Jowtan should have known the meeting would be a setup. In the Wandering Serpent empire, midnight invitations rarely ended with anyone waking up richer. But as he crept along the southern dock's edge, the dock itself little more than a frost-slicked plank stitched to the mud, he felt not dread but the old rush—a current he'd first tasted the day he'd outbluffed a blind harbormaster at the age of nine.
The river sucked at its banks, black as old blood. A lantern hung from the wharf post, burning with a pale blue tongue. The sort of flame that promised magic or death.
Jowtan was early, on purpose. A conman's best defense: claim the field before your enemy arrives, redraw the rules while nobody's looking.
He waited, the deck warm in his hand. His thumb traced the pattern of cards beneath the leather wrap, counting them again and again as if they might run out on him. They never did.
The city behind him sounded distant. No shouts, no clatter of carriages, not even the usual river stink. Just the blue flame, guttering, and his own heartbeat.
The noble arrived precisely at the stroke of twelve.
His boots barely made a sound. He didn't bother with bodyguards this time. In the blue light, his eyes looked silver, his face empty of all expression.
Jowtan gave a lazy bow. "Was half-expecting an army. Or a firing squad."
The noble's lips twitched, a microexpression Jowtan caught and catalogued instantly. Disdain. "You have the deck."
It was not a question. Jowtan pulled it out, thumbed the top card so the noble could see it, then snapped it away. "It doesn't work unless there's a wager."
The man smiled, a knife-thin line. "How about your life?"
"Not my favorite bet," Jowtan said, "but I've played worse odds." He leaned forward, pitching his voice low. "Let's skip to the reveal. Why am I here?"
The noble stepped closer. The blue flame seemed to bend around him, haloing his silhouette. "Because you're the only man in the city who can lie to a god and walk away standing."
Jowtan's mouth dried out. He'd expected a dozen flavors of blackmail or extortion. This was better. Or worse. Maybe both.
He masked it with a shrug. "I do my best. And what does a god want with a deck of cards?"
A flicker of something—regret, or memory—shivered across the man's face. "They remember the old days, when mortals paid tribute in stories. Now the gods are ruined, and their halls are empty. But the right tale, told the right way, can wake even the dead. You have a talent for stories, don't you?"
Jowtan resisted the urge to laugh. "I've got a few."
The noble extended a hand. Not to shake, but to receive the deck.
Jowtan hesitated. He'd never let anyone else hold it, not since the first time he'd drawn a card in anger and watched it bleed blue fire across a rival's face. But the noble waited, patient as marble.
Jowtan placed the deck in the outstretched palm.
The moment he let go, the world convulsed.
He was somewhere else.
The dock and the river were gone, replaced by a hall vaster than any cathedral. Its walls arched up and away until they vanished into stormclouds. Banners of skin and bone hung from pillars thicker than city towers. Torches burned with the same blue flame, their light frozen mid-flicker.
And he was not alone.
They filled the space: giants stitched together from a thousand faces, their eyes stitched shut with silver wire; spectral children playing with knives and shadow-puppets; hooded figures whose hands ended in cogs and gears, grinding endlessly. The Ruined Gods.
Jowtan's knees wanted to buckle, but he forced them straight. He'd bluffed his way out of worse—at least, until now.
One of the gods—taller than the rest, its body a ladder of spines and shriveled wings—turned its head toward him. Its mouth yawned open, unhinging like a snake's, and spoke with a voice that was all voices at once.
MORTAL. YOU HAVE COME TO GAMBLE.
Jowtan managed a grin. "That's what I do. Care to make it interesting?"
Laughter rolled around him, shaking the banners. One of the child-ghosts scuttled up, blue flames dripping from its eyes. It held out a deck identical to his own.
PICK, it said, each word a throb in his skull. WIN, AND WE GIVE YOU A BOON. LOSE, AND YOU BECOME OUR NEXT STORY.
Jowtan reached for the deck. It felt icy, the cold sinking into his bones. He drew a card.
The Queen of Hearts.
He blinked. So did the god.
CONFIDENCE, the god said. YOU THINK YOU CAN CHEAT US?
"I know I can," Jowtan said, and drew again. Three of Spades. Ace of Clubs. King of Diamonds. Every card he needed, every time.
The gods howled, but not in anger. In delight. Jowtan realized that's what they wanted: not a fair game, but a new trick, something they hadn't seen in their infinite centuries. He stacked the deck, shuffled it blind, drew from the bottom. Every time, the hand was perfect. He made it a show.
After the fifth hand, the hall vibrated with laughter. The giants slammed their fists, the ghosts shrieked in chorus, and the clockwork priests spun until their gears broke and showered the floor with sparks.
The ladder-god leaned down, its stitched face splitting in a mockery of a smile.
NAME YOUR PRICE.
Jowtan tried not to sound greedy. "Power. Enough to make my own luck, from here to the edge of the river."
DONE, said the gods, in a single hungry voice.
The deck in his hands flared with blue fire. The flames raced up his arms, into his eyes, his chest, his tongue. It didn't burn. It devoured something else, something he'd never had much use for anyway.
He blinked.
The river dock reappeared. The noble was standing exactly where he'd been, still holding the deck—but now it was ablaze with cold blue light. Jowtan's own hands tingled with leftover fire.
The noble stared at him, and for the first time, looked afraid. "You've done it," the man whispered.
"Done what?"
"Cheated the Ruined Gods. And survived."
Jowtan shrugged, feigning modesty. "They like a good show."
The noble laughed—too loud, too desperate—and dropped the deck onto the dock. "It's yours now. You've earned it. But be careful, charlatan: every trick has its cost. And every story wants an ending."
Jowtan picked up the deck. It was cool to the touch, the cards heavier, slick with some new kind of promise. He turned to leave. The noble was already gone, his footsteps erased from the mud.
The next morning, Jowtan woke with the taste of river silt and smoke on his tongue. He counted his coins. Twice. The same number as last night, but each piece looked shinier, as if the world had been reset overnight.
He washed, dressed, and headed for the Ruined Gods' hall, the deck snug in its pouch at his hip. Every step felt lighter. By the time he reached the hall, the regulars were already clustered in their corners. Jowtan found his alcove waiting, undisturbed. He set up his station with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
The first mark was a girl, barely old enough to braid her own hair. She slid a single copper across the cloth and asked for her future. Jowtan let her shuffle the deck, then pulled three cards blind.
He didn't even look at them. He just knew.
"Forgiveness," he said. "Safety. But not love."
The girl blinked, then smiled—genuinely, the way children sometimes do when the answer is better than they hoped. She curtsied and ran off, copper untouched. Jowtan pocketed the coin anyway.
The day slipped by in a blur of readings, each easier than the last. He could feel which cards belonged to which mark, as if the stories were already written.
He was halfway through a reading for an aging magistrate when the room froze. Not the people, but the moment: every candle flame leaned inward, every voice wavered mid-syllable.
Kaelen stood in the doorway.
He hadn't changed. Still tall, still silver-eyed, but this time there was no crowd to part—no need. The regulars simply ceased to exist around him, their lives on hold.
Kaelen approached, hands in pockets, gaze never leaving Jowtan's. "Enjoying yourself?"
Jowtan smiled. "You could say that."
"Thought you'd run. Most do."
"Where would I go? The gods still have the better odds, last I checked."
Kaelen tilted his head. "You've changed. The deck—"
Jowtan cut him off. "The deck is mine."
Kaelen shrugged. "For now." He leaned forward, and for the first time, Jowtan saw the cracks around his eyes—the fatigue of someone who'd wagered and lost, too many times. "There's a price, you know. You can't outbluff the Ruined Gods forever."
"I only need to do it one more time than the other guy," Jowtan said, his grin as careless as ever.
Kaelen smiled at that. A real, if tired, smile. "We'll see. One last trick, then."
Before Jowtan could move, Kaelen snapped his fingers.
The letter—the one Jowtan had received yesterday—burst from his coat pocket and hovered in the air, spinning on its axis. The blue fire ignited again, not burning the paper, but burning in it, through it.
Jowtan's heart hammered. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't listen.
Kaelen's eyes glowed with the same blue light. "A new wager," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Winner keeps the soul. Loser joins the Ruined Gods."
The letter unfolded itself, words swimming across its surface, rewriting themselves in letters of fire.
The compulsion hit—a force like a river, dragging him under. He dropped to one knee as the cold fire shot through his veins. As the letter pressed itself into his palm, he heard the gods laughing, hungry for their due.
It wasn't fear that filled him. It was relief.
He'd finally found an honest game.
The world snapped shut.