Chapter 209: Hook, Line, and Sinker

The room exploded with laughter at Byron’s words—not the light, airy sound of genuine amusement, but a devouring, viscous roar that fed on my humiliation like it was starving for it, joy distilled from my degradation and weaponized by the crowd until it became a physical pressure against my eardrums.

At the edges of the room, the ragged men slapped their knees, gasping for air between guffaws while the watching beastfolk—those refusing to join in—flinched with each fresh roar as if struck, their ears flattening against their skulls with instinctive distress.

But I wasn’t hearing any of it—my attention had narrowed to a single point of focus, my entire being committed to the performance I was about to deliver. The kind of performance that wins awards, or at the very least, a dubious story to tell my therapist decades later, assuming I survived long enough to develop that level of self-reflection.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I jumped out of my seat so fast that Jazmin stumbled out of my lap with a surprised yelp, her arms flailing for balance as she landed on her feet with considerably less grace than she usually displayed.

I scrambled across the poker table like a drunkard who’d forgotten furniture had proper uses, my hands slapping against the felt surface while my knees knocked into the edge hard enough to leave bruises that would blossom beautifully by morning.

Chips scattered in my wake as I practically threw myself toward Byron’s feet with the desperate energy of someone who’d completely abandoned dignity in favor of survival.

When I tumbled over the table’s edge and hit the floorboards—an impact that jarred up through my skeleton and made my teeth click together with a sound I felt more than heard—Byron lifted his purple robes just enough to expose his boots.

And what absolutely nasty boots they were, caked with gods-knew-what from walking through this establishment and the streets beyond, scuffed leather that probably hadn’t seen polish in decades, crusted with dried substances I didn’t want to identify but my enhanced sense of smell was cataloging anyway—mud, sour wine, flecks of blood long turned brown, and other, less identifiable fluids that had no business being on footwear nor, I reflected distantly, in my mouth—yet here we were.

I began licking almost immediately, my tongue making contact with the leather before my brain could file any protests about hygiene or, gods forbid, self-respect.

The taste hit me with the force of a physical assault—a layered bouquet of salt, dirt, stale sweat, and something profoundly bitter that coated my tongue like a vile paste, the texture of fine grit scraping against my taste buds with each drag in a way that triggered a primal gag reflex I had to consciously suppress.

I pressed on anyway, dragging my tongue across the scuffed leather in long, wet strokes while making small whimpers of desperate gratitude, the sort carefully calibrated to sound submissive without crossing into parody.

The room’s laughter billowed into a howling tsunami of sound, cresting so loud it could’ve cracked windows on the next street over.

I could feel the weight of their collective gaze—dozens of eyes drinking in the spectacle of my debasement, storing this image away to replay whenever they needed to feel better about their own wretched circumstances.

Barely a minute had passed—though it stretched in my mind into what felt like an eternity—when Byron’s boot suddenly connected with my jaw in a sharp, precise kick, delivered with just enough force to snap my head sideways and paint a brief constellation of stars across my vision.

Not hard enough to break anything, just enough to remind me of his control, to establish dominance, to make the point that even this degradation was a privilege granted at his pleasure and could be revoked if I didn’t perform to his satisfaction.

“That’s enough,” he announced, his voice slicing through the lingering laughter. “I think you’ve demonstrated sufficient… commitment to continuing our game.”

I looked up at him with pleading eyes—wide, desperate, swimming with unshed tears that were partly performance and partly genuine reaction to having just licked a boot that probably carried several undiscovered diseases, some of which were now on very familiar terms with my tongue—and watched as he reached into his robes with one gnarled hand.

He pulled out a single chip, holding it close in front of my face so I could see every detail of its surface, the lamplight catching it from various angles, making it gleam with the promise of salvation.

I snatched it from his fingers with both hands, clutching it tight to my chest like it was the most precious thing I’d ever possessed, then whimpered with relief. The sort of sound a puppy might make upon being rescued from a puddle of its own making.

“This will be our last round,” he announced to the room. “Let’s make it poetic, shall we?”

Moments later, I found myself back in my seat with Jazmin settling into my lap again. Her body was tense against mine, her breathing slightly elevated, and when I glanced at her face I caught an expression not of pity, but of profound intrigue laced with what might’ve been a spark of respect, or, more likely, morbid fascination at how far I was willing to take this little act of mine—and maybe, just maybe, how much further she’d like to see me go.

Byron began producing chips with exaggerated ceremony, stacking them on the table with deliberate slowness while counting aloud. “One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. Four hundred. And five hundred crowns worth of chips. Quite the wager for our final game, don’t you think?”

I pretended this was a sum beyond dreaming, letting my eyes widen with what I hoped read as awe-struck, desperate hope rather than the cold, calculating satisfaction coiling in my gut. Five hundred crowns was a respectable pile, a leap from my starting point, but it was still pocket change compared to the sum I was looking for.

Byron dealt the cards with his usual dexterity, the deck flowing through his knotted fingers, and I accepted mine with trembling hands that shook just enough to sell the act.

The game progressed with familiar rhythm—draws and discards, pairs forming and being set aside, the number of cards in each hand dwindling as matches were made until at last we reached the endgame, both of us holding our final cards with quiet anticipation.

Byron made a show of choosing slowly even though I already knew he knew exactly which of my cards was the Joker thanks to Jazmin’s latest signal—a twitch of her right ear, barely visible but unmistakable once you knew the pattern.

His gnarled fingers hovered over my fanned cards with careful deliberation, pretending to consider his options while the room held its collective breath, before finally plucking the chosen card with an air of triumphant certainty.

He looked at it with barely contained glee, his ancient face lighting up with a glee so pure it was almost childlike, before he set it down beside its match with the soft, definitive click of cardstock against felt.

I lost. Again. Just as expected, just as planned, exactly according to the script we’d been following since this charade began.

The table began to shake with silent mirth—Byron’s shoulders heaving with suppressed snickers he was clearly building toward some grand release—before he suddenly burst out in laughter so loud I was genuinely concerned he’d rupture something vital.

The sound rolled through the room like thunder, bouncing off the sandstone walls and silk curtains, amplified by the watching crowd who joined in with their own cackling until the entire space rang with mocking joy at my expense.

“Oh, this is magnificent!” Byron roared between gasps. “Did you see his face? The absolute desperation? I’ve broken nobles with more spine than this pathetic runt! He actually thought—he genuinely believed—that licking my boots would change his fortune! That degrading himself would somehow make the cards fall differently!”

He slammed his hand on the table hard enough to make the chips jump. “You’re finished, boy! Completely done! Not a crown to your name, not a shred of dignity remaining, nothing left but the memory of how thoroughly I destroyed you! And now you’ll be—”

But I wasn’t listening to his boasting, didn’t even react to his words, the crowd’s continued laughter, or Jazmin’s slight shift of weight in my lap.

Instead, I reached into my pouch with deliberate slowness, fishing past the empty space where chips used to be, diving for the very bottom where the special weight resided, my fingers closing around something large, heavy, and radiating faint warmth even through the leather.

With the tender reverence one might reserve for a particularly well-baked pastry, I fished the thing out and held it up to the lamplight for all to admire—or, more accurately, for all to gawk at as if I’d just produced a small, bewildered star from my pocket.

There it was. The golden chip, trimmed in what I can only describe as “dramatic crimson”—larger than the others, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles, and glowing faintly with an internal light that had nothing to do with the grimy lamps overhead.

The chip tied to Iskanda’s ruby, worth ten thousand crowns in registered value.

Dead silence filled the room.

Not the playful hush of a tense table where gamblers held their breath waiting for results. Not anticipation, excitement, or any positive emotion. Real silence. The kind that made your ears ring with its absence of sound, that pressed against your skull, that carried weight, threat, and the sense that something fundamental had just changed.

The stars above seemed to dim as tension filled the space, their light fading like someone had thrown a blanket over the artificial sky, and I swore I could feel the temperature drop several degrees as every eye in the room locked onto the chip in my hand.

Byron froze. Not stilled, but fossilized, his mouth stuck halfway between a laugh and a gasp, his entire body gone rigid with shock.

His barely-visible eyes widened enough that I could actually see them properly for the first time—pale gray, shot through with veins, staring at my hand with an intensity that bordered on religious fervor.

“Where…” his voice came out as barely a whisper, cracked and uncertain. “Where did you get that?”

I didn’t answer immediately, instead I reached to pull out the ruby itself—still attached to its delicate silver chain, the vivid crimson stone catching the lamplight and kindling it into something alive, a slow-burning ember trapped in crystal. I set it on the table between us, turning it gently until the facets drank the glow just so.

“A ruby of mine,” I said softly. Then I let my expression shift into something confused, uncertain, playing the role of someone who didn’t fully understand what they possessed. “I didn’t know why it was worth so much when the attendant appraised it. Just something I… found. Been carrying it for luck, I suppose.”

A complete lie, obviously—but the exact kind of statement that would make Byron’s greed override his caution.

Byron reached out with hands that shook with more than age, his fingers extending toward the ruby like a supplicant approaching a holy relic. Reverence warred with dread in his expression, his face cycling through emotions too complex to pick out individually.

He lifted it with exquisite care, bringing it close to his face where he could examine every facet and curve. He didn’t move otherwise, didn’t breathe, simply stared with the total focus of someone who’d spent decades chasing legends, only to find one resting warm and impossibly real in his palm.

“I used to collect relics,” he breathed finally, his voice barely audible even in the absolute silence. “Spent decades tracking down magical artifacts from the old world, from civilizations that don’t exist anymore except in fragments and legends. Paid fortunes for items that held even a fraction of the power this possesses.”

He turned it slowly, delicately, watching how the light refracted through the crystal and painted crimson patterns across his ancient skin. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Never even heard whispers of something this sophisticated still existing. The craftsmanship alone would require knowledge that was lost centuries ago—enchantments woven into the crystal structure at a molecular level, power matrices that shouldn’t be possible with any known magical theory.”

His voice was gaining strength as he spoke. “Whatever mage created this was a genius beyond comparison, operating on levels of magical understanding we can barely comprehend today. And the age—gods, the age alone makes it nearly priceless. This could be thousands of years old, preserved perfectly, still fully functional despite time that would’ve reduced lesser artifacts to dust.”

He paused suddenly, his eyes widening with the dawning realization that he’d just revealed far too much, that he’d let enthusiasm override strategy, confirming the ruby was worth exponentially more than the ten thousand crown appraisal I’d received.

His face flickered through a rapid carousel of emotions—bright excitement giving way to sudden horror, then sharp calculation, and finally a mask of forced neutrality that settled like a lid over boiling water. With exquisite care, he set the ruby back on the table, withdrawing his hands as though it had suddenly become dangerous.

I snatched it immediately, my fingers closing around it possessively, then clutched it back to my chest while watching Byron with wide, calculating eyes.

Time to begin my manipulation in earnest, to turn his greed into leverage I could exploit.

“So it’s valuable then?” I asked, injecting just the right amount of naive hope into my voice. “More than ten thousand crowns? Because if it is, maybe I should take this somewhere else. Get a better appraisal.”

“No!” Byron said quickly, too quickly, desperation bleeding through his attempt at composure. “I’ll play you for it. Right now. Ten thousand crowns, exactly what it was appraised at. Fair and square, one final game to determine ownership.”

But I wasn’t satisfied—wouldn’t be satisfied, because this was where I needed to push him harder, needed to extract a wager large enough to actually matter in the grand scheme of taking down Oberen’s operation.

“But you just said it was priceless. That the craftsmanship was impossible, that the age made it worth fortunes. So why would I bet it for only ten thousand when it’s clearly worth way more? No, I think I’ll go find a black market dealer. Someone in some dark alley who deals in stolen goods and won’t ask questions. They’ll probably give me a better price than a casino that’s already tried to cheat me out of my money.”

“Wait!” Byron practically shouted, his ancient voice cracking with the volume. “One hundred thousand crowns!”

The words hung in the air like smoke, visible and choking.

His chest heaved with breathless anticipation, his entire body leaning forward across the table, and I watched as resolve settled across his features—the decision made, the die cast, greed winning out over caution exactly as I’d known it would.

I smirked then, letting it show for just a fraction of a second before smoothing my expression back into desperate hope.

And just like that… I’d caught him. Hook, line, and sinker.

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