"You obviously pissed someone off,” Pocket said, humming faintly on her shoulder. His light seemed to glow just a bit brighter—either from nerves or a tiny remnant of pride.

  “No kidding,” Seven breathed, locked in place. It seemed foolish to remain at the entrance. Foolish to remain in the mine at all, but the lift was long gone, and when she swiped her card to recall it, the dice powering the thing flashed a few times and let out a shrill beep. With a sickening feeling, she realized that she might well have brushed against the damn thing. “No going back that way,” she said, though she doubted there was a way back at all. Above, the tunnels had been well lit and well-structured, their ceilings sweeping and wide after centuries of excavation. This tunnel looked like someone had excavated it by hand—yesterday.

  The walls shimmered overhead with unstable dice ore that begged to be mined, but mining it would probably bring the entire tunnel down around her head; cracks dotted the ceiling, signs of obvious structural damage.

  Seven crept forward, careful not to disturb anything in her wake. She passed the taped-together collection of pickaxes and wondered if any of their owners still lived.

  “Why would they dump me down here?” she whispered, afraid that a higher volume would send the entire tunnel cascading down. “This whole thing should be shut down.”

  “Why else? Money.”

  “They can’t make money if I’m dead.”

  “Yeah, but if you live, they get to keep the spoils of your toils, so to speak.”

  Seven rolled her eyes. “You’re a poet now.”

  Pocket let out a tiny sigh. “Great art is never appreciated in its time.”

  “It usually is posthumously.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Seven stooped and grabbed a lantern with trembling hands. The dice within was almost rotted out, but there was a faint glow remaining, and she tapped the glass a few times with a until it flared to life, illuminating the tunnel. It ended in a dark maw up ahead—the tunnel opening up, if her hunch was right. She crept forward on light feet, cursing herself for her foolish idea.

  She’d wanted to investigate Rook’s operation firsthand, of course, but it was clear she hadn’t listened well enough to Emmet’s warnings. It spoke volumes of his destitution that he was willing to risk her life like this for a bit of help—or, perhaps Emmet didn’t really care what happened to her as long as her death sent out the proper warning signals about LMC. Even Seven’s death would be somewhat of an incident—provided anyone was able or willing to properly identify her at all.

  Granted, death or not, she’d never been close to so many dice shards in her life. Maybe she couldn’t yet keep any of it, but she’d find a way around those clauses soon, and with luck, she might finally solve the rest of her problems. And besides that, Rook the Rounder’s involvement in the mines made her more certain of the path forward. Maybe Jom Rook ran the mine, but her true enemy controlled its fortune, and Seven would have her cut.

  “Everything down here is unstable,” Seven commented, wincing as a cascade of dirt rained over her head. “Why would they bother trying to mine it at all?”

  “Because it’s liquid gold,” Pocket replied, bouncing nervously on her shoulder. “Seven’s Fold has the highest concentration of dice ore they’ve ever found in the mines. The best stuff is down here, but no one ever makes it back with any of it.”

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  “So why keep sending people?”

  “Because luck has a way of changing, given enough time.”

  Luck. Seven huffed a laugh. She’d been lucky once. And her luck had certainly changed, but not for the better. Still, maybe she was about due for some good luck.

  They passed through the narrow tunnel and into a wider one where Seven could finally breathe more freely. This one seemed to have less structural damage, though the dice ore glittered faintly, shifting and blinking overhead. It was hard to keep track of all of it. Nearby, a pool of water sparkled in the darkness, reflecting her lamp. Seven set it down and drew her pickaxe from her back, her hands shaking. Its weight felt foreign in her palms—so different from the smooth, glowing dice she’d once rolled across silk-lined tables in gambling parlors.

  “This is insane,” Pocket said, his glow dimming to match his mood. “Even for someone with an obvious death wish.”

  “It’s not a death wish,” Seven said, though her voice lacked any real conviction. She stared at the wall of glittering ore overhead, calculating. Pocket hadn’t been wrong when he’d suggested that the vein they were in was valuable. Looking at it, she almost couldn’t blame her employer for sending someone—anyone—down here.

  Almost.

  And the chunks of dice ore overhead weren’t just valuable—they were pristine, most of them glowing as brightly as stars in the wall. Seven didn’t need to be a miner to know that bright dice were valuable; in fact, they were practically the only dice she could throw at all.

  “Do you think they’re combat dice?” she whispered. “Or maybe summoning dice?”

  “That one might be pink,” Pocket said, peering over her shoulder. “Or it’s just ketchup from breakfast.”

  Seven snorted, readying her pickaxe. Regardless of what skills were attached to the dice, any of them would fetch plenty of chips. That meant more money to get out of her destitute surrounding, more money to bribe her fellow miners with, and more resources to get to the bottom of Rook’s treachery.

  That familiar itch began in the back of her mind, the same one she’d felt as she’d watched her fellow miners rolling grimy dice between their fingers. How long had it been since she’d felt it? The gambler’s high? The electric thrill of possibility that had destroyed her life once already? A part of her recognized it for what it was. Knew, even, that she should walk away. Her game with Emmet last night had barely been one at all. It was an easy bet, and while she’d nearly ruined herself by entering the table drunk, she knew, deep down, that she would have wiped the table completely if she’d been of sound mind.

  But here was an opportunity to hit it big. An opportunity to either get rich, or die trying.

  Ninety-nine percent of gamblers quit before hitting it big, she thought. And I’m not about to turn around and hide the rest of my shift.

  She hefted the pickaxe higher.

  “Besides,” she added, trying to sound casual, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Famous last words,” Pocket squeaked, hanging onto her shoulder with as much force as his stubby little arms could muster. “Literally. They’ll carve them on your tombstone.”

  Seven shifted her position to aim at the richest vein of ore she could see in the darkness—a cluster of what looked like glowing combat d20s embedded in the rock—and her mouth went dry just looking at them. She’d had better, of course, but in her current situation, any dice would be life-changing, provided she didn’t drain it dry. And if she could smuggle it out.

  One good strike, one lucky break, and she could change her fate. The pickaxe was heavier now, not from actual weight, but from the magnitude of the moment. This was her first real chance since losing everything. Since the night she’d bet everything and watched her world crumble.

  It hadn’t really been her fault. Something was off about the bet to Seven. Something she could smell a mile away after spending so much time in the gambling houses. Rook had set her up—she was sure of it.

  No time for that now, she told herself. Get out of this mess first.

  She raised the pickaxe over her head, muscles trembling—

  “Wait!” Pocket squeaked near her ear, and she nearly dropped the pickaxe. “Company protocol. You have to roll first.”

  Seven laughed. “What are they going to do, send someone down here to find me?” She hefted her pickaxe and swung.

  The pickaxe didn’t fall.

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