Tarrin's boots echoed softly across the stone courtyard, each step steady, measured. His eyes swept the darkened expanse, taking in the quiet patrol routes, the flickering torches, the slight breeze that carried the scent of oil and sweat.
Then he heard it—laughter. Distant, careless, familiar.
'Jackpot.'
Without changing pace, he turned toward the sound. Calm. Intentional. Just another soldier enjoying the night air.
But his mind wasn't so steady. It kept drifting—back to the conversation, back to Riko and Celith. He'd told them a lie. Not a clever one, either. Easy to poke holes in. Easy to question.
But also easy to deny.
"I overheard it." That's all he had to say. That alone could hold.
Still, the doubt clung to him. 'Why the rush?' He could've waited.
Could've spun something tighter, layered the lie in truth, made it airtight. Instead, he rushed it.
First day, first chance. He threw it out like a gambler tossing his last coin and hoping for a miracle.
'Hell, I don't even know if someone's actually after her. Am I letting emotions cloud my judgment? Am I getting...soft?'
He shook his head, as if the motion could scatter the thought.
Focus. Words mattered. Delivery even more.
He climbed the tower in silence, each step up the wooden stairs slow and deliberate.
At the top, the world opened—a long stretch of the wall lit by lanterns and moonlight[1]. That's where he saw them.
A circle of soldiers mid-shift, huddled around a crate-turned-table. Cards in hand, faces half-lit, grins wide. Classic poker.
The game where you lost your pay, your wife, and maybe your sanity if you stayed too long.
One of the soldiers looked up as footsteps approached. "Henry, did you br—"
He froze mid-sentence.
That wasn't Henry.
It was Tarrin.
And just like that, the mood shifted.
Tarrin's eyes swept over the gathered group in a blink, but only one face stood out— one of the grizzled old-timer who'd butted heads with him earlier.
Their eyes locked.
"Hey! Who the hell are you? This isn't a place for—" one of the soldiers snapped, his gaze sharp with irritation.
He didn't finish.
"Wait!" the old man barked, suddenly animated. "I know this one! Kid's got balls of steel!"
Tarrin let a slow smirk spread across his face. Just what he needed—a loudmouth with a memory.
Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped up to the makeshift table and sat down like he'd built the damn thing. Still wearing that smirk, he tossed out his challenge:
"So, what's on the line? New blades? Or just your fragile pride?"
The reaction was mixed—some scowled, others merely watched, unreadable. But one soldier burst into a booming laugh.
"I like you, kid," he said. "Bet what you want—rations, favors, hell, even your future wife if you're feeling cocky."
The cards hit the crate-table in rhythmic flicks, worn edges catching in the lantern light. It was a game stitched together from boredom and bravado—half poker, half performance.
Tarrin watched with interest, but not at the cards.
He watched them.
The old-timer—narrow eyes, quick lip, held his breath when he bluffed. The loudmouth with the cigar—talked more when he was losing, finger-tapped when he was confident. The dealer—ringed fingers, precise grip, deliberate pauses. Flashy. Careless. Vulnerable.
Tarrin's gaze flicked between them, soaking in every twitch, smirk, hesitation. He wasn't just playing cards.
He was mapping a battlefield.
"You in, steel-boy?" someone asked, tossing in two ration tickets and what looked like a well-worn deck of smokes.
Tarrin smiled thinly. "Why not?"
His hand was garbage. He knew it before he finished picking it up. And he played it badly. Purposefully. Leaning into rookie eagerness, feigning misreads, betting too early, too much.
The soldiers ate it up.
Laughed when he revealed nothing but a limp pair of fours.
"Goddamn, kid—how'd you survive basic with luck like that?"
"Wasn't luck," Tarrin muttered under his breath, mostly to himself.
He'd lost exactly as much as he intended to.
Second round. Similar play. He dialed up the bluff, tested reactions. Raised early. Folded late. Bit his lip at all the wrong moments. Another loss. This time worse than the last.
More laughter.
"You really don't know how to lie, do you?"
"Oh, he knows," the cigar guy said with a grin. "Just not well enough for this table."
Tarrin gave a sheepish shrug, but his mind was anything but sheepish. Beneath the surface, the patterns were taking shape.
The dealer's thumb flexed when slipping someone a good draw. He kept the strongest cards second from the top—an old cheat's move. Subtle, but predictable.
The loudmouth couldn't stop glancing at his pile of meal tickets—two left. Desperate. That meant risky bets.
One guy twitched his left eye when he had a winning hand. Another stared too long at Tarrin's expressions, hunting weakness. Too obvious.
They thought they were studying him.
They weren't.
Third round.
Tarrin rolled his shoulders like someone trying to shake off bad luck. "Alright," he said, rubbing his face. "One more. What're we betting?"
"Shift swap and a favor."
"Two stew-night tickets."
"My watch," said the loudmouth, flicking it onto the table with exaggerated flair. "Collector's item."
"It's fake," someone muttered.
"What? I bought them two years back in the capital for six hundred Lunars!" he shot back.
The rest just looked at him, deadpan, Tarrin got reminded of how people used to look at him back in Merlen.
Tarrin dealt.
Clean. Fast. Honest—almost.
He stacked it the way the ring-fingers guy did. Copied his exact rhythm. His exact pause.
No one questioned it.
But Tarrin palmed one card mid-deal. A king—he'd seen it during the shuffle and marked it with a subtle bend earlier.
He let it slip into his sleeve, then into his final hand during a distracted moment—just after someone cracked a joke about him owing everyone his boots.
The game unfolded like a play he'd already seen.
Loudmouth over-bet. Desperate.
Old-timer slow-played his hand.
Tarrin waited.
Then revealed his cards.
Three kings.
The silence was instant. Then: "No way."
"You serious?"
"Where the hell did that come from?"
Tarrin leaned back slowly, not smiling—yet. "Told you. Just warming up."
Someone muttered something about beginner's luck. Someone else squinted at the watch in the pile.
"Still think it's fake?" Tarrin asked, picking it up.
"It is fake," said the dealer flatly.
Tarrin glanced at him. "Then you won't mind if I wear it."
That got a laugh. Tension eased. But one or two eyes lingered a bit longer than before. Studying him now.
Exactly what he wanted.
He let the grin finally show. "So. Fourth round?"
The night carried on in lazy circles—laughter, smirks, and regretted wagers drifting with the smoke that lingered in the torchlight. By the seventh round, the dealer stretched, muttered something about needing smokes, and wandered off, leaving the crate-table quiet and half-abandoned.
Conversation took over where cards had left off.
Tarrin leaned in toward the grizzled old-timer—James. The man owed him a favor. Now was the moment.
"James," he said under his breath, voice smooth, confidence curling around his words like silk, "I'd like to cash in that favor you owe me."
James raised a brow, wary for half a heartbeat—then cracked a grin. "Sure, but nothing too ridiculous. I can't get you a date with the colonel."
They both chuckled, warmth sliding into the space between them like old friends near a fire. But behind Tarrin's lazy smile, his thoughts moved like blades.
"Don't worry," he said, keeping his tone easy, almost casual. "Just a question. I heard the colonel's related to Irene. That true? What's their deal?"
A subtle pause hit the air.
The soldier beside them shifted uncomfortably, slowly turning away—like instinct told him not to be near whatever this was.
James gave Tarrin a longer look now, suspicious but curious. Then his eyes lit up, like a candle suddenly catching flame.
"What?" he grinned. "You planning to hit on her or something? Just a heads-up—bad idea. Besides, don't you already have that Sahrin princess thing going on?"
Tarrin snorted, his expression slipping into a narrow smirk. 'As if I'd ever try something on that rude bitch.'
"Nah," he waved the thought off with a flick of his fingers. "But seriously. I asked nicely. You owe me an answer."
James paused. His face shifted—not guarded, but thoughtful. Then he exhaled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Okay. It's not really a secret anyway. The Colonel's her aunt. Blood relation. But from what I've heard... things between them? Messy."
"Messy how?"
"She sided with Lumina's elites. Some political thing a while back. Picked their side over her own. Dio family didn't take kindly to it—kicked her out of the inner circle. Burned that bridge real clean."
Tarrin nodded slowly, like he was just digesting a random bit of gossip.
But inside, his mind spun like clockwork.
'So she's the property of the Elites? Guess it's only natural that they would have people higher up the chain. Perhaps I can use her if working for Irene gets...difficult.'
"Appreciate it," Tarrin said, patting James's shoulder once before standing up and stretching. "Well, now I know not to ask her to poker night."
That earned another round of laughs. But the soldier who'd turned away earlier didn't join in.
He just watched Tarrin with narrowed eyes.
Tarrin noticed—of course he noticed.
The soldier hadn't laughed. Hadn't smiled. Hadn't even blinked. He just watched, stone-still, like a man waiting for a cue only he could hear.
Tarrin scanned the man's face in silence. No name came. No connection surfaced. He wasn't familiar—not directly. But something was off.
There was a precision in the way he held himself. Too neat. Too quiet. Even his stillness had weight, like a coiled spring under silk.
'Is he one of Irene's? Or a shadow from the Elite clans? Or something worse—something I don't even see yet?'
Their eyes locked.
That's when it hit—an ache, deep and sudden. Not pain. Not fear. Just... wrongness. Like his instincts were being dragged through broken glass.
Then, without warning, the soldier's head detonated.
A crack like thunder split the night. Bone and blood and brain matter splattered across the wall and the crate-table in a grotesque halo.
His body crumpled sideways, twitching once before stilling completely.
[1] It is said that Luna, the vanished goddess of the moon, still watches over travelers—her light a borrowed glow from the Spire’s radiance, cast down like a mercy upon the darkened world. The faithful call it her blessing. The wise know better.
What flickers in the night is no divine gift, but the Spire’s own stubborn defiance—fractured beams too fierce for the dark to fully swallow. Luna’s light is a myth. The truth is far simpler: even shadows cannot erase all light.