under the cup, folded my arms, and waited.

She stared hard, trying to pierce me. Her lips parted slightly, her breath caught. A full ten seconds passed. Then she said, "White."

I raised the cup.

It was Black.

Her smile faltered. A tiny crack, quickly covered. But I saw it.

"One to one," I said.

That was the heart of the game. Not the stones, not the cups, but the moment between them — when one person tried to pry open another’s mind with nothing but instinct.

The trick wasn’t constant bluffing. Bluffing all the time made you obvious. The real weapon was rhythm.

Let her think she was learning my pattern. Let her grow confident. Then, when she thought she had me mapped out, flip the board.

The second round dragged on longer. She leaned forward, her chin resting on the back of her hand.

Every detail of me was under a microscope — my breathing, my posture, the faintest flick of my gaze.

When she finally guessed "Black," I lifted the cup to reveal another black stone.

Two to one. Her favor.

Her grin widened. A predator’s grin. She thought she had found my rhythm.

I let her believe it.

The next round, I dropped a stone beneath the cup without ceremony. She studied me for a long moment, then smirked. "White this time."

I raised the cup.

It was black again.

Her smirk stiffened into something more brittle.

Two to two.

By then, the casino had grown quiet around us.

Chairs scraped closer. Tankards clinked, then stilled. Even the bard in the corner had lowered his lute, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

It wasn’t just a game anymore. It was war, played with silence and nerve.

The final round was hers to draw.

Her fingers trembled, just faintly, as she dipped into the cup. I noticed the tremor. She noticed that I noticed. Then she smiled wider, hiding behind it.

When she placed the stone beneath the cup, her gaze never left mine. It was a challenge. A taunt. Read me if you can.

She wanted me to overthink. To see the trembling as a bluff. To question myself until the guess ate me alive.

I exhaled slowly. "Black."

For the first time, her confidence wavered. Just for a heartbeat. Then she pulled the cup away.

Black.

Her face broke first — just a flicker, but enough.

"Three to two," I said softly. My voice carried in the silence, sharp as a blade. "My win."

The crowd stirred, muttering. A few men clapped, a woman whistled low. The tension broke like glass.

She leaned back, her smile painted back on, but I could see the fire in her eyes. The kind that said she would remember this. That losing wasn’t in her nature.

And that was the beauty of the game. Winning was never about the stones. It was about leaving the other person convinced you had been inside their head the entire time.

And tonight, I had been.

I rose, sweeping the chips into a pouch with the careless grace of a man taking nothing more serious than a dance. The mask’s grin caught the lamplight as I tipped my head to her.

"Don’t worry," I said, voice curling smooth and low. "Everyone loses to me the first time. The trick is realizing there’s never a second."

A ripple of uneasy laughter spread through the crowd.

I flicked a chip into the air, let it spin once, and caught it between two fingers. Then I leaned close enough for only her to hear.

"You read the stone," I whispered. "I read you."

When I straightened, the painted grin was still the same. But beneath it, I was already smiling for real.