Night had fallen. With an ordinary face and wearing mundane clothes, Seven walked up to the plain door of the humble house and knocked.

A young boy, no older than twelve, opened the door. He smiled gently, his dark-brown hair neatly combed. He wore a white cotton shirt, black trousers, and a form-fitting vest that looked too clean and crisp for the shabby neighborhood. He was new, Seven guessed, probably numbered in the mid to late nineties.

The boy gestured for him to follow, and as Seven stepped in, he was greeted by the smell of burning heartwood and roasting meat. Knowing Six, Seven couldn't help but wonder who they were cooking.

The child guided him down a narrow hall, through a plainly furnished parlor and into a dimly lit dining room, where a rustic table held the flickering light of tallow candles.

The centerpiece meal was a lump of meat seasoned with garlic and thyme. It was served with what could have been either red wine sauce or blood, with a side of roasted potatoes and carrots. There were five people seated around the table. Four of them gave Seven a glance as he entered.

The closest, at the left end of the table, was a blond-haired man who wore a fine leather coat over a brown vest. He had a sharp jawline and a glint in his blue eyes, but his handsome features were marred by an unnaturally wide grin that revealed rows of porcelain white teeth.

Azure blood flowed from the point where a knife pierced his right hand, keeping it fixed to the table while he held a fork in his left. Number Eighteen.

'No,' Seven thought, 'It was Seventeen now.'

Across him was a woman in a wide-brimmed hat that concealed a splash of crimson curls. Her gown was a fitted bodice adorned with intricate lace applique. It had a high ruffled collar framing a slender neck and a voluminous, floor-length skirt.

The knife in her left hand glided across the dish before she brought the fork up to her mouth. The motion was repeated several times. But there was no food on her plate. Number Sixteen, formerly Seventeen.

A man clad in a tattered, moth-eaten cloak was to the redhead's right. He sat with unnerving stillness, with his pale, sunken eyes rarely blinking. Number Twelve was amongst the strangest fingers within the hand.

A Blood Painter that did not belong to the church of Avantgarde. His pictures had the effect of allowing him to harm targets by harming himself. He'd been a nasty one to fight.

In front of Twelve was a looming figure. Number Ten was at least a head taller than the Breaker had been. His silk shirt, too small for his frame, highlighted rippling muscle.

He sat hunched over on a chair, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapping around his legs.

The stool creaked as its legs bent under the strain while a red coat clung to the back of the chair. Locks of pitch-black hair flowed down to rest on the table as he kept his head bowed and his gaze fixed on the dish in front of him.

The woman at the head of the table ignored Seven and savored her meal in silence. A cascade of chestnut curls framed a small round face with eyes the color of rich mahogany. A delicate nose led the gaze down to lips, painted with a shade that echoed the blush of purple roses.

Her dark caramel skin was without blemish, while the grace of high cheekbones lent her an air of regality. Number Six had a dangerous obsession with beauty. Each face she wore was more stunning than the last.

A few breaths passed, and finally, with a clang, she set her utensils down, wiped her mouth and looked up at Seven with a smile.

'Where are the rest?' She signed as if she hadn't already guessed.

'Dead.'

None of the others batted an eye.

'The Breaker?' There was a mischievous glint in Six's eye as she asked.

'Him too.' Seven signed back unperturbed.

'The Breath?' Seven noticed the others stiffen at the mention.

He placed a hand on his chest above his heart. There was no need to lie. It would only draw suspicion. Although there had been no word, he was sure someone had found the Breaker's corpse by now.

In fact, he was counting on it as it would lend credence to his ruse.

Six did not bother hiding the hunger in her gaze.

Number Seven could take her. It would be close, but he could win. The problem was the thing in her shadow. That was what created the gulf between them.

He didn't know what it was. He didn't think Six knew either. Things from the Schism were always irrational, unnatural, and dangerous. The place was a wound on this reality, bleeding myths and impossibility.

Most of the tales from the place were rumors. Like the shards of eternity, the Imperium's mad king had obsessed over for the past ten years. Having ruled for a century, he was desperately clinging to life. But immortality, at least in this realm, was a myth, for even gods could die.

'Have you tried to use it?' Six asked with a toothy grin.

'We should be heading out soon.' Seven signed, leaving the question unanswered.

'There's no hurry. Rumor has it that there are vultures afoot.' The mother of monsters leaned back as she signed.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

'Word of Mouth?' The Mouth of Providence could not speak what the Eyes had not seen or the Ears had not heard.

'Seen and heard.' So, by now, every player that mattered should be on the board.

'So, what's the plan?'

'I lead, you follow.'

The callous answer didn't come as much of a surprise. That statement wasn't even made to make things difficult. Number Six was simply that confident in her ability. She would see them reach their goal, no matter what. But, whether they arrived in one piece was another matter entirely.

'Then I'll wait in the parlor.' He would have liked to ask a few more questions, but not only would it raise suspicion, but Six would try her best not to provide any meaningful answer.

'I'll come with you.' The chair groaned in relief as Ten eased himself out of it. He grabbed his coat and made to follow.

The giant had to bend to prevent his head from hitting the ceiling.

As Seven prepared to take his leave, he met Seventeen's blue-eyed gaze.

'Ascension.' The man signed, nodding to the knife embedded in his hand.

Seven gave Sixteen a glance, her focus still on the meal that was not real.

Some wanted answers, others comfort. All had different reasons, but to one day stand before Providence was a desire shared among all its agents. There were many paths to this goal. All were paved in blood.

Those within the Hand had to climb a ladder made from the bodies of their fellows. The hundred fingers, from Zero to Ninety-nine, was a ruthless hierarchy. The smaller the number, the greater the rank. To ascend, one had to best the finger above.

The simplest method was through combat, usually to the death. The challenged had no choice but to accept. But in return, they picked the contest. They could choose anything, so long as it cut flesh, drew blood and broke bone.

It seemed Seventeen had lost his match. Seven wondered what the failure would cost. For most, this point marked the beginning of their end.

'Though there are exceptions.' Seven thought, glancing at the giant trailing after him.

Leaving the others to their own devices, Seven headed for the parlor. Ten trudged along behind, seeming to weigh each step before taking it.

'What number are you?' Seven signed, pausing beside the boy standing in front of the wall next to the path out of the dining room.

'Eighty-seven,' The boy signed back.

Most would have considered it an impressive feat. But, Seven had risen to Seventy-nine within nine months of leaving the training camp. He couldn't have been older than ten at the time.

Upon reaching the living room, he headed for the leather couch occupying the left side of the room. He placed both feet on the mahogany coffee table and spread his arms out, draping them on the sofa's backrest.

Ten dragged a nearby stool, placing it across Seven, with the table between them.

'Care for a game?' Ten said, pulling out a deck of Regis from his coat pocket before tossing it on the sofa and taking a seat on the stool in his peculiar manner.

Ten took his time with most things due to his careful and deliberate nature. But, one would be mistaken to think him slow. Without waiting for a response, hands quick as lightning dealt out the cards.

Twelve to each player, a king, a queen, a jester, a knight, a bishop, two rooks, and five pawns. Aside from the cards given to each player, there were four additional stacks, the scene cards. Three, Fate, Chance, and Wealth were face down, with the fourth, Control, face up.

Seven leaned back but paid careful attention to the crouching giant, though he did not give the man his entire focus. For people like them, if they were ever in a situation where they had to devote their full attention to a single thing. If they found themselves in a position where they could not take stock of their surroundings, it meant they were probably about to die.

'So, he's really dead.' Ten signed, holding up his cards. Seven didn't think he meant it as a question.

He took a moment to ponder, meeting his opponent's eyes. The goliath's gaze was as sharp as his mind.

Seven nodded as he threw down his queen. Ten had thrown down a knight.

There were no turns in Regis, with players making their moves simultaneously. The one that fell behind would suffer damning penalties.

In each round, players drew a card from Fate's stack. Those moments in life that could not be avoided. Depending on their moves, players may also be allowed to take from one of the other piles.

A card of Control demanded a sacrifice, and if both players chose to give an offering, the one with the highest value won the right to draw. The loser came away with nothing, their sacrifice made in vain.

A card of Chance needed no sacrifice. But there was no way of knowing if it would be a blessing or a curse. Its gifts were easily given, its price freely taken. It all boiled down to luck. As long as play was kept above board.

Seven pulled the Lord of Crows, the card for which he had given up his queen. A gift of prophecy, one that could be used twice to peer through the fog clouding both fortune and fate and once to avoid consequence.

'How did he die?' Ten asked with one hand as they both drew again. Seven picked a fall harvest so he could pick from Wealth. The big man also picked a card of chance, his expression revealing nothing.

His gaze touched upon the goliath's left hand, missing two fingers. Lost to games of Ascension. Seven had stolen one, the pinky. The other had been taken by the current Number Four.

Ten was a crafty bastard. Losing his duels cost him only a finger, but by winning, he would take a head. The man always had an angle. And Seven needed to figure out what it was this time.

'He tore out his heart.' He signed back, drawing another card of chance. The reaper's scythe. Unfortunate.

'Immolation?' Ten asked.

Seven nodded. The giant drew another card of chance and placed it down face up. The Lord of the Flies, a plague. Both of them chose to sacrifice a pawn.

'I know it's you, but I'm still surprised you made it out unscathed.'

Since he was around eight years old, only the dead had seen Seven bleed.

'He was already injured.' Seven placed down a card of chance, one he'd tucked up his sleeve. A man with sunken eyes holding an empty bowl. Famine.

'Yet, he managed to kill ten fingers.' The giant gave up another pawn. A barrel of wheat was etched on the card Seven threw down. It had been from Wealth's stack.

'I made it out unscathed because he killed ten fingers.'

At that, Ten gave a brief nod.

'Why'd you take the Breath?'

'He shoved it down my throat.' That gave the man pause. Seven did not look away from his considering gaze.

They played on in silence as Eighty-Seven drifted over. Minutes passed, and the characters they had in play dwindled from twelve to eight.

Ten laid down two cards, the Thief and the Rebel. Seven countered with a knight and the bishop. Soldiers to deal with the bandits and religion to stand against the insurgents.

'What did you do with the bodies?'

'Nothing.'

Ten gave him a pointed look.

'There was no time.' Seven signed in response.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Seventeen walk in, his grin still his most prominent feature even though the man was now missing his right hand. No matter how often he changed his face, he could not banish that blasted smile. A punishment bestowed by Providence.

Thick silver sloshed around in the bottle he held in his left hand. He and Six shared similar tastes, but Seven didn't smell the metallic tang of blood as Seventeen sat beside him.

Slowly, he turned his head and gave the man a biting look.

'Fine, I'll move.' Seventeen mouthed, unable to sign with his hand occupied.

Seven was sure Ten had used the chance to draw another card or two. He looked at Eighty-Seven, sitting on the floor, legs crossed beside the table. The boy gave nothing away.

Seventeen stood, wondering over to the sofa on the opposite side of the room, and the game continued.

By the time sixteen entered, both players were down to three pieces. Seven did not react as she sat beside him. He couldn't chase her away the way he'd done with Seventeen. The woman had one foot in her own world.

Ten had a king, queen and a knight. Seven had a king and two pawns. The pawn was undoubtedly the weakest piece in the game. Even the most experienced players could overlook it. Ironically, this was also its greatest strength. It was time to wrap this up.

Seven played three cards. The first a snake spitting venom. The Assassin. The second the omen of misfortune, the reaper's scythe. Death. The last was the Lord of Crows. Victory was at hand.

Acting on instinct, Seven pushed himself off the sofa, flipping over the backrest he took cover. The world shook. The windows shattered, shooting out shrapnel of glass. The wall caved in, offering as much resistance as a piece of paper in the face of the man with the night trailing behind him.