The Devil’s Wager

The storm was over, but the night was still heavy with the smell of rain and something heavier, something as thick in the air as a warning.

Elias and Selene ran through the streets of Hollow's Bend, splashing through muddy puddles in the shallows, their breath vapor in the brisk air.

The spot on Elias's neck where the Collector had touched him still throbbed, a ghostly pressure sending a shudder through him.

He'd brushed death several times, more times than he wanted to count, but this was something new. This wasn't just death.

This was erasure.

And now Selene had been marked as well.

He didn't like the sound of that.

He watched her as they walked, the way her shoulders were back, the way her fingers twitched just above her dagger. She was calm and collected, but Elias knew her too well to miss the tension underneath.

Time was running out for them.

"You said Alistair had contacts," Elias said under his breath. "Where do we start?"

Selene paused before answering. Then: "The Painted Mare."

Elias let out a slow breath. "Of course."

The Painted Mare was where whispered deals came to die. A gambling den concealed under the genteel appearance of a tailor's shop, where fortunes were gained, squandered, and filched. It was the kind of place where people like Alistair flourished.

Selene took charge, guiding them through the back alleys before stopping in front of the small, unpretentious storefront. The sign above the door said Madame Finch's Fine Tailoring, but the real action took place in the basement below.

Selene knocked twice. A pause. Then once more.

The door cracked open just far enough for a pair of dark, suspicious eyes to gaze out.

"Closed," grumbled a hoarse voice.

Selene didn't hesitate. Tell Finch we're here on business."

The man on the other side of the door scowled. "You got a name?"

Elias walked in, giving his classic smirk. "Elias Thorne."

The man blinked. Recognition flashed across the man's face. Confusion? But then, just like that, it disappeared.

No recognition.

Elias's stomach twisted.

Selene must have spotted it as well because her hand casually slid closer to her belt, fingers dancing against the hilt of her dagger.

The man frowned harder. "Don't know you."

He started to shut the door.

Selene moved fast. She stuck her boot in the gap, yanked on the man's collar, and pulled.

The door swung open, and before the man could protest, she slammed him up against the wall.

"We do not have time for this," she said, voice low and hard with steel. "We're looking for Alistair."

The man's breath hitched. "Alistair?"

Elias leaned in, nonchalant. "Yeah. About yay high, smarmiest little fucker I ever saw, and owes me a damned explanation.'

The man gulped, eyes flicking between them. "He isn't here."

Selene's grip tightened. "But you know where he is."

A flicker of hesitation. Then, at last, the man grunted. "Check the back room. Finch might know something."

Selene let him go and took a step back.

The man glared and rubbed his throat. "You could've just asked."

Elias grinned. "Yeah, but this was quicker."

The actual entrance to the Painted Mare was a narrow staircase concealed behind a false wall in the tailor shop. The dive was dimly lit and thick with cigar smoke and the scent of spilled whiskey.

Elias sensed it as soon as they entered.

The weight of eyes.

Men leaning over poker tables, dice rolling across wood. Silk-clad women lounged against the bar and gazed over their cocktails with veiled interest. Deals were murmured in the room, whispers of coin and of secrets.

But when Elias and Selene walked through the door, the energy changed.

A few heads turned. Conversations stuttered.

Elias sensed it as a change in the wind; something wasn't right.

Then a familiar voice came from across the room.

"Well, well. If it isn't Elias Thorne."

Alistair.

He was reclining in a corner booth, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him, a deck of cards fanned between his fingers. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed.

Selene clenched her hand at her side.

Elias forced a grin. "Funny thing, Alistair. The last time I visited you, I was wearing an amulet. Now I don't. Thought you could explain that one."

Alistair smirked. "You lost, Thorne. That's how the game works."

Elias advanced, slow, deliberate. "See, that's the problem. I didn't lose just some trinket. I lost everything."

Alistair sipped his whiskey, unfazed. "Sounds like a you problem.

Selene was already moving. She slipped into the chair across from Alistair and laid her dagger flat on the table. "He's forgetting."

Alistair's smirk faltered.

Selene leaned in. "The town. The people. They don't remember him. That wasn't included in the bet, was it?"

Alistair said nothing.

Elias's patience snapped. He pounded a hand on the table, sending the cards springing. "What the hell did you do?"

Alistair let out a breath and rolled his shoulders. "It wasn't me, Thorne."

Elias narrowed his eyes. "Bullshit."

Alistair met his gaze, and for the first time there was something serious in his expression.

"You didn't only lose the amulet," he said softly." "You lost the grace that accompanied it."

The words hung in the air between them.

Elias's mouth went dry. "Favor?"

Alistair nodded. "You think your luck there was just coincidence? That charm wasn't a little piece of magic—it was an assertion."

Selene's jaw tightened. "Claim by who?"

Alistair exhaled slowly. "The House of Fate."

The room felt colder.

Elias recognized the name. A whispered legend. An invisible hand that dictated the waves of fate.

A house that played for the highest stakes. Where men wagered not just gold, but the very threads of destiny itself.

Elias's chest tightened. "You're saying I was one of them?"

Alistair nodded. "And now you don't."

Elias stared at him.

His luck. His fortune. His very place in the world had never been his. It had always been borrowed. A debt, waiting to be called.

And now, it had been reclaimed.

Selene spoke first. "Then why is he still here?"

Alistair's smirk reappeared, yet this time, it was tinged with something bleak.

"Because they don't only take. They replace."

Elias's blood ran cold. "Replace me?"

Alistair nodded. "Someone else has you in their favor now.

Someone else has your luck. And if you want it back…" He rapped his fingers against his deck of cards. "You're going to have to play for it.

Elias looked at the cards.

Checked out the grin on Alistair's face.

And the gravity of it all settled down upon his shoulders.

The game wasn't over.

Not yet.

And the stakes had never been higher.