Veyne was in her element.
She lounged at the table like a queen at her throne, fingers lazily drumming against the worn wood as she watched the game unfold. Confidence radiated from her in waves—not arrogance, but something sharper, something earned. She played without hesitation, without uncertainty. And she won.
Again. And again.
Ryen watched her from across the table, arms folded, letting the faintest smirk tug at his lips. Veyne wasn't just good—she was ruthless. Every play was a calculated move, every glance a measured step toward victory. She didn't need to cheat. She didn't need tricks. Against these gamblers—many of whom relied on more than skill—she was a force of nature.
And she knew it.
She stretched, her lean figure arching slightly as she reached for her glass, sipping slow, savoring the moment. It was almost mesmerizing, the way she moved—not quite deliberate, not quite careless. Somewhere in between.
Ryen exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. If he stayed in her orbit long enough, he had no doubt they'd end up in some indecent situations. The thought was hardly unpleasant. She was trouble, but the fun kind, the kind that pulled you into the deep before you even realized you were drowning.
And yet, beneath it all, there was something else gnawing at him.
Something was off tonight.
The other players—especially the ones who were supposed to be winning—moved strangely. Their hands were too steady, their reactions too precise. It wasn't skill. Skill had flaws. Skill had hesitation. But these people?
They were too smooth.
It was like their bodies knew what to do before their minds did.
Ryen narrowed his eyes, watching the next match unfold. A thin, wiry man sat across from Veyne, his fingers twitching at odd intervals. His gaze flickered, not between the cards, but around them, like he was tracking something invisible.
He played perfectly.
Not well. Not cleverly. But perfectly. Every movement was optimized, every decision seemed preordained. No gambler should play like that.
And yet, despite it all, Veyne was still beating him.
The man's confidence began to waver. His fingers tapped a little too quickly, his expression flickered with something close to panic.
Veyne smirked. "You don't get to win forever."
The words landed harder than they should have.
Something in the man's face twitched. Just slightly. But enough.
The final round played out in eerie silence.
Veyne won.
And the man—who had been so impossibly composed—froze.
Ryen felt it before he saw it.
A shift. A weight. A stillness that didn't belong.
The gambler's fingers curled inward, his lips moving soundlessly. He looked like someone who had been struck—not physically, but by something deeper, something unseen. His pupils were too wide now, his breathing uneven.
Then, just barely above a whisper, he said:
"It wasn't supposed to fail… The Tome of Frozen Chimes… why did it fail?"
Veyne's smirk faltered.
Ryen leaned forward, pulse quickening. "What did you say?"
The man's breath hitched. His body stiffened as if he was holding himself together by sheer will. His lips parted again—
Then—he blinked.
Not like a man regaining clarity.
Like a man who had just forgotten something.
His posture eased. The tension bled away. His expression turned blank, dazed, distant. He glanced down at the table as if he had only just realized where he was.
Ryen inhaled slowly.
These people—these unnatural players—weren't just gambling.
They were gambling with something they didn't even understand.
And when they lost…
Something was taken.