The name hit the air and hung there, thick and poisonous. The Conclave. Treason. The murder of the Sovereign. A flash of memory—the Sovereign's body, the scent of his blood—made rage, cold and absolute, surge through me. My hand tightened, and a bone in Pamat's wrist popped. He cried out, a thin, sharp sound.
Stupid. I knew it was stupid. But watching him touch her made rational thought impossible.
The Conclave’s influence ran this deep. Here, in a casino run by my traitorous former mentor. This wasn’t just a simple retrieval mission for the Regalia anymore. This was their territory.
And I had just marked Sabine as mine in front of one of their sycophants.
I kept my voice level, but the temperature in it dropped twenty degrees. “The Conclave doesn't own her. Now apologize.”
Pamat, pale and shaking, stared at the fury in my eyes and finally understood. He muttered something that might havebeen an apology and focused on his cards, cradling his injured wrist.
Sabine continued dealing. No acknowledgement of what had happened. But I saw the micro-tremor in her hands—not fear. Surprise. She wasn't used to being protected.
Dammit. That had been instinct.
The game continued. Pamat lost everything within minutes and left. The Nexian followed soon after. The Lyrikan siblings departed, leaving me alone with Sabine as she closed out the table.
“House takes thirty percent of dealer tips from private games,” I said, pushing a stack of chips toward her. “Which means to ensure you actually receive adequate compensation, the amount needs to be tripled.”
The stack was worth forty-five thousand credits.
“That's... excessive,” she said. The first words she'd spoken directly to me all night.
“It's mathematics.”
She looked at the chips, then at me. Her dark eyes were searching, calculating. “And the other thing? With Pamat?”
“Basic courtesy.”
“People don't protect dealers.”
“I'm not people.”
She processed that. “You'll want me for future private games?”
“Every night you're willing.”
Something shifted in her expression. A crack in the professional armor. “I'll check my schedule.”
She collected the chips and her dealing equipment and left. I stared at the closed door, Pamat's words still echoing. Qeth paid tribute to the Conclave. Which meant the traitors had sanctioned his little trap for the Regalia. They were watching.And I had just made Sabine a person of interest. My protection had just put a target on her back.
SABINE
Twenty-four hours later, the shift started like any other. Except it didn't. The memory of the previous night—the crack of bone, the name Conclave, the weight of Varrick’s protection—clung to me like a second skin.
The forty-five thousand credit tip sat in my account, real enough. The house had taken their thirty percent, leaving me with thirty thousand. More than I'd saved in five years. But it wasn't the credits that occupied my thoughts.
It was his reaction. Conclave. Most people went quiet when they heard that name. Varrick had turned violent. He hadn't just protected me from a drunk; he'd reacted to a threat I couldn't see. And that meant his protection wasn't a choice. If he was a player in that dangerous of a game, then being near him put me on the board. The warmth I’d felt from his attention was now mingled with a sharp, cold edge of fear.
I dealt opening hands to a table of Nexian merchants, running the shuffle on autopilot. Varrick arrived during the third hand, taking his usual seat. No mention of last night. Just a fifty-thousand credit buy-in and those red eyes watching me work.
We fell into our rhythm immediately, a silent conversation played out in prime numbers and mathematical constants. The other players fled the strange energy at the table, replaced by new ones who would soon do the same.
It was during a lull that Kreeg appeared. He leaned against the table, but his usual forced casualness was gone, replaced by a new urgency. His questions were more specific now, not about “unusual players,” but about the Vinduthi at my table. About me.
“The Administrator wants to know about your new regular,” he said, his voice low.
As he spoke, his hand rested on the felt, fingers tapping a deliberate, unnatural sequence. One-three-two. I cataloged it automatically. It wasn’t a nervous tic. It was a signal. For whom, I didn't know.
