Threads of Fate

Lark the Gambler: Year 920

The town of Draymoor wasn't much to look at—a collection of crumbling stone buildings, muddy streets, and taverns that were more pit than shelter. It sat on the border between kingdoms, a place where neither king's law reached, and where coin spoke louder than crowns. For a man like Lark, it was perfect.

Lark's boots squelched in the mud as he made his way down the main street, his eyes scanning the shadows. He had been in enough towns like this to know where to look for trouble. It was everywhere—in the corners, behind the eyes of passing strangers, in the whispers that filled the narrow alleys. But tonight, Lark wasn't looking for trouble. He was looking for a game.

He slipped through the door of the Tattered Veil, the local tavern that served as the heart of Draymoor's gambling scene. The place was packed—mercenaries, drifters, a few traders too drunk to know their coin was about to disappear. Perfect. Lark tugged his hood lower over his eyes, blending into the sea of rough faces and louder voices. The tavern stank of ale and desperation, but to Lark, it was the scent of opportunity.

At the far end of the room, a group of men huddled around a table, cards in hand and coins piled high in the center. That was his target. With practiced ease, Lark slid through the crowd, his movements fluid, unnoticed. He didn't like to be seen until it was too late.

He took a seat at the table without a word, his fingers brushing against the deck in front of him. The men eyed him warily, but one of them—a heavyset brute with scars down his arms—grunted in acknowledgment.

"You playin'?" the brute asked, his voice rough as gravel.

Lark nodded, flicking a coin onto the table. The metal clinked against the others, and the game resumed. The cards moved quickly, dealt with the kind of rough precision that came from years of cheating. But Lark wasn't worried. He didn't need to cheat. Not tonight.

The cards slid into his hands, and he glanced at them with barely a flicker of emotion. Five of Spades. Queen of Diamonds. He could feel the eyes of the other players on him, searching for any sign of weakness. But Lark had spent years perfecting the art of the neutral face, never showing his hand—literally or otherwise.

He let the others bet first, their coins clattering onto the table, the stakes rising with each round. The room grew quieter, the tension thickening as the pile of coins in the center grew higher. This was the moment Lark thrived on—the moment when men started to sweat, when doubt and fear began to creep into their minds.

The brute across from him threw in a handful of coins and leaned forward. "Yer move, stranger."

Lark smiled faintly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, silver token—an old piece of currency, etched with symbols that had long faded from the world. It wasn't worth much in coin, but to those who knew its origin, it was worth more than gold. Lark placed it in the center of the pile.

The brute's eyes flickered, just for a second, but Lark caught it. He knows.

"I raise," Lark said, his voice calm, unhurried.

The brute's fingers twitched, his eyes narrowing. The other men exchanged uneasy glances, but no one spoke. The token had shifted the mood of the game, and Lark could feel the tension rising.

"I'll see that," the brute growled, tossing in more coins. The others followed suit, though more reluctantly.

The cards were dealt again, and the air seemed to hum with anticipation. Lark's heart pounded in his chest, but his face remained impassive. He knew the risk he was taking, but he had no choice. He was running out of time.

The final round came, and all eyes were on Lark. His cards lay face down on the table, his fingers resting lightly on the edges. Across from him, the brute was practically snarling, his teeth bared in a grin that didn't reach his eyes.