The dice always tell the truth, even when they lie.
That's the first thing Professor Verus taught me, back when I still believed in things like truth. Before I learned that probability was just another tool for the powerful to control the desperate. Before I discovered that my entire existence was an improbability that shouldn't have happened.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Probability doesn't work that way—you can't start with the outcome and work backward, not unless you're me. And even I can only bend the rules so far before reality snaps back like an overextended spring, usually taking a piece of me with it.
So let's start with the basics. My name is Dante. Just Dante. Last names are for people with families, and mine has been dead for fifteen years. I was born during a probability storm in the chaotic wastes of Aleatorium, which the superstitious take as an omen and the scientific take as an explanation for what I can do. Neither group is entirely wrong, but they're not right either.
What I can do is simple in concept and maddening in execution: I manipulate probability. Not in the way the Imperial Probability Mathematicians do, with their careful calculations and controlled adjustments to ensure the Emperor's taxes arrive on schedule and his enemies' ships encounter unexpected storms. No, what I do is messier. More instinctive. More dangerous.
I make the improbable happen.
Right now, for instance, I'm making it improbable that the three Imperial guards searching this tavern will notice me in the shadowed corner, despite the fact that my face is on the wanted posters they've been distributing all week. The odds of them overlooking me should be around 17%, but I've nudged that up to a more comfortable 83%. Not perfect—perfection draws attention from forces you don't want to notice you—but good enough.
I roll the six bone dice in my palm, feeling their weight. They were carved from the knucklebones of a probability theorist who made the mistake of trying to calculate me. At least, that's what I tell people when I'm trying to scare them. The truth is I won them in a game against a Fatalist priest who thought his deity would guide the outcome. His deity apparently had other priorities that night.
The dice are warm against my skin, almost vibrating with potential outcomes. Each one contains six possibilities, and together they create a matrix of probability that I can see as clearly as you might see words on a page. Most people think probability is just math, but it's more than that. It's a living current that flows through everything, and once you learn to see it, you can never unsee it.
"Going to roll those, or just fondle them all night?" The merchant across from me has the smug look of someone who thinks he understands risk because he's survived a few bad investments. His fine clothes and manicured nails mark him as Certum Empire nobility, slumming in this border town for the thrill of it. Probably tells his friends back in Veritum about his dangerous adventures among the unwashed masses.
I smile, not bothering to make it reach my eyes. "Just calculating the odds of your continued good fortune."
"Fortune favors the bold," he replies, the kind of empty platitude the wealthy love to recite while conveniently ignoring how much their fortune had to do with whose bloodline they emerged from.
"Actually," I say, finally releasing the dice onto the worn table between us, "fortune is just probability wearing a fancy mask."
The dice tumble and spin, and here's where it gets interesting. Most probability manipulators work before the event—they calculate and adjust the variables to influence the outcome. Imperial mathematicians might spend hours ensuring a perfect roll. The Fatalists of the Theocracy claim to know the outcome before the roll because it's "destined."
I do something different. I wait until the dice are in motion, until the probability matrix is actively collapsing toward certainty, and then I reach into that matrix and... twist.
The six dice should have a 1 in 46,656 chance of all showing sixes. Terrible odds. But as they spin on the table, I feel the familiar cold fire in my veins, the connection between my consciousness and the probability field that surrounds us all. I don't force all sixes—that would be too obvious, too perfect. Instead, I create a pattern: 6-5-4-3-2-1. Still the same terrible odds, but more artistic. More chaotic. More me.
The dice settle into exactly that sequence.
The merchant's face darkens. "That's the third 'lucky' roll in a row."
I shrug, collecting the small pile of silver coins between us. "Perhaps fortune has changed allegiances."
"Perhaps you're manipulating the dice," he hisses, leaning forward. "Everyone knows the Empire has been hunting a rogue probability manipulator in this region."
"Everyone knows a lot of things," I reply, keeping my voice casual while calculating the odds of different escape routes should this turn ugly. The window behind me: 62% chance of a clean exit, 27% chance of minor injury, 11% chance of getting stuck and captured. The front door: too close to the Imperial guards, less than 30% chance of success. The back hallway: unknown variables, but likely better than the front. "Most of what everyone knows is wrong."
The merchant opens his mouth to respond when the tavern door slams open, admitting a gust of cold air and a woman who immediately captures everyone's attention.
It's not just that she's beautiful, though she is—tall and lithe, with copper-red hair pulled back in a practical braid and eyes the deep blue-green of the Probability Sea. It's the way she moves, with the balanced confidence of someone who navigates chaos for a living. A Fortunan, by her clothes and the intricate probability compass hanging at her belt. A navigator, then, one of those rare individuals who can sense the probability currents that flow through the world and use them to chart safe passage through dangerous waters.
The Imperial guards immediately turn toward her, and I silently thank whatever improbable circumstance brought her here at this exact moment. The merchant is still glaring at me, but his attention is divided now.
"Seems our game is over," I say, pocketing my winnings and standing in one smooth motion. "Better luck with probability next time."
He grabs my wrist, surprisingly strong for a soft nobleman. "We're not finished."
I look down at his hand, then back to his face. "There's a 72% chance you'll regret not letting go of me in the next three seconds."
"Are you threatening me?" His voice rises slightly, and I notice one of the Imperial guards glance our way.
I sigh. The odds just shifted, and not in my favor. "Not threatening. Calculating."
With my free hand, I reach into my pocket and pull out a single die, black as midnight and carved with strange symbols instead of numbers. It's my emergency contingency, something I don't use lightly because of the cost. Probability manipulation always has a cost—another lesson from Professor Verus that turned out to be true.
"See this?" I show the merchant the die. "This is a Chaos Die. When it rolls, it doesn't collapse probability—it explodes it. Every possible outcome tries to happen simultaneously."
His eyes widen. Even a nobleman from the heart of the Empire has heard whispered stories of Chaos Dice, forbidden artifacts from the probability wastes.
"I'm going to place it on the table," I continue conversationally, "and if you don't release me by the time I count to three, I'm going to roll it. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe this entire tavern will experience every possible version of the next minute all at once. Are you feeling lucky?"
"You wouldn't," he whispers, but his grip loosens slightly.
"One."
His eyes dart to the Imperial guards, calculating his own odds.
"Two."
The woman with the probability compass is watching us now, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something only she can hear.
"Thr—"
"Fine!" He releases my wrist and pushes back from the table. "Keep your ill-gotten coins, probability witch."
I pocket the Chaos Die without comment and offer him a mocking bow. As I straighten, I notice the woman is still watching me, a slight frown creasing her brow. She can sense what I did with the probability field—navigators are sensitive to manipulations. Our eyes meet briefly, and I feel an unexpected resonance, like two probability waves intersecting.
Interesting. And potentially problematic.
Time to leave. I calculate the optimal path to the back exit, timing my movements to coincide with the Imperial guards turning to question the merchant, who is now loudly demanding better security against "cheats and probability deviants."
As I slip into the back hallway, I hear footsteps behind me. Quick, light, determined. I don't need to calculate the odds to know who it is.
"That was impressive," says the navigator, her voice low and musical with the distinctive accent of the Fortuna Archipelago. "Crude, but impressive."
I don't stop walking. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"The probability manipulation. You're untrained, but naturally gifted. And that Chaos Die—is it real?"
That makes me pause and turn. "Why? Looking to buy it?"
She steps closer, and I notice a small scar bisecting her right eyebrow, the only flaw in an otherwise striking face. "I'm looking for someone who can do what you just did. Someone who can manipulate improbability, not just calculate odds."
"You've got the wrong person. I'm just lucky."
Her laugh is short and sharp. "There's no such thing as luck. There's only probability and those who can manipulate it." She extends her hand. "I'm Lyra Fortunus, navigator of the Tempest's Gambit. And you're exactly who I've been looking for."
I don't take her hand. Instead, I calculate rapidly: 58% chance she's telling the truth about who she is, 23% chance she's working with the Imperials, 19% chance she has some other agenda entirely. Not great odds, but better than dealing with the guards out front.
"Why would a Fortunan navigator be looking for me?"
"Because something's happening to the probability currents. They're becoming unstable, unpredictable. Three ships have been lost in the Probability Sea in the past month, in areas that should have been safe. The Anchor Points are weakening."
That gets my attention. Anchor Points are the stable centers of probability in our world, the fixed locations where reality is most certain. They're what keep the chaos of raw probability from overwhelming ordered existence. If they're weakening...
"And you think I can help with that?" I ask, skepticism heavy in my voice.
"I think you might be causing it," she replies bluntly.
I laugh, though there's no humor in it. "Lady, I'm good, but I'm not 'destabilize the fundamental fabric of reality' good."
"Then why is there a probability wake following you? I felt it the moment you used your ability in there. It's like... like you're leaving tears in the probability field."
That's... concerning. I've never heard of such a thing, but then again, I've been avoiding experts in probability theory since I left the Academy. Since Professor Verus.
Before I can respond, a commotion erupts from the tavern's main room. The Imperial guards are getting serious now.
"We should continue this discussion elsewhere," Lyra says, glancing over her shoulder. "My ship leaves with the morning tide. If you want answers about what's happening—and what's happening to you—be on it."
With that, she turns and walks away, moving against the probability currents in a way that makes her almost blur to my perception. A true navigator, manipulating her own path through reality.
I stand there for a moment, calculating. The smart play is to ignore her, to stick to my original plan of moving on to the next town, staying ahead of the Imperial hunters. The odds of her story being true and relevant to me are low.
But the odds of her being right about the probability wake are... troublingly high. I've felt something changing in my abilities lately, a growing unpredictability to my manipulations. Effects lasting longer than they should, spreading further than intended.
The dice always tell the truth, even when they lie. And lately, my dice have been telling me something is very wrong with probability itself.
I slip out the back door into the cold night air, the Chaos Die heavy in my pocket. Dawn is still hours away. Time enough to decide whether to board a ship with a navigator who thinks I might be breaking reality, or to disappear into the chaos of the borderlands once again.
Either way, I have a feeling the game is about to change. And in games of probability, the house always wins in the end.
Unless, of course, you cheat. And cheating probability is the one thing I'm truly good at.
For now, at least.