Page 29 of Silvercloak

Looking around the room, a rich, golden pleasure had poured into Saffron’s magical well, not through any physical sensation but from akind of emotional fulfillment. It had been happening more and more lately, the longer she spent with her cohort, and it worried her, how much she was letting herself care about them.

Another soft spot into which fate could drive a blade.

Nissa had sighed and risen to her feet, stretching like a cat. The flames crackling behind her only accentuated her dragonesque features. “I’m going for a smoke.”

Another dare of a smile had tugged at Saffron’s lips. “If you win this hand, I’ll keep you in achullah for a month.”

Nissa had rolled her eyes. “I have plenty of achullah.”

Saff’s own grin had broadened. “Alright. I’ll kiss your toes in front of everyone.”

After a few moments of consideration, Nissa sat back down, sheets of silken hair falling around her face. “Fine. But only because I thrive on the humiliation of others.” She held out a palm. “And I’m shuffling.”

Shuffling didn’t help. Nissa still lost.

Because that was the first thing Saffron had learned about gambling.

It wasn’t reckless when you weregood.

And so in Celadon Gamehouse, Saffron kept playing until she’d won a frankly irresponsible amount of ascens. By the time she eventually made her way to the nearest roulette table, her well was brimming with the pleasure of victory.

It was a little-understood facet of the magical well. If joy or grief were powerful enough to elicit a bodily response, then they seemed to replenish the well in a similar way to physical pleasure or pain. Whenever Saffron thought hard enough about her parents, a hard brick of sadness slammed against her ribs, and her magic was, for a brief spell, galvanized.

At the roulette table, there were two other players—older mages bickering about whether House Arollan would fall before they met their graves—and a short, neatly presented croupier of around fifty. He wore a purple cloak over a gold-trimmed waistcoat, sweeping chips soundlessly from the velvet table and gesturing for the players to place their next bets.

Saff set her chips over the table, covering black and red squares equally. As the croupier spun the wheel and rolled the silvered ball around its rim, a thrill built in Saff’s chest until she thought she might detonate.

The silvered ball slowed down, and Saff stared at it, entranced. In certain lights, it resembled an eyeball rolling frantically inside a mirrored casing.

No, that’sexactlywhat it was.

As it came to a stuttering halt, Saff picked out the red veins; the dove-gray iris; the wide, fraught pupil.

An unsettling illusion, surely.

“Red thirty-six,” announced the croupier, placing a marker on the table and sweeping away all the losing bets.

Even though losing was the reason she was here, Saff felt an innate snap of disappointment. When she’d first started gambling—back before she discovered her excellency at polderdash—she’d stuck to the games of pure chance, games wholly and utterly out of her control, like roulette. And whenever she lost early and hard, she felt the need to keep going, to keep betting, in a desperate attempt to recoup the sunk cost.

This was how the Bloodmoons made their fortune, after all.

Gambler’s fallacy—the idea that surely she couldn’tkeeplosing, when it had already happened so often.

That familiar desperation awoke in her now, like a beast from its slumber.

Losing was the whole point, and yet it still feltterrible.

She placed her next bets even quicker, that drumming sensation building ever higher in her chest.

Everything went according to plan for the next half hour, and despite winning the occasional round—which brought with it a familiar surge of pure, raw pleasure—Saff whittled her chips down to the last handful. The two other mages lost all their chips and disappeared in the direction of the bar. Saff was laying her final bets when the croupier muttered something so fiercely staccato that she had to ask him to repeat himself.

“Walk away,” he hissed. “While you still can.”

Saff’s hand froze over her chips. “Pardon?”

“I haven’t seen you at my table before.” He tucked his shoulder-length brown-gray hair behind his ear. His silver name tag readNeatras.“Leave now, while you still have your wits. I won’t accept another bet.”

Frustration—and truthfully, dread—prickled at Saff. “You’re overstepping.”

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