The wind howls through the empty streets, thick with the scent of rain and something sharper—blood. I step over a discarded blade, its edge still slick with red, and ignore the body slumped against the wall. Not my problem. Not tonight. My fingers tighten around the stolen dagger at my hip, its weight a quiet reminder of what I’ve done, what I have left to do. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls. Midnight. I’m running out of time. I pull my hood lower and slip into the alley, the stone slick beneath my boots. If I’m caught, I’ll be hanging from the gallows by dawn. But then again, it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to kill me.

I’m scrambling, but no one needs to know that. I slip the feathered mask over my eyes the felt lining isn't nearly as comfortable as the merchant made it out to be. I catch my reflection in a puddle—green eyes, painted lips, long black lashes, thick hair, the perfect features I paid for. A lie. Before I had been ugly, it was impossible to deny it. No matter how many lies I told myself I wasn’t beautiful. 

The mansion is lit with color, a soft warm light. Nothing like what lies inside, my heels clap against the marble floors. A soft echo that travels throughout the night like butterflies. I knock three times before the boy comes to answer the door. His soft brown eyes widen in delight before he calls out to his master, proud to be the one to greet the strange foreigner. 

My uncle's familiar gait greets my ears. He nods his head to the servant and begins to look me over, no recognition flashes in his eyes. I am almost disappointed, I would love for this charade to end and the arms of prison to greet me. He opens up his arms to welcome me into his home. My lips pull into a grin and my legs move into the building taking the rest of my body with them. 

The walkway is still lined with hideous maroon carpeting and photos of each of my ancestors. My uncle nods his head to each photo and gives me the entire story, the tales fall on deaf ears I could tell the stories better than him easily. 

By the time we reach the gambling table, my uncle is out of breath, and am more than ready to play. 

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Are you familiar with the game of sevens?” 

“Very, I grew up on it,” People nod their heads in respect to my childhood.  Why, I have no idea. 

“Well then, let us begin.” I sit next to a petite man with an eyepatch. For a moment my mind strays to how he lost his eye, probably the wrong gamble. 

The cards are shuffled and dealt with the precision and speed of a hummingbird. I place a smile on my lips something that will not move until the game is long over. Then I pick up my cards: a seven of lions, a four & eight of daggers, and lastly a six of bows. I’m missing any wolves. 

We begin to play, I bet low. We continue for three hours. Shuffle, bet, draw, reveal. I win a grand total of 5,000 scales. I still need 4,000 if I plan on paying back my debts. So, I cheat, I use every stop I have in every possible way. 

The person across from me has three sevens and an eight. I have zero sevens and several random cards. It’s perfect. I bet as high as I can, all of my 5,000 scales. The other guy bets 6,000. Before we flip the top card I perform. A flick of the wrist. A card, warm from my sleeve, slips into my palm. The jester glides to the top of the pile like it’s always been there. No one notices. They’re too drunk to look. Too confident to suspect.

The moment stretches, too long, as his eyes flicker from the card to my face. The table falls silent. Then—his mouth twists in disgust. He flipped a jester, which means sevens count against you. We reveal our cards. I win everything. 

He looks at me with such disgust that for a moment I fear he will cut me alive. I swipe my money off the table and get up to leave. I hate turning my back on my enemies but what else am I supposed to do back out of the room? 

The weather is cool and the sun has long since passed the horizon. I follow my steps back to dearest Jane’s house. The body has been cleaned up, and the knife is now stuck to the wall. It must be one crappy knife if no one wants it.

The burly men that Jane has hired to be her bodyguards glare at me but allow me entrance into the building. 

I toss the money onto Jane’s table and wink. Another night, another debt paid. One more person with a knife at my back.