The First Wager

His mother tapped the board again, waiting for him to place his next piece. But Lior hesitated, fingers twitching over his remaining embers.

His pieces were in a struggle, any move and it would open them up to a retaliation he wasn't confident to win. 

He picked the centre piece and moved it forward. 

Then, she signed.

Where have you been going?

Lior's fingers tightened. He hadn't expected to be asked that. It was about time he was questioned but he wasn't ready. It was an unforgiving decision, much different than accepting that hand. 

For a second, he considered lying.

He could. She wouldn't even know. Not for a while. He had gotten better at lying and misdirection watching Veyne the past week. Even when he was teaching him things, his hands and eyes were never silent. They would grab things from others as if second nature and laid in his hands with such confidence as if it had always been his.

He had learnt it, dissected it the past week. And knew enough that sometimes, lies were much easier of a bargain that truths ever could be.

But instead, the words that left his mouth weren't an answer. They were a question.

"I don't understand what to do."

His mother blinked.

Lior stared at the board, at the careful ruins of his lost game. His mind felt heavy. Fogged.

He couldn't understand why he was saying what he was. But he...still couldn't let go. Of the fear and harrowing danger he was walking in. More so as he followed Veyne. A man no one would want to give their reigns to. He could never tell her he had been to the inner city. The place which they had only ever dreamt of all their lives. And what kind of hell that awaits there. 

"Where is the future?" he whispered. His voice, rough and child-like. 

He didn't look at her. Couldn't. His hands curled into his lap, small fists pressing into his thighs. His chest tightened with each word.

"I can't see it," he admitted, voice barely above a breath. "I feel too... too helpless."

The words weren't meant to be said out loud. But once they left him, they stuck in the air, impossible to take back. Maybe this was it. He wasn't even able to hold his tongue. Stupid. His mother couldn't be of help. He just got her worried instead.

Yet, he waited.

Waited for his mother to tell him he was being dramatic. That he was too young to be thinking about the future. That things would work out.

But she didn't.

She just looked at him.

And for a moment, he wondered if she understood exactly what he meant.

Then—

She reached out.

Her hand settled gently atop his head, fingers combing through his dark curls, soft and slow. Her warmth settled over him, steady and grounding. 

It wasn't an answer.

Not one he could put into words.

But somehow, it was enough.

Lior swallowed, feeling the weight in his chest lessen just slightly.

She gestured at the board again. Your turn.

Lior took a breath.

And placed his ember.

***

The boy was nothing. A rat in the gutters, ribs pressing against his skin like the bones of a starving dog. No name worth remembering, no family to claim him, no future beyond the next scrap of food. He had been one of dozens huddled in the alleys of Blackmire, waiting to be trampled underfoot or swallowed by the city's filth.

Until Winston Veyne found him.

Lior stood beside him, watching as Veyne crouched before the boy, lips curled in a smile that had charmed and ruined men alike. His voice was warm, easy. "How'd you like to be someone, lad?"

Lior had been dragged by Veyne the moment they met outside Veyne's residence. The same dipilated building Raquin had taken him to. That it was time he learnt things Veyne-style. The textbook period was over apparently.

Worse, he said something along the lines of:

"Great! You are here. Let's go make you a friend."

Lior had stood there, staring up at Veyne, the words rattling in his skull like dice in a cup.

Make a friend. Not find. Not meet. Not befriend.

Make.

Like something carved out of stone, something moulded from nothing, something built with hands too precise to be kind.

It wasn't a suggestion. It wasn't an opportunity. It was a blueprint.

Lior felt something settle in his chest, uneasy and sharp. He didn't know what was worse—that Veyne spoke as if people were things to be shaped… or that Lior already believed him.

He didn't know what this feeling was. But he was excited. To see the man himself in action.

But what were they doing in an alley, picking up a homeless child? Only Veyne knew the answer to that. And he refused to just tell it to Lior. 

The boy flinched, wary. No one in Blackmire offered kindness without a dagger tucked beneath their sleeve. But hunger makes a fool of suspicion, and when Veyne pressed a warm roll into his hands, the boy snatched it like a starving dog and devoured it in two bites.

Veyne chuckled. "Good lad. Now, let's make you something worth believing in."

He didn't linger. He tousled the boy's hair, motioned for him to follow, and set off with the ease of a man who already knew the future. The boy hesitated—trust was a thing that got you killed—but the warm roll in his stomach had tasted better than any suspicion. He followed.

Lior walked beside them, silent. He'd never seen Veyne work before. This was something else. Not just a con, not just a trick. Whatever he was doing, he was spinning gold from gutter mud. The boy wasn't even a mark—he was raw material.

And Veyne was about to shape him into something.

They wove through Blackmire's streets, past flickering gas lamps and alleys lined with figures who had long since forgotten how to be people. The smell of sewage mixed with roasted meat and acrid pipe smoke, the stench of life clinging on by its teeth. Lior wasn't sure where they were going until they reached the door of The Red Marrow.

A gambling den. One of the cheapest in the district.

Veyne stepped inside like he owned the place, and in a way, he did. Not in ink, not in name, but in the way the air shifted. People noticed him. The murmurs quieted just a fraction, hands twitched toward coin purses and weapons both.

And then—his smile. Wide. Inviting. A performer stepping onto the stage.

"Boys," he greeted the room, "I bring you a bit of entertainment."

His hand landed lightly on the urchin's shoulder, and just like that, the boy who had been nothing was now someone.

Lior knew what was happening. The script had already been written in Veyne's mind. This wasn't about cards, or dice, or debt. This was about control.

He watched as Veyne led the boy toward the main table, where men who had killed for smaller stakes sat with half-empty glasses and stacks of scrips before them.

The gambling den smelled of sweat, smoke, and desperation—the holy trinity of Blackmire's finest. The men inside were the kind who lived on the edge of fortune, men who either climbed their way out of the mud with bloodied fingers or sank beneath it with a knife in their ribs.

And these were the ones Veyne chose.

He didn't go after the dullards too drunk to know their own names. He didn't waste his time on men with nothing to lose. No, Veyne picked his prey like a butcher selecting the finest cuts.

He walked through the reception like a man who knew all the roads, yet walked only one direction. And smiled at the woman sitting there. 

Lior followed him as he walked over to the receptionist. It was a blonde woman, a sort colour not seen in Blackmire, but most in this city weren't Blackmire born either. Their families had migrated from faraway lands to this place, in search of stability. Lior did not know the exact reason. Not yet. But he had a feeling Veyne would tell him that soon. 

Winston Veyne had been talking to her with the charm of a swindler, his hidden hand full of registered licences he had stolen just a moment prior while walking the market streets. Which, unfortunately, even Lior did not manage to see.

"I was having trouble finding some friends. Do you know where the Black rooms are?" he asked. Black rooms. The moment he asked that, the lady stiffened. Lior's knowledge of Black rooms was vast due to the intricate education he received for the past week from Veyne. And these rooms weren't a simple topic.

A complex tapestry of registrations and permissions must be undergone for anyone to claim housing a Black room. It was a room where no eyes reached. Not even the owners, or city garrisons. Indeed, there was a garrison in the city but they never worked inside the city. Veyne had been very vague about them.

It was impossible to know the Black room's locations as well, due to the city's council consensus. And nobody knew the council members. Only their Hands. The shadows of the council as Veyne had called them.

But somehow, Veyne did. And Lior felt it once again. That this man somehow knew everything. 

The woman wasn't a normal receptionist either, Lior guessed. Most people in the city don't know what a Black room is. Much less be shocked by its existence.

Probably a hired channel or even a Keeper. Lior guessed. There was a low chance of her being a Keeper, considering that kind was known for being extremely secretive and worked directly with the government. Not even Blackmire could handle a Keeper. He doubled Veyne knew one either. 

She had dialled on the telephone and been talking to someone for a while as Veyne touched her desk. Which was a very, very bad idea. Lior couldn't see where he swiped when the mark was hidden. 

"Yes...yes," she looked at Veyne, who grinned at her," What's your name sir?" she asked.

"Veyne. Tell him, Winston Veyne has come to collect," he said.

The woman hesitated. But she did her job.

The receptionist barely spared them a glance before turning on her heel, the sound of her heels clicking against the polished floor echoing through the dimly lit hallway.

"Right this way," she said, voice smooth but bored, like she had led too many poor bastards down this corridor before.

Lior followed, keeping close behind Veyne as the boy trailed just a step behind, clutching the edges of his too-thin coat. The kid still looked lost, his wide, sunken eyes darting between the walls like he was trying to memorize a way out. Smart. Lior wasn't sure there was a way out of the Black Room.

Because this wasn't just another gambling den. This was where debts turned to nooses.

The further they walked, the more the air seemed to shift. The warmth of the front lounge—fake laughter, the clinking of glasses, the thick perfume of expensive cigars—was swallowed by something colder. Heavier. Even the lanterns lining the walls seemed dimmer, their glow swallowed by the black-painted doors they passed.

Lior's gut twisted.

He hadn't questioned it, when Veyne first said they were bringing the boy here. He should have.

Because whatever game Veyne was playing, the kid was too deep in it now.

Way too deep.

The receptionist finally stopped, her hand resting against a door unlike the others. No markings. No numbers. Just black. The kind of black that seemed to drink in the dim light around it.

She turned to Veyne, unfazed. "They're already inside."

Veyne flashed his usual grin. "Ah, wonderful. Hate to keep them waiting."

The woman nodded, rapping her knuckles against the door. From the other side, something clicked. Unlocked.

Veyne glanced over his shoulder, tossing Lior a wink before stepping inside.

The boy hesitated.

Lior could see it—the slight quiver in his fingers, the way his breath quickened. The part of him that knew he had no business being here but also had nowhere else to go.

And then, he stepped forward.

The door shut behind them.

Lior exhaled slowly.

He had seen desperation before. Had seen what it made people do. And this kid—he wasn't just desperate.

He was willing.

Lior swallowed. Whatever this was, whatever game Veyne was playing…

The boy had taken a huge gamble.

The moment Lior stepped inside, he felt it—the way the space swallowed sound, the way the air pressed in, thick and expectant. The walls were there, but they were painted such a deep, lightless black that they seemed to stretch on forever, like standing at the edge of some abyss. Even the faint glow of the lanterns couldn't quite reach them, their light smothered before it could bounce back.

At the center of the room stood a single, round table. Sturdy, polished wood, but dark as the walls. The only thing in the room that looked real. Around it, three men sat, their faces cast in shadow by the low light overhead. There were no drinks in front of them. No idle chatter. Just a deck of cards and the quiet weight of people who knew exactly why they were here.

Lior's pulse thrummed.

This wasn't a normal den. This wasn't the kind of place where fools lost their wages for the week or where a drunk bet his coat. This was where fortunes changed hands. Where the price of a wager could be something far worse than coin.

And Veyne? He strolled in like he owned it.

He exhaled sharply, clapping the boy on the back as he led him toward the table. "Gentlemen," Veyne greeted, his grin razor-sharp. "Sorry to keep you waiting. But trust me, the wait will be worth it."

The men looked up. Measured. Judged. And for a moment, no one spoke.

Then, the one at the far end, a man with gray-streaked hair and fingers covered in heavy rings, leaned back in his chair. "Who's the runt?"

Veyne smirked. "Ah, now that's a story."

Lior stayed near the entrance, watching. He could still feel the door at his back, solid and unmoving. It might as well have been a locked vault.

No one left the Black Room until the game was played.

And Veyne was about to play a game unlike any other.

Once the light turned brighter, Lior made out their faces. And his heartbeat turned ragged. For he had seen them. Veyne had shared with him many images and faces that he had to memorize. And these three were all in those documents.

The first was Rollo Quinn, a moneylender built like a bear, with calloused knuckles from collecting debts himself. He had wealth, but not enough to buy real power, and that made him dangerous—hungry.

The second was Sampson "Sammy" Crowe, a bookmaker with a laugh like a broken accordion and the eyes of a man who counted odds for sport. He had seen every trick in the book, but that only made him more willing to believe in the impossible.

The last was Edric Vale, a failed aristocrat, the kind who still wore his father's signet ring. Lior didn't know much about him other than that.

These were not stupid men. These were not men who got swindled by every charlatan in Blackmire.

Rollo, a broad man with gold teeth, frowned. "We don't have time for stories, Veyne. How about you tell us the reason you are here?"

"A wager," Veyne said, still smiling. "Or rather, an introduction."

He gestured to the boy, then let his gaze sweep the table, lowering his voice just enough to pull them in. "You know the whispers, don't you? The lost heir. The boy with magic in his veins. The one the city tried to kill, but he came back anyway."

No one denied it. Because no one wanted to show the weaknesses in their networks.

Veyne turned to the boy, speaking loud enough for other's away from the table to hear. "Tell me, lad. Have you ever placed a bet?"

The boy blinked. He hadn't spoken since they left the alley, and now all eyes were on him. He looked at Veyne, uncertain.

Veyne just winked.

The boy swallowed, then shook his head.

Veyne exhaled, shaking his own head in mock disappointment. "A tragedy. But don't worry. Tonight, you'll make your first wager."

Lior exhaled slowly, watching it all unfold.

He wasn't sure who to pity more—the boy, or the fools who thought this was just a game.

***

The moment Veyne strolled into the den with a scrawny, barefoot child in tow, the table of men took notice. Not because they cared—street brats were as common as rats in Blackmire—but because Veyne, Winston fucking Veyne, never did anything without reason.

Rollo Quinn leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest like a fortress. "A bit young to be joining the tables, don't you think?" His voice was thick with suspicion.

Sampson Crowe barely glanced up from his cards, but the way his fingers hovered over his bet told Lior he was paying attention. He was calculating. Always calculating.

Edric Vale, the easiest mark of the three, narrowed his bloodshot eyes. "Why is the brat here anyway?"

Veyne grinned, like he'd been waiting for that question. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

That got their attention.

Rollo scoffed. "Try me."

Veyne sighed, shaking his head like he was about to part with some grand secret. Then he turned to the boy, crouching just slightly, his voice all soft encouragement. "Go on, lad. Tell 'em what you told me."

The boy blinked, hesitant.

Lior watched him—watched the way the boy's fingers twitched, the way his eyes darted to the door. He didn't trust this, not fully, but he had just eaten his first real meal in days. Hunger makes a fool of suspicion.

"...I don't remember my name," the boy said at last. "Not my real one."

"Convenient," Rollo muttered.

Veyne ignored him. "And why's that?"

The boy hesitated, like he didn't know what the answer should be. Like he was searching for it.

Then Veyne placed a hand on his shoulder—not firm, not forceful, just a reminder that he was there.

And the boy breathed out, "Because they changed it. When they took me."

Lior felt the shift in the air before he saw it in the men's eyes. Suspicion hadn't left, but curiosity had slid in beside it. The hook was set.

Edric leaned forward first. "Who took you?"

The boy swallowed. "The people who… who weren't supposed to."

Veyne sighed, shaking his head. "Lad, you've got to be clearer than that. These fine gentlemen are men of knowledge, they can help. But only if they know the full truth."

Lior almost smiled.

Veyne was good. Too good.

He didn't shove the lie down their throats. He made them pull it out themselves, made them want to know more.

The boy hesitated, glancing up at Veyne, then back to the men.

And then, in a voice that cracked with just the right amount of fear, he whispered, "I think I was stolen from the Highborn."

The room went quiet.

Edric's mouth parted slightly, Rollo frowned, and even Sampson stopped fidgeting with his cards.

They didn't believe it. Not yet.

But they wanted to.

And if Lior knew anything, it was that was all Veyne needed.