The Game

They stepped out into the night, Blackmire yawning open before them like the maw of some ancient, starving beast. The streets were damp, slick with oil and filth, reflecting the dull glow of gas lamps that flickered behind soot-streaked glass.

Veyne moved like he owned the place. Like the streets were merely hallways in his own personal palace, like every shadow had already whispered its secrets into his ear.

"Watch closely," he murmured, his voice carrying just enough weight that Lior knew he should.

A beggar sat slumped against a wall up ahead, wrapped in rags that barely held together. His tin cup held only a few coins, barely enough for a meal. He didn't look up when Veyne passed—until Veyne stopped.

"Terrible night, isn't it?" Veyne said cheerfully.

The beggar flinched, then nodded, keeping his gaze low. "Yes, sir. Cold as death."

Veyne crouched beside him, one elbow resting casually on his knee. "A shame, truly. A city so grand, and yet it leaves its own to rot."

The beggar's eyes flickered toward him now, wary, uncertain.

Veyne pulled a coin from his pocket and held it up between two fingers. Not scrip, not some useless local token, but a gleaming silver mark—worth more than the beggar had likely seen in months.

"I could give you this," Veyne said, turning the coin between his fingers. "But I find generosity so… wasteful. Tell me, my friend, how much is a warm bed worth to you?"

The beggar's fingers twitched toward his cup. "More than I have."

Veyne grinned. "Then let's strike a bargain."

He leaned in, whispered something Lior couldn't hear. Whatever it was, the beggar stiffened. His hands tightened on his rags. His lips parted in some silent calculation—fear, hesitation, the weight of a choice.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

Veyne flicked the coin into the man's cup and stood.

"Come along, Lior," he said, brushing off his coat.

Lior followed, glancing back once. The beggar was already moving, pushing himself to his feet, slipping into the alley like a man with a purpose.

Veyne caught Lior's gaze and smirked.

"You see, boy, power isn't about taking—it's about offering something they can't refuse." He tucked his hands into his coat pockets as they walked. "A throne is nothing but the highest seat at the bargaining table. And the right word in the right ear?" He chuckled. "Far deadlier than any knife."

Lior swallowed, eyes flicking to the beggar's retreating form.

"And what did you offer him?"

Veyne shrugged. "Just a chance to be useful."

Lior didn't ask what that meant. Didn't ask what the cost of usefulness was.

But as they walked deeper into the city, past men who held daggers in their smiles and women who sold truths laced with poison, he knew he was learning something dangerous.

And he knew he would never unlearn it.

*** 

He walked further away from the gates of the inner city. Towards where he had come from. A place of filth and decay. He walked by the marketplace, towards the sewer gates. 

The men who used to con, didn't look like conmen anymore. He could see the threads hanging from their backs towards the one they play as marionettes for. He saw the fruit sellers in their truth. The reality— that the fruits may be slowly rotting, but the sweat poured to stay loyal to honesty, to work in truth even when the cards they had were blank. 

He respected them. As he walked past a beggar, he met the man's eyes. Lying on the ground, his hat on the ground with a few half scrips thrown in. His blue eyes stared at him. Lior felt it. The feeling of drowning. He had betrayed his birth, his principles, his family. 

He was peeling away at his chains. And one day, he would fly. Even if on stolen wings. 

His father had told him once. And once only. The night when he chased after his father, towards the edges of the slums. Edge of Blackmire's slums. Where smoke didn't linger, and his breath wasn't hindered. The place where the stars shone. 

The man was carrying a huge bag upon his shoulders. Yet he didn't falter. He continued walking amid the cold and harrowing night. A time when children weren't allowed to be out, rather, forced to stay, Lior had run outside. 

He had watched his father dig with his fingers, until they bled. But he did not resist. He continued until a hole was dug. Before he threw the bag inside it. 

Lior had never seen his father look...so lost. And lonely. 

He walked over and had asked him things. A lot of things. His father barely answered anything and just looked at him. Until his gaze softened. He did not ask him why or scold him for being here.

He simply answered a question Lior had thrown which he did not remember now. But he remembered his father's answer.

We get what we deserve. 

Lior mumbled as he reached his house. 

The city had never given him anything, only taken. His father's bones ached from endless labor, his mother's hands cracked and bled from scrubbing other people's filth, his brother had long since been beaten down into the same miserable grind, and his sister—his sister still smiled, still laughed, still believed.

And as he opened the door, his shoulders relaxed. 

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The cold clung to his coat, but the air inside was warmer, carrying the scent of something faintly burnt—probably whatever scraps Cass had tried to cook.

The place was barely standing. The walls leaned inward like weary drunks, the floor groaned beneath every step, and the wind slithered in through the cracks, curling around their meager belongings.

But it was still home.

And inside, his family was waiting.

Cass sat cross-legged on the ground, jaw clenched, his sharp eyes locked onto their mother. She was smiling, quietly amused, her hands folded in her lap as if she hadn't just destroyed him in a game.

Between them, Tally wobbled on unsteady legs, bouncing with delight. She clapped her little hands, her round face beaming.

Cass groaned. "This game is rigged."

"R'gged!" Tally chirped, mimicking him. She pointed at the board with her chubby fingers. "Cah lose!"

Cass shot her a glare. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, kid."

Lior's gaze dropped to the floor between them.

They'd drawn the board directly onto the wooden planks with bits of stolen chalk—Ashes and Embers.

A game of slow, creeping war. Of sacrifice, of inevitability.

Each player started with a handful of embers—whatever small objects they could find. Pebbles, buttons, scraps of metal. The goal was to spread them across the board, claiming ground, forcing the other player into a corner.

But the real danger came when a piece was surrounded.

Once an ember was trapped, it burned. Flipped over. Turned to ash and stolen by the opponent.

The game only ended when one side was nothing but ash.

And Cass?

Cass was already smoldering.

His pieces were boxed in, trapped on all sides by careful, deliberate placements.

Their mother watched him, waiting. Patient. Silent.

Cass groaned, running a hand down his face. "Alright. Fine. I'll move here."

He nudged one of his embers forward.

Their mother tilted her head. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she tapped a single piece—

And the board collapsed around him.

One ember burned. Then another. And another. Figuratively.

Cass's eyes widened as nearly half his remaining pieces flipped to ash in an instant.

"Cah lose!" Tally shrieked, her laughter bursting from her tiny frame. She clapped wildly, wobbling as she tried to stomp her feet at the same time. "Ma win! Ma win!"

Cass just stared at the board in silent horror. Then he slumped back, throwing his hands up.

"Alright, I give up," he muttered. "You win. Again."

Their mother smiled, raising her hands to sign, You play too fast. You don't think ahead.

Cass squinted. "I was thinking ahead."

She raised an eyebrow. Then why do I keep winning?

Cass groaned. Tally giggled uncontrollably, plopping down onto the floor with a loud, "Cah dumb!"

Lior snorted.

Cass turned to him, scowling. "Shut up."

For a moment—just a moment—Lior let himself forget.

Forget Veyne. Forget the city. Forget the cold truth waiting for him outside these walls.

For now, there was just this.

The flickering lantern. The chalk-drawn game. The way Tally's laughter filled the hollow spaces between them.

Lior let out a breath and lowered himself onto the floor, sliding into Cass's spot. The wood was rough beneath his fingers, the chalk lines smudged in places from the last match. His mother tilted her head, watching him.

Cass groaned. "Oh, come on, you too? You wanna get your ass handed to you?"

"Ass!" Tally shrieked gleefully.

Cass paled. "Wait—no—Tally, don't say that—"

"Ass! Ass! Ass!"

Their mother shook with silent laughter, her shoulders trembling, before turning to Lior. Her dark eyes flickered with quiet amusement as she raised her hands. You want to play?

Lior nodded.

Then be ready to lose.

He exhaled slowly, feeling his fingers twitch as he studied the board.

His mother began resetting the pieces, dragging embers and ash into their rightful places. Her movements were practiced, effortless, like she'd played this game a thousand times before. Which, of course, she had.

Lior, on the other hand, had never beaten her.

Not once.

Cass stood, stretching. "I'm getting food. Come on, Tally."

Tally, still giggling, waddled after him.

That left just the two of them.

Lior placed his first ember. His mother followed.

The game began.

At first, it felt normal. They moved quickly, placing their embers in careful patterns. The board filled, empty spaces disappearing one by one. Lior focused, trying to anticipate her moves, trying to keep his pieces safe.

Then, without warning, she trapped him.

He hadn't even seen it happen.

One by one, his embers burned, turning to ash in an instant.

Lior froze, eyes darting over the board. His heart pounded. How had she done that? How had she seen so far ahead?

She signed, You're playing not to lose. That's why you're losing.

He swallowed.

She tapped the board. Try again.

Lior placed another ember, slower this time. He thought about the move. About what would happen three, four steps down the line. He didn't just look at where his mother was—he tried to see where she would be.

The game stretched on.

He lost another ember.

Then another.

But he was lasting longer.

For the first time, his mother's movements slowed. She considered her next move.

And Lior felt something stir in his chest.

A quiet, creeping thrill.

The longer he lasted, the more he saw. The board wasn't just chalk and stolen buttons—it was a war. A slow, patient war. And he had to be just as patient.

Minutes passed.

The game shifted.

And then—

Then he saw something.

A single move.

A single ember.

Lior placed it down.

And watched as his mother hesitated.

It wasn't much. Barely a pause. A flicker in her gaze, the smallest tilt of her head. But Lior saw it.

She saw it too.

And she smiled.

A real one. Small, but proud.

She placed her next piece.

Lior exhaled, watching as his strategy burned before him.

He still lost.

Of course he did.

But this time, he had forced her to think.

His mother leaned back, studying him for a long moment. Then she raised her hands.

Better.

Lior stared at the board. At the embers and the ash.

He didn't know what to say.

So he just nodded.