A moment of silence stretched between us—thick and oppressive, the kind that pressed in on the ears until they rang and made the skin prickle with the expectation of either violence or some deeply unfortunate revelation.
It wasn’t merely quiet; it was attentive. The sort of silence that demanded to be respected, heavy with the sense that something irreversible had just been placed on the table and was now waiting patiently to be claimed.
Conversations died mid-sentence, laughter choked off as though swallowed whole, the familiar clink of chips and hum of excess freezing in place. The air tightened, charged with the collective awareness that spectacle was no longer a possibility but an inevitability.
Then I smirked.
I let the expression unfold slowly, deliberately, savoring the way it settled into place with quiet confidence and theatrical restraint. With a small nod—subtle, precise, and laden with far more intent than any spoken agreement could ever convey—I accepted Oberen’s proposition. No words were necessary. The moment itself carried all the weight it needed.
In an instant, Oberen snapped his fingers.
The sharp crack of the sound tore through the silence like a gunshot, and immediately his two Velvet guards moved, bodies shifting into motion with synchronized precision so exact it bordered on unsettling. It was the kind of coordination that suggested either years of relentless training or some manner of shared awareness I had no desire to examine too closely.
They disappeared into one of the shadowed alcoves and returned seconds later carrying what could only be described as an altar—though the word felt woefully insufficient, a polite euphemism slapped onto an object that radiated such palpable wrongness it made the hairs along my arms stand on end. Calling it an altar implied reverence, sanctity, purpose. This thing felt less worshipped and more endured.
It was a massive slab of obsidian, so dark it seemed to actively consume the light around it. Carved into all four sides were faces—one for each—twisted into expressions of such raw, unfiltered agony that for one uncomfortable moment I wondered if they’d been sculpted from life... or perhaps from something that had very much wanted to remain dead.
Their mouths were stretched wide in silent screams, their eyes hollow and anguished, weeping what appeared to be actual blood—thick crimson rivulets that slid down the obsidian surface only to vanish partway.
The Velvet guards set the thing down directly between us with a heavy thump that sent up a small storm of sand, grains skittering across the floor like startled insects. The sound carried weight—not just physical, but ceremonial—as though something irreversible had just been placed into position, a line drawn in stone, blood, and expectation.
By then, the crowd had begun to coalesce in earnest. Nobles leaned over the balcony railings on all three levels, their finery gleaming beneath the lights, faces alight with hungry anticipation and the smug certainty that whatever followed would be entertaining at someone else’s expense.
Below, slum folk pressed toward the edge of the pit, bodies packed tight, eyes wide with the desperate intensity of people who rarely got seats this close to spectacle.
Different classes, different stakes—united entirely by the shared desire to witness whatever fresh chaos was about to unfold.
The murmur of their voices rose and layered over itself, a low, swelling rumble like distant thunder. Speculation bled into excitement, excitement into something sharper and more volatile, until the very air felt saturated with it.
A few attendants emerged carrying two stools crafted from that same obsidian material—smaller than the altar but no less unsettling. Their surfaces were polished to a mirror-bright sheen that reflected light without warmth, slick and immaculate in a way that felt deliberate, as though comfort had been consciously excluded during their creation.
They set the stools on either side of the altar with meticulous precision, adjusted them by fractions of an inch, and then retreated immediately, melting back into the crowd with the unmistakable urgency of people who wanted no part in whatever was about to happen.
Oberen took his seat first, lowering himself onto the obsidian with casual grace. His posture was loose, unbothered, every line of his body telegraphing familiarity rather than apprehension, as though this weren’t an arena steeped in blood and expectation but a private salon prepared for civilized discourse.
He gestured toward the empty stool opposite him with one elegant hand, palm up, the motion smooth and practiced.
"Please," he said, his tone warm, almost gracious. "Make yourself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as one can be given what we’re about to undertake."
As I settled into the seat, my attention flicked briefly past Oberen to the two Velvet guards who moved in unison to take their positions behind him.
They stood at attention with hands clasped, faces expressionless, bodies utterly still—less like people and more like carefully arranged statues, decorative pieces of violence designed to remain inert until the precise moment they were required.
"So," I said, pitching my voice with just enough casual disinterest to imply that I wasn’t remotely bothered by the screaming obsidian altar between us, the packed crowd looming above, or the very real possibility that this evening might conclude with me missing several important body parts. "Cozy setup you’ve got here. Very atmospheric. The screaming faces are a nice touch—really sets the mood for friendly competition and definitely doesn’t suggest we’re about to do something deeply inadvisable."
Oberen’s smile widened, clearly appreciating the attempt at levity. "I find that proper presentation enhances any significant undertaking," he replied smoothly. "And this is quite significant, wouldn’t you say? Your crew’s survival, the resolution of debts and grievances—all of it balanced on the outcome of a single game." He leaned forward slightly. "Which brings us to the matter of stakes. It would only be fair, I think, for each of us to go all in—to wager everything we have in on-hand value, holding nothing back, committing completely to the outcome."
I tilted my head, curiosity warring with caution. "And how much would that be for you, exactly? Just so we’re clear about what ’everything’ means in this context."
Oberen’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. He remained perfectly composed, voice smooth and conversational as he casually dropped information that sent my internal organs into a brief but ambitious attempt at synchronized gymnastics.
"One million crowns," he said simply. "Give or take a few thousand for accounting discrepancies, but we’ll round to an even million for simplicity’s sake."
I didn’t react. Not outwardly, anyway. Every ounce of hard-earned control went into keeping my face calm, pleasant, and entirely unbothered, even as my heart performed a violent lurch inside my chest and briefly contemplated punching its way free through my ribcage in pursuit of freedom.
One million crowns to my two hundred thousand. The disparity rang through my head like a struck bell, loud and insistent, while I very deliberately refused to let it show.
I leaned back on my stool with deliberate casualness, crossing one leg over the other in a pose that suggested I was entirely at ease despite the cold sweat forming between my shoulder blades.
"Interesting," I said mildly. "Very interesting. So what game did you have in mind for this charming little venture into mutually assured financial destruction?"
Oberen perked up then, his entire demeanor shifting as though someone had turned a dial hidden beneath his ribs. The composed noble facade cracked just enough to reveal something sharper, more animated, and unmistakably pleased.
A devious smirk spread across his face—slow, deliberate, and deeply untrustworthy. Every alarm bell in the portion of my brain dedicated to survival began ringing in unison.
He waved at his attendants with one hand, the gesture sharp and commanding. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. They scrambled into motion immediately, propelled by the kind of efficiency only learned through prior experience—the sort that teaches you delays don’t earn reprimands so much as memories.
Then came the devices.
Two of them specifically, carried between four attendants who moved in perfect coordination, steps measured, grips steady, as though the slightest misalignment might provoke retaliation from the objects themselves.
They were guillotine-looking contraptions wrought from dark metal, their surfaces catching the magical light in dull, predatory gleams.
Each device was shaped with meticulous cruelty. Five narrow slots arranged side by side, perfectly sized to cradle a hand, with individual compartments for each finger. Above every joint loomed a blade—thin, precise, and viciously clean, edges glinting with the unmistakable promise of obsessive maintenance.
These weren’t blunt instruments of intimidation. They were tools designed to work, engineered for efficiency, repeatability, and the kind of damage that lingered long after the screaming stopped.
The mechanisms were clearly spring-loaded, coiled tight with restrained violence, poised to drop with catastrophic force the instant some unseen trigger was engaged.
Just looking at them made my fingers curl involuntarily, a reflexive, traitorous attempt at self-preservation as my body preemptively objected to the future it was being shown. Every instinct I had screamed no
The attendants set the devices down on either side of the obsidian altar with an almost tender precision, nudging them into perfect alignment, then retreated with impressive haste. In the span of a breath they were gone, swallowed back into the crowd as though proximity alone carried liability.
From the shadows emerged an overseer. The same one from my game with Byron, his robes still impossibly black despite the lighting. They drank in illumination the same way the altar did, swallowing it whole and offering nothing back.
He advanced with that same unsettling glide I remembered all too well, a motion that suggested he wasn’t so much walking as allowing reality to politely rearrange itself around him.
He placed two cups on the altar between us, each one containing five dice that rattled softly with the motion, the sound somehow ominous despite being objectively mundane. They were made of bone—undeniably so—their surfaces polished to a dull sheen that caught the light in uneven patterns, yellowed and pitted in places where time or use had left its signature.
I recognized the game almost instantly. Liar’s Dice. Of course.
Something inside me tightened—not fear, exactly, but a weary, resigned understanding. There were a hundred games Oberen could have chosen, dozens that would’ve served his purposes just as well. He’d chosen the one that thrived on bluff, misdirection, confidence, and the weaponization of uncertainty.
The kind of game where the rules mattered less than the people playing them. The kind of game where arrogance and insight could be indistinguishable right up until someone paid dearly for guessing wrong.
Oberen’s smile widened even further, stretching into something frankly indulgent. This wasn’t just business to him anymore; this was fun. His eyes gleamed with genuine excitement, and when he spoke, his voice carried the unmistakable warmth of someone enthusiastically explaining their favorite pastime to a captive audience.
"We’ll be playing Liar’s Dice," he confirmed, gesturing at the cups and dice with obvious pleasure. "But not just the normal kind—that would be far too pedestrian for an occasion of this significance. No, we’re going to add a few modifications to make things more... memorable."
He began explaining the rules with meticulous care, his words crisp and evenly paced, laying everything out as though he were delivering a lecture rather than outlining a path to potential mutilation.
The structure of bidding and challenging, the escalation of claims, the rhythm of each round—standard Liar’s Dice mechanics, delivered with the confidence of someone who’d internalized them long ago.
And then—naturally—he saved the important part for last.
"And when someone loses a challenge and must remove a die from play, they won’t just be removing dice." His eyes locked onto mine. "They’ll be removing fingers as well."
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single sentence.
"You’re mad," I said flatly, the words escaping before I could apply my usual filter of wit and deflection. "Genuinely, clinically insane. This is psychotic even by my already questionable standards."
Oberen’s grin widened impossibly further. "Perhaps," he conceded cheerfully. "But you’re the one who accepted the game, who walked into my casino with schemes and audacity, who challenged my authority so directly that resolution requires dramatic measures."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes bright, voice dropping just enough to make the question land harder.
"So tell me—are you committed to seeing this through? Or was all that earlier conviction just performance art masking someone who lacks the stomach for real stakes?"
The challenge lingered between us like a tangible weight, heavy enough that I could almost feel it pressing against my chest.
Every eye in the casino seemed to converge on that single moment, the collective attention boring into me with hungry intensity as the crowd waited to see which way I’d bend—whether I’d retreat, expose the limits of the chaos I’d been cultivating all night, or lean fully into it and let the consequences sort themselves out.
Somewhere out there, threaded through the mass of bodies and murmurs, my crew was watching. Trusting. Believing that I had a plan, that the confidence I’d worn so comfortably wasn’t just a performance stitched together from bravado and luck.
Backing down now wouldn’t just be strategic withdrawal—it would be a betrayal. An admission that my nerve had limits, and that Oberen had found them. That was unacceptable. I’d built too much, risked too much, to let it end with a polite refusal and a quiet walk away.
So I did the only thing I could do.
I agreed.
Quickly, decisively, before doubt could claw its way up my spine and take hold of my mouth. My voice came out steady despite the shrieking protests of every survival instinct I possessed.
"Let’s do this," I said, meeting Oberen’s gaze without flinching. "Though for the record, I’m filing a formal complaint with whatever deity oversees gambling about the complete lack of safety regulations in this establishment."
"Duly noted," Oberen replied, clearly delighted. "Any other concerns before we begin? Questions about the rules? Requests for last rites?"
"Just one," I said, letting sarcasm drip from my words thick enough to drown small animals. "When this is over and I’ve taken everything you own, do I also get to keep the torture devices? Because they’d make excellent conversation pieces for my quarters, really bring the room together aesthetically."
"Your confidence is admirable," he murmured. "Misplaced, but admirable."
The overseer bowed slightly, his movement fluid and precise, and when he spoke his voice carried across the silent casino with perfect clarity.
"I will be presiding over this match," he announced, his tone completely neutral, devoid of opinion or emotion. "The rules as stated will be enforced without exception. Challenges will be verified immediately. Consequences will be applied directly. Are both parties prepared to proceed?"
I didn’t answer with words.
Instead, I moved.
Slowly—painfully slowly, with the kind of exaggerated care you use when approaching something that might bite—I reached forward and fitted my left hand into the device on my side of the altar.
The metal slots closed around each finger with immaculate mechanical precision, snug and unyielding, applying just enough pressure to make it very clear there would be no pulling free once the game began.
Above each knuckle, the blades waited with patient menace.
I couldn’t help but begin shaking slightly.
Not violently—nothing dramatic enough to draw comment—but with a fine, traitorous tremor that ran from my wrist up through my forearm, subtle and completely beyond my control.
No matter how hard I clenched my jaw or ordered my muscles to behave, the shaking persisted, broadcasting my fear with humiliating honesty. The sight of it—my own weakness laid bare in front of an arena full of predators—made something hot and furious flare in my chest.
Oberen noticed, of course—because Oberen noticed everything—and the amusement on his face shifted, ever so slightly, into something that might’ve passed for pity if it weren’t layered so neatly atop his satisfaction.
"Nervous?" he asked lightly, already fitting his own hand into the device with maddening ease. His movements were steady, precise, utterly untroubled, fingers settling into place as though the blades above them were decorations. It was the composure of a man who’d either done this before or possessed nerves forged from something considerably sturdier than flesh.
"That’s understandable. Natural, even. Though I have to say, I expected more composure from someone who’s spent the entire evening projecting such unshakeable confidence."
I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace, channeling every ounce of false bravado I could muster into my response.
"Not nervous," I lied with as much conviction as I could inject into words everyone knew were bullshit. "Just... experiencing involuntary physiological responses to stimuli my brain has categorized as ’potentially finger-removing.’ Completely different thing. Very scientific. You wouldn’t understand."
Around us, the tension in the crowd thickened by the second, building like pressure in a sealed container approaching its inevitable breaking point.
Voices dropped to whispers, those whispers overlapping into a constant, low static of anticipation and dread that seemed to vibrate through the very air.
I could feel their attention pressing in from all sides—hundreds of eyes fixed on us, weighing, judging, already composing the stories they’d tell later about this moment. Victory or disaster, blood or bravado, it hardly mattered. They were here to witness.
The overseer raised both hands slowly, the gesture smooth and authoritative, and the effect was immediate. The whispers died as if severed by a blade, silence snapping into place with unnatural completeness. When he spoke, his voice carried across the arena with the cold, undeniable weight of finality.
"You may begin," he declared.