The Devil’s Wager

The Painted Mare held its breath.

Elias could sense it in the stale air, in the way the gamblers at the tables had gone hush, in the way even the smoke from the cigars seemed to hang motionless, as though waiting.

Waiting for him to sit.

Waiting for him to play.

Across the table, Alistair's smirk did not shake, but there was something behind it now something knowing. He idly tapped the deck of cards, his fingers easygoing and cavalier. Like they were just playing some friendly game, nothing else.

But Elias knew better.

Because this wasn't only about cards.

This was about fate.

Selene watched him, dark eyes keen with warning. She wasn't saying it, but she didn't need to. He could hear her thoughts like they were spoken.

Don't do this.

But Elias had never been good at taking good advice.

He took a chair, sat down, and let out a deep breath. "Tell me the rules."

Alistair's smirk widened. "That's the spirit."

He shuffled the cards. The deck passed through his fingers in a blur too smooth, too perfect. The edges of the cards glimmered faintly, and the symbols on their faces shimmered as though they weren't quite in place.

This was no ordinary deck.

Elias wasn't surprised.

"You're doing more than just playing for luck, Thorne," Alistair said quietly. "You're playing for identity. Existence. You."

Elias slid back in his chair, looking relaxed, but the fingers on his hand tensed against the table. "And the other player?"

Alistair's smile became a blade. "Already chosen."

Elias's stomach knotted. He had hoped that whoever had acquired his stolen luck was a nameless fool, some poor, unlucky gambler who didn't realize the kind of power he or she now possessed.

But there was something in Alistair's expression that told him that wasn't true.

And then.

The painted mare's door swung open.

The chill wind blew in, sharp and biting. It was like the light had been stolen from the room, the warm glow of the lanterns growing dimmer as this thing stole in.

And then Elias saw him.

A lank Chord, striding through the doorway as if the dirt beneath his feet belonged to him. His coat was dark, his boots shined, his presence a knife carving the room.

But it wasn't his clothes that chilled Elias's blood.

It was his face.

Or rather the familiarity of it.

Because Elias had seen that face before.

In the mirror.

The man approached, pausing mere feet from the table. His angular face was a nearly identical replica of Elias's own with the exception of the eyes.

His eyes gleamed gold.

And Elias knew, oh, did he know, before Alistair even opened his mouth.

"Introducing the new Elias Thorne," Alistair drawled. "The chosen replacement of the House of Fate."

Elias stared at the man. His own pilfered luck, his own pilfered life, now encased around someone else like a second skin.

His hands curled into fists. "You son of a bitch."

The man smirked. It was his smirk, his old smirk, that also-know-what-I'm-doing, how-am-I-so-simple confidence.

"That's no way to talk to yourself," the stranger said, voice smooth and easy. "After all, I'm only filling the void you left."

Elias shoved back his chair and stood, jaw clenched. "You're not me."

The gold-eyed man cocked his head, deep in thought. "No, I suppose I'm not. I think I'm better."

Selene sprang into action, her dagger half-drawn. "This is a damn trick."

"Not a trick," Alistair mused. "A balance. You lost your favor, Thorne. Fate doesn't like loose ends. It just needed someone to take up the slack."

Elias snorted loudly and exhaled through his nose. "And this was the best they could come up with?"

The golden-eyed man chuckled. "Oh, I'm more than the best. I am you, Elias. Just… perfected."

The words landed heavy in Elias's chest, but he would not show the unease. Instead, he smirked. "Well, perfection or not, I hope you can play cards."

The golden-eyed man grinned. "I am lucky, Thorne. I don't need to know how to play. I just win."

Elias sat down again, rolling his shoulders. "Then I suppose we'll find out."

Alistair made a clapping gesture. "Excellent. We've got ourselves a game."

The game began.

The first hand Elias lost.

The second hand, and he lost again.

No, the golden-eyed man was overconfident. Too sure of himself. Each time he played, he carried himself like a man who already knew what would happen.

And that's when Elias understood he did.

This wasn't a game to him.

It was fate, already decided.

Elias had no luck left. No favor. He could not win this playing according to their rules.

So he had to change the game.

He leaned in, holding his opponent's golden stare. "One last hand."

The golden-eyed man smirked. "Getting desperate?"

Elias shrugged. "Call it a gambler's hunch."

Alistair arched an eyebrow but made no protest. "Very well. Final hand."

The cards were dealt.

Elias barely looked at them.

Instead, he grabbed his gun.

The man with the golden eyes let his smirk falter.

Elias moved fast. He didn't wait for hesitancy, didn't wait for opportunity to slip away. He drew.

And fired.

The bullet struck true.

Straight between golden eyes.

The golden-eyed man's head jerked back. Blood gushed over the table, dark and vibrant.

For the first time, the room exhaled.

For the first time, luck betrayed him.

The man with golden eyes staggered, his mouth opened, a strangled sound escaping. His hands shook, reaching, grasping at nothing.

Then, his body collapsed.

Elias refused to allow himself to feel relief. Not yet.

Because something was wrong.

The blood of the man with golden eyes was wrong. It was dark but sparkly, like liquid gold stirred up with ink.

And then.

The body twitched.

Elias barely had the time to react before the man with golden eyes laughed.

A wet, gurgling sound, saturated with something inhuman.

He raised his head, blood running from the gash in his forehead. His golden eyes burned ever brighter, shining like embers in the dark.

Elias's breath stalled.

Alistair chuckled. "Oh, Thorne. You didn't think it would be that simple, did you?"

Elias felt it then.

The shift. The turning of fate.

And in that moment, just as the golden-eyed man stood, the bullet wound smoking but closing, Elias understood.

He was no longer playing against a man.

He was playing for something infinitely worse.