Page 28 of Silvercloak

Her time at the Academy had been one of the brightest spots of her life. She cupped the memory of it somewhere deep inside, like palms protecting a candle from a breeze. The Silvercloaks were her home, and she would find her way back.

Nodding at the black-suited doormen, she took a long, steadying breath and stepped inside the gamehouse.

AFTER EXCHANGING HER POUCH OF ASCENS FOR A MODESTstack of gambling chips, Saff wandered through the gamehouse in a trance, gazing up at the vast domed ceiling. Painted upon it was one of the most beautiful murals she’d ever seen—dragons and griffins, warriors and Saints and priests, naked nymphs in glorious waterfalls, bare breasts and soft bellies, the whole thing a smear of color and skin andwant.

Pleasure churned into her well at the mere sight, and it felt wrong, somehow, to experience such a thing in the devil’s own lair, but perhaps the wrongness was part of the appeal.

Pushing farther into the gamehouse, she passed a barrel-shaped woman arguing with the polderdash cards in her hand—one particularly mean-spirited queen had decided to poison the other royals, which had brought the game to a standstill—as well as several rows of elemental slot towers, which were famous for periodically electrocuting players in quite an erotic way. A gaunt mage wept at the feet of a wheel of fortune, which apparently told real fortunes, since it had been enchanted by a Foreseer. Said fortunes were rarely flattering. In fact, the more cursed your fate, the more likely you were to win big.

Saffron decided to stay well clear of that game.

Instead of heading directly to the roulette tables, her feet carried her in the direction of the divine scent. The bar was vast and round in the center of the gamehouse, shaped and painted like a gigantic roulette wheel. Saffron notched herself into a black seat and caught the eye of a handsome young bartender with dark brown skin, a Sinyi septum piercing, and owlish gold glasses.

“I’ll have one of whatever smells so good,” Saffron said, feeling lightheaded.

The bartender smiled, his face dazed, placidly content. “A blackcherry sour.”

He mixed the drink in a disaffected trance, his hands moving fluidly behind the bar, and Saffron lost track of all the different tonics and tinctures being poured. The drink was handed to her in a tall, thin glass with a single blackcherry skewered on a mixing stick.

She drank thirstily. It was at once sweet and bitter, frost-cold and butter-smooth, alighting each of her senses in turn. A shiver on the skin, a pleasant tinkle in her ears, the luscious flavor filling her mouth and nose. The edges of her vision flared and danced with stars, and a sense of enormous well-being spread through her like a parting of shadows. It wasn’t a potion—it wouldn’t affect her, if so—and yet it had a far more profound impact on her sensibilities than simple booze.

She downed the drink in one, ordered another, and then looked at the bartender expectantly.

“May I mix you a third?” he asked.

“I was just wondering how much I owed?”

“Oh, no.” He gave her a strange smile of his own. “Blackcherry sours are on the house.”

Saffron found this a little odd—wasn’t the whole point of Celadon to rake in as many ascens as possible?—but felt no need to argue. She strolled over to the nearby roulette table, feeling infinitely more relaxed than she had a few moments ago.

In fact, it wasn’t just relaxation. It was … arousal? No, more than that. Like teetering on the edge of an orgasm, those blissful few seconds before the starburst—except the sensation spread over her whole body.

Saints,she felt good.

Maybe she wouldn’t go straight into her mission. Maybe she would treat herself to a few games of polderdash first. It had been over half a year since she’d flexed those muscles, and suddenly nothing in the world was more appealing thanwinning.

She found a spot on a mostly full table and the croupier dealt her in.

As she played—and won, over and over again—a memory came back to her, rich and textured.

A few months into the Silvercloak program, the cadets had coalesced in the common room to play polderdash around a low coffee table. The darknight moon shone through the arched windows, the creamstone hearth crackling with merry flames. Case files and textbooks scattered every couch, every desk, every spare patch of floor. They’d survived their first law exam that day, and were celebrating with a bottle of flamebrandy and an ancient, ale-stained pack of cards.

Well,Saffronwas celebrating.

The rest were growing rather pissed off.

“How did you winagain?” Auria had grumbled, pushing a significant stack of ascens toward Saff. “I follow the best strategies every single time.”

“Because you aren’t playing strategies.” Saff had shuffled the deck with expert sleight of hand. “You’re playing people.”

“And do you enjoyplayingyour friends?” Gaian’s pale brow had formed a perfect arch, his gray eyes glinting in the firelight. “Manipulating their emotions, homing in on their weaknesses?”

“I do.” Saff had smiled earnestly. “One more hand?”

Auria and Tiernan had groaned at once. They’d been depleted to a mere handful of coins each.

Sebran had long since retired to bed. He’d claimed it was because he still kept a soldier’s schedule, and arose at dawn to train every day, but in reality he had lost all of his ascens in the first few rounds and could not stomach the embarrassment of being outlasted by Tiernan, of all people. Though Tiernan was actually rather good at polderdash, on account of having no idea what was going on, and therefore being quite hard to read.

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