“Say…” I began, casually shuffling the deck with deliberate precision, eyes flicking briefly to his. “Are you more of a dog person or a cat person?”

  He didn't hesitate. “Dog.”

  My grin widened, slow and mischievous, as I slid a nine and a five across the table toward him. I myself drew a ten. We both noticed the imbalance, but neither of us mentioned it. The game wasn’t paused; the conversation carried on seamlessly, as if the cards didn’t matter at all—at least not openly.

  “Dogs really are something else, aren’t they?” I mused aloud, dealing him a lucky seven with exaggerated nonchalance. “So loyal. So eager to please. I almost think they’re too perfect. But sometimes… don’t you think they love their masters a little too much?”

  I didn’t need to draw more to know the round was his. The nine I pulled was just confirmation. He won, fair—or not so fair. Still, I gained something more useful: the location of another card in the deck. A small victory wrapped in a quiet loss. We were both cheating, of course. The trick wasn’t to play fair—it was to cheat better than the other. But no one had spoken that truth aloud. Not yet.

  “There’s no such thing as too much love from a dog,” he countered, almost predictably. Our talk drifted easily, more focused on canine loyalty than counting points or watching hands. Words became subtle weapons, jabs aimed to fracture the other's focus.

  “Oh… but there is,” I murmured, gaze going distant. I remembered flames. A house consumed because a dog wouldn’t leave. Obedience gone too far. He handed me a four and a seven, and I noted—quietly—that he had drawn a nine last round for himself.

  “Give me two,” I said, tone light but sharp-edged.

  He smiled with the innocence of a liar and handed me a three, then an eight. I shrugged, already resigned. He dealt himself an eight—unnecessary, because I’d already lost, and we both knew it. A performance for form’s sake. I tilted my head, eyes gleaming with mischief.

  “Banana or apple?”

  “Apple,” he replied without missing a beat.

  Two tens slid into his hand. Meanwhile, I drew an ace, then an eight, a nine, and a three—just like that. Blackjack.

  “Eww,” I said, half a laugh, half a wince. It was a draw. He would’ve won that hand, had I let him shuffle on his own. But I hadn’t.

  “Hey,” I said sweetly, “do you mind if I mix the cards this time? That shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

  Reluctantly, he passed the deck. I took it gladly, humming under my breath as I stirred the order into chaos. After a few moments, I handed them back.

  He mixed them again, out of suspicion, or habit, or pride—it didn’t matter. The outcome was already tipping.

  “Oh, before we begin…” I leaned forward, tone suddenly casual. “Mind if I deal your cards, and you deal mine? I can’t help but feel you’ve been cheating.”

  His brow rose sharply. The air thickened between us—like the moment before thunder. I’d broken our unspoken truce, dared to point out the rules we were both bending.

  “You draw your cards in a rather… peculiar way,” I added, with just enough edge.

  He considered for a moment. Then nodded slowly. “Alright. If it’s just drawing…”

  The final round began.

  He handed me two tens, trying to be clever but lacking subtlety. I laughed outright.

  “Oh look. A four. And a nine,” I said, holding up his cards one by one. “Funny how familiar these feel. Are you sure you shuffled properly?”

  “But you mixed before that, didn’t you?”

  His voice was calm, but I could hear it—that slight tightness underneath.

  My eyes flicked to the cards again. The faint smudge of red. Dried. Old. Not quite part of the game, but not easily forgotten either.

  "Yes," I said softly. "But I wonder which part of the deck either of us can really trust now."

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  “I suppose you’re right about that,” I said softly, letting the words hang like smoke in the air. “Well then… let’s continue.”

  With deliberate care, I reached for the next card, pinched it between two fingers, and turned it over.

  A four.

  He stared at it like it was a curse scrawled in blood. His expression froze—eyes wide, breath shallow—struggling to process what he was seeing. That single, innocent digit spelled his undoing. He knew it. And I knew he knew it.

  His gaze jerked from the card to my face, then faltered as he realized my hand was no longer on the table.

  “Oh… too bad,” I whispered, already gripping the dagger hidden beneath my cloak. “Looks like you’re going to die now.”

  “I… I… I lost?” His voice trembled, barely a whisper, like he was speaking more to himself than to me. The fear crept up his spine, settling into his bones. It was slow, suffocating—and perfectly natural. After all, he had stacked the deck himself. I watched him do it. Every card, every placement, meticulously crafted so he could win. And yet…

  A four.

  “You cheated!” he cried, desperate now, as though clinging to the accusation could somehow undo the loss. The card landed face-up on the table with a light snap, like a sentence being passed.

  “Boohoo,” I said mockingly, tilting my head. “And here I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Can’t even lose with dignity.”

  He was still too stunned to respond. I leaned in across the table, voice low and calm, the way one might address a sobbing child.

  “Still, it was a good game. Entertaining, at least. But I won three of five, so here—free advice. Close your eyes before it ends. Makes it a little easier. Not by much, but… it helps.”

  With that, I raised the dagger high, watching his eyes begin to close as if surrendering to the inevitable. Then I drove the blade downward—not into him, but straight through the card still lying on the table. It pierced the wood with a satisfying thunk. His eyes flew open in confusion as I casually lifted the blade, the card impaled on its edge.

  There was something behind it.

  I twisted the dagger slightly, and with a few flicks, the blood-clotted surface peeled away to reveal the truth: another card had been hidden behind the four all along.

  An eight.

  “It seems I drew too many …” I said coolly, holding the cards up like a trophy. “I didn’t draw the next card—I drew two. But you were too busy panicking to notice. Lucky me.”

  He blinked in disbelief, mouth slightly agape. “I… I won?”

  I smiled, a flash of amusement dancing in my eyes. “Nope. You already admitted your loss, remember? The game ended the moment those words left your mouth.”

  With a casual flick, I tossed the dagger aside. It clattered harmlessly to the floor.

  “The rules are the rules,” I said with a shrug. “And you lost.”

  “You don’t exactly seem like the kind of person who follows rules,” he muttered, the edge of a plea curling into his voice.

  I paused and raised an eyebrow. He had a point.

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “Rules are only fun when they’re mine.”

  He swallowed hard as I leaned in again, this time smiling like a wolf who’d just found an injured deer. “So let’s play a different game. Do you have a coin?”

  His hands fumbled briefly, then he produced a silver coin from his pocket and held it out, trembling.

  “Let me guess,” he said, voice barely holding together. “I’m betting my life… on a coin flip?”

  “Exactly,” I purred. “And I call heads. Go on.”

  He stared at me like I was a riddle he couldn’t solve, eyes searching mine for some flicker of bluff. But I gave him nothing—only silence and a stare sharp enough to carve glass.

  With shaking hands, he tossed the coin into the air. It spun, glinting in the firelight, dancing in defiance of gravity. His eyes never left it.

  Mine, on the other hand, did.

  I turned my back on him and began walking away, humming softly to myself, not even bothering to look at the coin’s descent. It hit the dirt with a dull thud.

  “What? You’re not even going to look?” he called after me, stunned.

  I turned back slowly, a giggle escaping my lips.

  “Hmm? Oh, that? I just wanted to see if you’d actually do it, you madman.”

  And he had. Of course he had. Not that I gave him much choice—but still, the fact that he did it, that he threw the coin with his life on the line… That was something.

  “You’re letting me live?” he asked, eyes wide with disbelief, wonder, and just a flicker of hope.

  “For now,” I said, grinning. “As long as you remain useful, I’ll keep you around. Think of it as a reward. A pet with potential.”

  He blinked again, stunned into silence.

  “Come,” I said, walking further away. “We’ve got a few elves to kill.”