Chapter 3: The Wager
I snatched the copper coins from my sister's trembling palm.
"Is this it?" I snarled, forcing a scowl onto my face. I turned my back on her before she could see the pained look in my eyes. I'm sorry, I thought, gripping the coins until my knuckles turned white. I can't break character yet. If I suddenly act nice, they'll think I'm possessed. I have to fix this gradually.
I marched toward the town center, the guilt gnawing at my gut with every step. The walk to the pub was a gauntlet of shame. Passersby stepped into the mud just to avoid brushing shoulders with me.
"Hide your purse," a woman whispered to her husband. "Here comes the good-for-nothing big brother."
"Scum of the district," another muttered.
I ignored them and pushed open the heavy wooden doors of 'The Gilded Tankard.' The smell of stale ale and sweat hit me instantly. I walked to the counter, slamming a single copper down.
"One watered-down ale. The cheapest you have," I demanded.
The bartender blinked, his rag freezing mid-wipe. The entire pub went quiet. They were used to [Name] demanding the finest wine and threatening to smash the place up when asked to pay.
"The… cheapest?" the bartender asked, suspicious.
"Did I stutter?"
As I nursed the foul-tasting swill, a commotion erupted near the center tables. A burly man stood on a chair. "The Iron Liver Contest begins in ten minutes! Two coppers to enter, winner takes the pot—fifty silver coins!"
Fifty silver coins. That was enough to feed my siblings for months. It was enough to buy tools.
I looked at the two lonely coppers remaining in my hand. It was a gamble. But then I remembered the ancient voice in my dream: Poisons shall not hold you.
"Thank you, Mister Ancient Man," I muttered, downing the rest of my ale. "Jackpot."
I pushed through the crowd toward the sign-up table. "I'm in."
The crowd erupted in laughter. "You? The town drunk who passes out after three pints?" one man jeered.
"Get lost, trash!" another shouted. A heavy hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. Before I could react, a fist connected with my jaw. I stumbled back, and the crowd surged forward, eager to vent their frustrations on the local punching bag. Kicks and insults rained down on me.
"Stop."
The voice was calm, but it cut through the noise like a blade. The beating stopped instantly.
A young man stepped into the circle. He was dressed in fine silk, a sharp contrast to the rough wool of the tavern patrons. A crest of a Golden Hawk was stitched onto his chest—the symbol of the Van Der Hoven family, one of the Three Great Noble Families.
He looked down at me, not with pity, but with amusement. He extended a gloved hand.
"Let him up," the noble said, pulling me to my feet with surprising strength. He turned to the organizer. "Let him participate."
"But, Young Master," the organizer stammered, "he's just a waste of space—"
"Exactly," the noble smiled, glancing at a hulking servant standing behind him. "My servant, Brutus, is entering the competition. We need fodder to thin out the early rounds, don't we? Let the drunkard play. It will be amusing to watch him collapse."
He dusted off his gloves, looking at me like I was a bug he had graciously decided not to squash yet. He thought I was an easy elimination. He thought I was just a stepping stone for his servant.
I wiped the blood from my lip and gripped my two copper coins.
You have no idea, I thought, staring at the noble's arrogant grin. The engineering of a win starts now.