Raiten:

  I stare at my distorted reflection in the glass of the vial, illuminated by orange light. My face looks like a fragmented daemon surrounded by hellfire.

  “The game works like this,” Saegor begins, snapping me out of my trance. He urges us to come closer, his hands now shaking two cups put together—like one of those bartenders in the stories I used to read. The dice flounder within like cackling stones.

  He stops shaking and places the top cup down.

  “We each have five dice. All the dice are six-sided. Now, we’ll all give our dice a good shake and press them down with a cup. The game begins at that moment. We’ll go in a circle, starting with me,” he says. Kiren nods enthusiastically. As if this is a game—it is a game dumbass. I stifle a chuckle as Saegor rolls on.

  “We can all peek at the dice under our cups and see what the numbers are. Then, it's a matter of going around and calling out how much of a specific number exists between all of us. For example, if I have three dice that display the number 4, then I might say that between all of us, we at least have five dice with the number 4.”

  “So it’s a guess?” I ask.

  “A gamble, really. A good one at that. There’s good odds that two of you lot have the dice I called for.”

  “And… what happens if you’re wrong?” Kiren ventures.

  “That’s the great thing—you’re allowed to be wrong. So long as nobody calls you out on it. But, if they do—you’ll have to drink one of the vials.”

  He picks up the green glass by its wooden cork and shakes it. The liquid tinkles.

  “Is it poison?” I ask. Zyla scoffs.

  “No, no. It's what you want, Raiten. These are temporary truth serums.”

  What? “How’s that even possible?”

  The one-eyed mancer shrugs. “Magicks. Of my specialty. Not fully developed unfortunately—they only work for thirty seconds. However, once someone drinks from the vial, they will be compelled to answer any question that comes their way. With the truth, of course.”

  Well, that makes things a whole lot easier. With this, I can finally get some answers. But thirty seconds isn’t a long time. You’ll have to craft your questions carefully—if I can even manage to call Saegor out that is. The game is one of bluffing. And numbers.

  Two things I’m not particularly good at.

  As Saegor laughs at something Kiren asked and Zyla hunches further in, her face pensive with calculation, I too begin to wonder how to tactically approach this game.

  “Alright then,” Saegor says. “The best way to learn is to play. So, let’s start rolling the dice, shall we?”

  …

  Sorina:

  “No.”

  “Well, that was fast. You haven’t even considered—”

  “Yes, I have. Whatever you’re about to say, I’ve considered all the possible advantages,” Pamela says. “And I still refuse.”

  Stubborn bit—I sigh. Try keeping my composure.

  “You could make amends—”

  “And what will they demand in return?”

  “For you to leave them alone! Is that so hard?”

  Pamela stands and picks up the crown. It is embossed with gems that gleam in the lamplight.

  She slides the crown across the table.

  “Pick it up. Feel its weight.”

  She wants to play games. Fine. We can play.

  I slide my dagger to her. “You’ve never held a weapon, have you? Never fought your own war? Well, feel the tip of it. See how sharp it is.”

  Scowling, she opens her mouth—clamps it shut and looks at the curved dagger.

  I too gaze upon the crown. It has been passed on for generations. And yet… never have I wanted it. Not when I was a Catolican princess and certainly not now. Father always used to covet it though. He wanted me to reach for the heavens. So, he was very disappointed when I turned out to be a spoiled brat who cared for nothing besides pranks, fashion, food, and gossip.

  Probably why he sent me away.

  I pick up the crown and hang it along my arm. It is heavy, physically speaking. Full gold.

  A soft sucking sound draws my attention and I see Pamela put a bloody thumb to her lips.

  So she did touch the tip then.

  “I understand where you are coming from Pamela. Truly. But, this war… you need to have the Free Villages on your side. They can provide you numbers, bases, positions. You know this. And they’ll ask for an official break—a declaration of their freedom from Catolica. It's not as if our kingdom has tried to re-annex them.”

  “We’ve been busy,” Pamela snorts. “Busy cleaning up the mess they left behind. After all, civil war is a hard thing to recover from.” She holds the dagger high now and turns it in the lamplight. “I see why you like these.”

  “Then I’ll throw one of them in with my offer too,” I chuckle. She actually laughs at that. But it quickly fades as she sets the dagger down.

  “You don’t understand actually, Sorina. It's not just about the lingering resentment. Or the hate. There’s… there’s more to it.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Then help me understand,” I say, walking to her now. My gait slows though as hesitation peeks through my guise—before I shove it down and go in.

  “We were friends once,” I murmur.

  “I wouldn’t have called us friends. More like acquaintances.”

  I smile at that, but she doesn’t know why. Nor could she. For she sent the reason why away on some suicide mission. That bitterness lingers still, but I must also choke it down.

  “Remember when we were at the gardens and one of the princes tried courting you.”

  A sly smile creeps onto Pamela’s face. “Biern. Thought that muscles made the man, not character.”

  “I blew wind up his ass and sent him running down the halls looking for a chamber pot.”

  “And then later, when we had an argument about whether I could become queen, you did the same to me.” Shit. Forgot about that.

  “Well, it's the thought that counts right?”

  “It really isn’t. You were quite the bitch.”

  “Were?” I ask, hoping.

  “Still are.”

  I sigh. This is going nowhere. Your tactic must change.

  I have to be genuine. Truly genuine. I place the crown upon her head reverently. She stiffens as I bow down, fully, properly, and with absolute contrition.

  “Well you did become queen, Pamela. Despite what I said. And look at me? Just like you said, I’m mayor of the shithole meadows. But it's my shithole. My people. And they will suffer if you don’t help us. Moreover, Catolica will suffer if we don’t help you.”

  Pamela hesitates. She looks so baffled, so unsure of what to make of…this. I can see the calculation behind her eyes—her trying to decide whether this is some sort of trick or joke.

  Finally, her mask slips. Yet, she solemnly shakes her head.

  “I would if I could. But I’m not in a position to.” She turns to walk away.

  I raise my head. “What does that even mean? Is it the duke? Is that the reason why everyone is so afraid of—”

  “Not Rothbore, no. He’s a part of the problem. But it's much more than that.”

  “How so?”

  “How else?” she turns, hand grazing along the edge of the table. Her thumb still bleeds though and her royal crimson trails along the wood. She holds the red finger up now and turns it to me. The smear of it travels down the thumbprint; however, the edges of her thumb, including the nail, drip bloody droplets along the floor. Pamela seems so utterly fascinated by the sight. It’s something she’s probably not used to seeing.

  “Pride.”

  …

  Raiten:

  The trickling of water from a nearby stream plays background to our symphony of dice-shaking. We simultaneously place the cups down.

  I peek into mine: two 1s, one 5, one 4, two 3s. No 2s and 6s. So my bets will hedge on 3s and 1s.

  I try gleaning something from the faces of the others. Zyla is stone cold. Saegor adopts his usual flare of giddy morbidity. And Kiren… Kiren is confused.

  Maybe his hand is weird then. We’ll see.

  The shark scratches his hammerhead with a fin while observing us.

  “Who starts?” he asks.

  “Its the first game. So, I’ll just start to ease us in,” Saegor says. He rattles his fingers one by one against the cup. “One 1.”

  Zyla scoffs. “We’re starting that low?”

  “I like taking my time.”

  “Well I don’t. Five 2s.”

  Kiren’s next. He scratches his head and takes another look under his cup. Keeps looking.

  “The numbers won’t change just by you staring at them boy,” Saegor says.

  Kiren gulps hard. Then, he hesitantly spouts, “Five 1s?”

  Saegor shakes his head. “Can’t stay the same if you're going down a dice number. You can say six 1s or you can say five 3s.”

  “I understand. Uh… Six 1s.”

  Onto me then. Based on what bets have been made, I’m assuming Zyla has a few 2s. I don’t think all five of her dice are 2s though. So she’s betting the rest of us have maybe… anywhere between 1-3? Who knows? Kiren is too nervous. Something’s off about his hand. Maybe he does have five 1s—though that would make him extremely unlucky. As for Saegor: I can’t parse anything from his bet. He played it smart.

  “You don’t have all night Raiten,” Saegor urges. “Make a move.”

  I can feed into Kiren’s game.

  “Seven 1’s.”

  Saegor doesn’t hesitate. “Eight.”

  But Zyla does hesitate. Eight is likely. Nine 1s is probably unlikely. So she has to make a choice.

  Her jaw works as she thinks.

  “Tick tock bitch,” Umbrahorn whispers next to me, and I smile despite myself.

  “Nine 1s.”

  “Bullshit,” Kiren calls.

  “So… now what?” I ask, turning to Saegor.

  He doesn’t answer. Rather, he reveals his dice. Two 1s. Two 5s. One 6.

  Zyla goes next: three 2s, as I expected. And also one 1, along with one three.

  Kiren doesn’t reveal for some reason. He urges me to.

  With my ones, we have a total of five.

  Everyone stares at Kiren.

  He sighs and opens the cup.

  Not a single one. I hang my mouth agape in astonishment. He gives a wide smile. “Got you, didn’t I?”

  “I didn’t you could lie like that boy,” Saegor chuckles.

  “I like these games. I used to play them a lot before… well I just used to play them a lot.”

  Zyla quietly picks up one of her two vials and stares at it for a long moment.

  “Who asks the questions?” I prod.

  “The one who calls bullshit,” Saegor answers, though he too is watching Zyla carefully now.

  She sighs and turns to her brother. “Give me an easy one.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well,” she says as she uncorks the bottle. “Bottoms up.”

  The liquid is more viscous than water and it slithers down her gullet. Her face contorts—eyes go wide and bug-like.

  Zyla wipes her mouth clean and tosses the vial in the firepit, which smolders against the glass. She bumps her chest a few times for good measure.

  Kiren leans over and wraps his hands, pressing his fingers up to bisect his nose.

  Why’s he getting so into it? He’s just gonna give her an easy out—

  “Why do you hate Raiten so much?”

  Son of a bitch—another smile splits my face. Kiren is full of surprises today.

  Zyla’s face visibly turns into that of she-demon. The rage is so instantaneous and fierce that for a moment, I think it might even surpass my own.

  But that’s a stupid worry. Nothing can do that.

  Still, when she levels that gaze at me, I tense.

  Her lips tremble. Her teeth chatter. She’s trying to hold it back.

  “Don’t fight it Zyla, it's going to come out anyways,” Saegor says.

  She heeds his warning, taking a deep breath in.

  And then, she begins spinning her tale.