Veyne didn't lose.
Not in Oracle's Sigil, not in life, and certainly not when she set her sights on something—or someone.
And tonight, Ryen belonged to her.
The underground chamber was thick with the scent of burning oils and the muted tension of wagers left unspoken. Ryen and Hagan had played the game carefully, staying just below the threshold of suspicion, winning just enough to turn heads but not enough to be marked as threats. But Veyne noticed them anyway.
She had watched them from across the room for nights now, eyes gleaming with a predator's curiosity. Not because of their skill—many had skill—but because Ryen carried himself differently.
Too calm. Too unaffected.
Men who gambled at these tables either feared losing or craved winning. Yet Ryen sat there, unshaken, unreadable.
What kind of man walked into the pit of wolves and did not flinch?
She had to find out.
And so, with her usual practiced ease, she had beckoned them into her game.
The obsidian table gleamed beneath the soft flickering candlelight, the rune-etched tokens laid before them like fate waiting to be decided.
Veyne played as she always did—with a flourish, with charm, with control.
Her hands moved like whispers, fingers trailing over the tokens as she shifted them, shuffled them. She spoke in half-truths and soft laughter, her voice dipping just enough to pull the attention of the men around her.
She owned this table.
Yet her focus was elsewhere.
On him.
Ryen sat to her right, close enough that she could feel his warmth, but distant in presence—his mind always somewhere else. She wanted to pull him into the moment, make him react, see what it took to break that quiet, unwavering exterior.
She shifted, letting her knee brush his beneath the table. A casual touch, an accident if one wasn't paying attention. But she was paying attention.
And so was he.
His gaze flickered toward her for the briefest moment. Not startled, not alarmed. Just aware.
Veyne's lips curled.
She took her next turn, rolling the token between her fingers, letting the candlelight dance over its surface. Then, carelessly—deliberately—she let it slip.
It clattered against the table, spinning once before stopping near his hand.
"Oops."
She reached for it, slow, unhurried. Her fingers brushed his as she picked it up—too soft, too lingering to be coincidence.
Ryen didn't pull away.
Didn't react.
But there it was again—that pause, that stillness.
Something about it thrilled her.
Veyne leaned closer, enough that her breath brushed his ear. "You're awfully quiet," she murmured, her voice dipping into something lower, something meant to curl around the spine.
She knew how to make men unravel.
She had made kings and liars falter at this very table.
But Ryen?
He merely turned his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting hers, unwavering.
Unmoved.
The challenge sent a wicked heat curling inside her.
She played her next move, letting her fingers trail over the polished surface of the table as she leaned back, exhaling slowly. She studied him from the corner of her eye. How long would he pretend not to notice?
She wanted to unravel him.
She would unravel him.
The game was still ongoing, but this?
This was the real game.
And Veyne?
She never lost.