THE CITIZENS OF AIZASEA HAD A SAYING: history could either be written in stone or hidden in sand. With the former, as long as they persisted, their noble feats would be eternalized despite the enemy’s merciless attacks. But if they were to surrender without a fight, their legacies would be lost, swept away into the sea that bordered their great kingdom.

But Celvene wasn’t from Aizasea; she was from Vosalon. She didn’t care about carving her name into stone or burying it in the sand. All she wanted was to survive, and with her line of work, that was becoming more difficult by the day. That much was evident through the fact she’d watched Virion die in front of her.

She wasn’t the only one struggling to survive; despite the cheap glitz of the circus, she didn’t know anyone there—save for her boss—who didn’t fight to make ends meet. On the other end of the circus tent, far from Celvene at the card tables, two performers in vibrant costumes danced across the stage. The audience’s focus was only on the dancers’ spins and gyrations, and the crowd whistled and cheered as the performers used seductive and passionate movements to tell a story: a tragedy of two lovers, separated by war and fated to die by each other’s hands. But their movements were slow and sloppy. Their skin stuck to their bones, gaunt faces covered in sweat.

Celvene was familiar with the grim ending of their dance; her old home told a similar tale, just one Celvene had lived. While most of her peers lamented over the tragic outcome, Celvene kept her judgment to herself. In her eyes, there had been no need for the lovers to die—not both of them, at least.

A customer at her table let out a belch, pointing an unsteady hand at the performers. “You’re telling me that soldiers on the warfront dress like that? If that’s the case, then sign me up!”

Laughter rippled across the oaken table. One man banged his fist against the wood, shaking the surface, and Celvene pulled back with a grimace. A pint of beer tipped over, splashing the cream-colored liquid onto the stained carpet, and the smell of vanilla wafted into the air. The sight rocked Celvene’s stomach; it was sickeningly similar to the dribble of ale from the king’s fallen mug.

Celvene swallowed, steeling herself. Breathing out a long sigh, she tucked her brown hair behind her ears and let the ripple of her cards soothe her mind. She’d have to clean the mess after the circus shut down for the night. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the guards stationed near the tent’s opening shift in place, glancing at the fallen ale.

She glanced back at her deck. Despite her patrons’ behavior, she paid them no mind; she’d heard worse. And she couldn’t stop a game once it commenced. She wasn’t allowed to, even though her patrons continued to jest and jeer. Though they joked about the war, Celvene knew the truth: the citizens of the kingdom were scared. Aizasea had been plagued by war for years, and the city was defenseless. She hadn’t kept up with the politics, but at this point, she was surprised Aizasea was still standing. Compared to Noriya, the kingdom of conquest, Aizasea’s weapons were like a child’s flimsy toy. Against Noriya’s soldiers, who trained for years, Aizasea’s were…

Well, Celvene wasn’t surprised they were struggling. She ran a hand through her hair. She was in for a long night.

She shuffled her gold-threaded cards, the paper morphing into a blur, and kept her gaze trained on the four men sitting at her table. She didn’t trust them to play fair, especially while drunk. Judging by the way their glares drilled into her set of cards, they thought the same of her. None of them should have been surprised. This was the circus; everything was an act, and the patrons were performers on Celvene’s stage.

“Who’s buying in?” she asked, and her customers perked up. Hungry leers crept onto their faces. “Starting stake is fifty Nusmi. No more, no less, unless you’re willing to bet something a bit more valuable.”

The customers turned to one another, sliding forward portions of their coin stacks without a second thought. But one man in front of her surveyed the table, then his meager earnings, then Celvene’s gloved hands. Even in the dim light, she noticed the man’s hands shift to his belt—he had something of value. When his gleaming sea-green eyes met Celvene’s, she offered a smile.

“I’ll throw in a bit of luck for you if you do,” said Celvene, winking. The other patrons weren’t paying attention, so if throwing a slight lie would convince the man to play, she’d be a fool not to capitalize on the opportunity.

The man mirrored her grin and unbuckled one of the weapons looped to his belt. He placed it on the table, letting his hand rest on the grip for a moment before he drew back. They were beauties, ivory flintlock guns with intricate golden carvings.

The glint in the man’s eyes grew greedy. He shifted in his seat, blinking one eye, then the other. He wrapped his large hand around his mug, ignoring the liquid that dribbled over his skin. His pinky finger extended and gestured to the guns. “You may not know what that is, little lady, but I can assure you it’s worth a pretty sum. My sources are… confidential. And Virion? Let’s just say that the calicula should’ve paid me more. He got what he deserved.”

Raising an eyebrow, Celvene bit her tongue. She wasn’t paid enough to question whether her customers were from Aizasea or not, and given how the court had treated people like Celvene since she set foot in Aizasea, she wasn’t particularly interested in giving them any leads as to who assassinated King Virion. But guns were a rare sight when not in the hands of elites or cannon fodder for the armies; perhaps the man was a disgraced Aizasean soldier.

She took the gun. She placed it into the earnings chest behind her and locked it with the key. It had been empty until now, and Celvene wasn’t going to risk someone stealing her first score of the night. She slid a sizable stack of Nusmi over to the betting patron, the sparkling silver catching the light of the moon. It was setting, and fast. She’d have to hurry the game. Her presence had been requested elsewhere once the moon fell and the sun seared the horizon.

“This will be the last game of tonight, my good men,” she said, flashing her deck of cards in her hands. “I thank you for your honest play and generous bets. I have a feeling some of you will be walking out of here with heavy pockets.”

As she placed the cards down on the table, she flicked her wrist. What her customers didn’t know was that the invisible dome hovering over the tent silenced any sound a magic spell would create, and Celvene had just cast an illusion spell. She could manipulate the cards and control the game as she pleased. She didn’t enjoy doing it, but her boss insisted she used illusion magic to rig the games she headed. If she didn’t want to lose her job, she had to listen. No other employer wanted the skill set of a circus worker. She’d checked.

The cards adopted an undetectable light blue sheen, the glow disappearing after the paper absorbed the magic. Celvene swept them up into a pile and glanced at the men. Their smirks had deepened, dripping glasses of alcohol almost empty.

“Cards down, and extra bets forward if you’re feeling lucky.” To her delight, three of the four men pushed forward extra sizable stacks. She leaned forward and placed her hands on the table. Her magic connected to the wood, and in the middle of the table, an illusioned projection of an axe-wielding fairy sprang to life. In her other hand was a shield. “Place your left card face up!”

Tonight, she wore a gold band in her hair, slicked back. But it wasn’t to look stylish. She leaned forward, allowing the light above them to catch the gold, and hues of yellow cast over the table like sparkling coins. The greed in the men’s eyes strengthened. They thought it was a sign from the gods—Celvene had used the trick many times. Every patron slid their card forward. Before they flipped them, however, Celvene twisted her wrist, and the images morphed into losing draws. The table fell quiet once their eyes landed on their cards.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Ah,” she said, clicking her tongue. “Looks like no one’s our winner—yet. All four of you have got a real shot at the earnings, though. Wouldn’t you like to bring home over a thousand Nusmi to your wives?”

Two of the men raised their eyebrows, and chuckles slipped past their lips. They downed the rest of their alcohol in one gulp before nodding. The faint melody of instrumentals from the main circus tent provided background noise, and Celvene could hear even quieter applause.

“Play ‘er again,” one said, gruff voice lightly slurring. Celvene appreciated how good the bartender was at making drinks. Their skills were the reason customers would buy an extra drink or two—it made her job much easier.

The flipped cards adopted a glowing sheen of magic. A flurry of arrows erupted from the cards’ face, soaring through the air before their pointed tips struck the fairy’s shield. She raised her glowing gaze to stare at the men, and her wings fluttered. The low buzzing of her wings filled the tent, almost masking the scuffs of the dancers’ shoes.

“Three more turns to go,” announced Celvene. “You’ll be looking for something to cool yourself down—things are about to get hot.”

Honor Among Blades was the riskiest card game Celvene could have chosen, but it was the easiest way for her to reap a quick reward. And as long as the men in front of her continued to think they had a chance of hitting the jackpot, she was in for a smooth ride. She’d be nice and give some a small payout, but Korvin, her boss, would have her head if she gave them too much.

The men turned over their next cards, and when every card revealed a fiery inscription, the customers grumbled in unison. They had needed an ice or water card—all their cards would do was add fuel to the fairy’s fire.

“Not a single hit?” one said, lifting his dark green glare to Celvene. She recognized the look in his eyes, and her hands tightened around her deck. There was something about the typical green of Aizasea citizens’ eyes that unsettled her.

“We still have two rounds to go,” she replied. “It’s difficult to get in a hit before the third round. The deck tends to favor the later rounds. All my lucky winners have won in the third or fourth round.”

She was bluffing, of course, but these men wouldn’t suspect anything. If they knew the intricacies of card dealing, they’d be the one controlling the game, not Celvene.

“A’ight,” mumbled the man, leaning back in his rickety chair. “We’ll see. Better not be lying.”

With a subtle flick of her wrist, Celvene changed the cards of the complainer’s neighbors, one of which was the suspected soldier.

It was no surprise he left the army; either he'd die from starvation or from the king's never ending war. At the sight of his shifting jaw and beading sweat, she felt a tinge of sympathy that he had to resort to such lowly methods, as if the odds of winning a rigged card game at a circus were his best chance of survival. Celvene had a hand in his fate… whether that be his demise or his success.

When the two men—the soldier and a patron Celvene had hardly paid any mind to—flipped over their cards, their faces lit up. They were the perfect counter to the fairy’s incoming ice wall. At the center of the table, the fairy projection shrunk, and she raised an unsteady barrier of ice before the incoming balls of fire from the men's winning hands. The flames shattered the ice on impact before crashing into the fairy, sending her collapsing to one knee and clutching her side. She hadn’t been defeated, but the successful men didn’t care as they both hollered at the top of their lungs.

Celvene gestured to the soldier, along with one of the men who hadn’t made a fuss. Both bit their lips in toothy smiles and took portions of the other customers’ bets. The complainer’s lip rose in a snarl, but he said nothing. His frown deepened, and he sank further into his chair before sitting up straight and jutting his chin forward. His eyes locked onto the last card sitting on the table, his stare unblinking. Celvene shuffled her deck while she waited for him to calm down, and a moment later, a grumble told her he’d found nothing wrong with the card. He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. The stink of tar mixed with saltwater from the pier clung to the air.

“Final round,” she said, and the four men didn’t hesitate to turn over their cards. This was the one round she hadn’t altered, and three of the four men came away with hits—swords against a long-ranged magical attack the fairy planned. The fairy collapsed to the ground when a sword pierced her heart, and Celvene’s projection wavered before vanishing. Celvene clapped her hands as her signal of ending the game, though none of the men paid her any mind.

The two victors of the last round had won again, and they wrapped their arms around their meager winnings. They had barely come away with more than they bet, but neither cared. The soldier bit into a shiny coin from his pile, while the other winner thumbed through his earnings. Celvene eyed their piles and, after a moment, jerked her head up in a nod to allow them to leave. They scooped up the coins and scurried away, radiant grins plastered to their faces. The other winner was the man who had complained—though he hadn’t made enough from the last round to break even, let alone come away with any winnings.

Celvene ignored the two men still sitting at the table and swept the remaining coins towards her end of the table. She had places to be, and she didn’t want to risk the men getting violent to steal the coins after their luck had run dry.

“You rigged it, didn’t ya?” said the frowning man. His eye twitched once. “Didn’t see anything wrong with the card, but my luck’s never been that bad. I’m blessed by Virion.”

“Did you not hear the news?” Celvene asked, clapping her hands again. It was strangely quiet at the table, save for ill jokes, and at the circus in general. Celvene figured the king’s death would be the talk of the town by now.

The man’s expression soured upon seeing her empty gloves. She plastered a thin-lipped smile onto her face and chose not to elaborate further; if the man hadn’t heard of Virion’s death yet, he would soon enough. The news had already rippled through the kingdom like a wildfire. At this point, it was more odd that he hadn’t heard of the news. Or he prayed to a dead man. Both were probable options.

“The gods tend not to answer the prayers of the desperate. I know from experience,” Celvene finished, then turned her back on the man. While part of her feared the man’s anger overpowering his rationale, ending in him attacking her—perhaps ending in a fate too similar to Virion—her nerves were soothed slightly by the bodyguards standing near the opening flaps to the tent. Korvin skimped out on the guards’ pay more often than not, but Celvene sweet-talked them as often as possible. It was a more reliable means of protection.

The corners of the man’s mouth twitched as he walked in front of Celvene, hands stuffed into his pockets, as if proving he didn’t intend to fight. “‘Spose you’re right. Maybe the Slums are too undignified for the deities to pay attention to.”

“Quite the contrary, I believe. The poor are much more receptive to believing in impossible odds. Have a good night, sir. I hope your luck improves.” She wiped her slick forehead with the cloth tucked in her pocket before shoveling her earnings into Korvin’s chest. She appreciated Korvin for one thing: his sense of style. Her uniform was a white and lavender waistcoat covered by a darker purple, flared jacket. The sleek black pants she wore were embroidered with lavender inscriptions of the circus’s logo, a sky-high circus tent, along with knee-high heeled boots.

And despite the looming winter season, her tent was humid and heavy. They’d nestled their set of tents in the heart of the Slums, the dingiest section of Aizasea where the most unsavory citizens called home. She wasn’t sure why Korvin had picked the Slums out of every section of the city. If they’d camped in the Marble Court or Velvet Row Districts, they’d attract far wealthier citizens. But Celvene supposed the poorer citizens were sloppier with their bets in hopes of winning it big. That, or they tried to ease their alcohol addictions with the cheaper booze served in the Slums.

Celvene made sure the lock to the chest was secure and checked to make sure the customers had left, before blowing out the lantern and making her way out of the tent. The lock was enchanted with magic only Korvin could open, so all Celvene could do was lock it for him at the end of the night. The waning light from the moon provided her with a clear path to the main tent. The tent’s peppy music strengthened as she opened the tent door and stepped inside.

She prayed that Korvin had news that wouldn’t bring about Celvene’s death in some way or another. But knowing Korvin, the night wasn’t about to end in a simple manner.