Magnus brays like a donkey when he laughs.

He lounges back in his chair like it’s a throne, idly gesturing for a barmaid to fill his cup as he peruses his cards. She sends me a wry look and makes her way from the bar, a bottle of wine in her hand.

The barmaid is responsible for serving both men.

I’m responsible for keeping one of them alive.

And so, each week as I stand in this exact spot, I focus on the money I’ll earn. Money I desperately need.

Heat radiates from the fire on the wall to my left, turning my eyes heavy-lidded. I shift on my feet, boots clinging to the sticky floor as I force myself to stay alert. My position is a strategic choice. I can see almost the entire tavern, and it’s the best view of the clock hanging above the bar.

Fifteen minutes, and I’ll have earned enough money for a trip to the apothecary. The half tonic I left for Evren isn’t enough to ease the anxiety that gnaws on me day and night.

Magnus stops laughing, and I hear more than one sigh of relief from the patrons sitting at nearby tables. On Magnus’s left, Gaius nods at the barmaid to refill his cup, rolling his eyes as Magnus gestures broadly, immediately knocking the cup with his large fist. The barmaid’s bronze sigil flares across her brow, and the cup rights itself, the arc of the wine reversing to splash back in.

The barmaid looks young enough that her power must still feel like an unexpected gift she’s only just begun to unwrap.

Gaius studies his cards, his brows slamming together. When he reaches for his own drink, I catch a glimpse of his hand.

Fold.

But he won’t. I sigh.

I used to love this game. I relished being underestimated, delighting in the way I could swipe piles of coins from players unaware of my reputation. By the time I was old enough to take a seat at the backroom tables of the Thorn’s most notorious taverns, I was winning enough to supplement my mother’s meager income.

Some part of me still misses the thrill of studying my opponent, of keeping my own expression carefully neutral while I surveyed my hand . . . even though I know it attracted too much unnecessary attention.

At least fifty people linger over wine, ale, and mediocre food. Tables are packed tight, forcing strangers into reluctant intimacy as they jostle for space. It’s a typical crowd for this time of night—late enough that anyone still here is relaxing after a long day of work or planning to stay until last call, unwilling to go home to their own loneliness.