A phalanx of shield-bearing soldiers and knights advanced through the castle corridors, Eileen enmeshed within their armored nucleus. Every encountered soul—patrolling guards, serving maids—was swiftly swarmed and subdued.
"Lady Eileen! What madness is this?" a voice shrieked.
No reply came. Eileen marched forward, her boots echoing like war drums.
Distant music and laughter crescendoed until—
??CRASH!??—the vanguard slammed open the grand hall's double doors.
Merrymaking froze mid-cadence. Nobles gaped like gutted fish.
At the high table, Count Caspar hovered his wine goblet mid-toast, bald pate glistening above his black velvet doublet. The smile plastered across his beard-framed face turned waxen.
"Dearest Uncle," Eileen's voice dripped poisoned honey. "Long overdue, this reunion."
"Niece! Hah! I’ve been meaning to seek you out." His eyes darted leftward. "All depart! Kinship requires privacy."
Wine cups clattered as nobles retreated in choreographed panic.
Eileen tilted her chin toward Hórsal. "You too."
The hall's thunderous door closure left only two figures:
Eileen, armored fists clenched.
Caspar, velvet-gloved palms spread.
Twelve paces of polished marble separated them.
……
Two dice cups, each holding two ivory cubes. Two gamblers shook their vessels, then revealed numbers. Others placed wagers.
A crude game of chance.
For a lich versed in a thousand arcane arts—perceiving reality through mystical senses, not mortal eyes—this proved child's play.
Adam jostled through the throng, stacking stolen coins with gauntleted precision. The hoard swelled with each round.
"Gambling occur in the depths?" the cat hissed.
"Liches abhor uncertainty. Assured victory alone holds appeal. Mortals prove useful here."
"How acquired this skill?"
"Acquired moments ago. Their raucous disputes proved instructive."
"You discerned through walls?"
"Lichdom grants no sight nor hearing. Arcane perception's reach depends on mana reserves."
"Admirable cunning, but curb your greed. Excess draws eyes."
Too late. Adam's pile dominated the table.
The tavern's cacophony died. The bard's lute hung silent. Even Parth, the red-haired mercenary, shouldered through gawkers.
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Adam cradled his silver hoard, meeting dozens of widened eyes.
A gambler clutching his last coins squeezed through the crowd, vacating a seat. The remaining red-bearded bald man gestured Adam forward, malice glinting in his eyes.
Adam remained statue-still.
The bald man repeated the invitation. Thugs materialized, encircling the lich. Adam, lichen-like in indifference, refused comprehension of threat.
A thug finally manhandled him into the seat.
"What signifies this?"
"Direct challenge. Your winnings offend."
"Rules prohibit success?"
"Unwritten codes. Commence losing."
"Why forfeit earned silver?"
"Unless you crave bloodshed."
"Combat poses no challenge."
The cat sighed audibly.
The bald opponent planted his boot on the chair, rattling the dice cup violently before slamming it down. "Ten silvers per round!"
Adam mirrored the motion with eerie gentleness.
Wagers flooded the bald man's side. Only three coins backed Adam—one from Parth.
"Reveal!" The bald man flipped his cup. "Ten points!" Cheers erupted.
Adam unveiled his dice. Eleven.
Silence descended.
"Again!"
……
"Reveal!"
Bald opponent: six points. Adam: eight.
……
"Reveal!"
Bald opponent: seven. Adam: eleven.
……
"Reveal!"
Bald opponent: eight. Adam: twelve.
The game collapsed. All wagers flooded Adam's side, nullifying odds. Spectators became mere observers.
Sweat cascaded down the bald man's temples. His remaining eleven coins clinked pitifully against Adam's seven-hundred-coin hoard.
The barkeep whispered urgent counsel. With guttural growl, the bald man scooped his meager silver and retreated with eight henchmen.
Tavern patrons erupted in jeers, their derision staining the bald man's neck crimson.
As the crowd dispersed, Adam sat motionless amidst his metallic bounty.
"Now prepare for combat. Twenty brutes minimum. Can you subdue them without revealing your nature?" The cat's voice dripped sardonic venom.
Parth lingered nearby, clutching his modest winnings. After hesitation, he returned to his cohort with hushed words.
Music resumed its facade of merriment. Yet the air now crackled with tension. Every patron's gaze traced the armored anomaly in their midst.
……
Eileen inhaled deeply, tilting her chin upward with porcelain composure. "Your steward claimed urgent matters, yet I find revelry. What merits such celebration? Should not your niece partake in joy?"
"Trifling... affairs." Caspar swayed against the table, wine-stained lips curling. "State... your purpose."
"Did you not summon me via missive? Our plight demands your aid."
"Ah! The letter!" Caspar's slap rattled goblets. "Recall now—withdraw your claim. Futile struggle."
"Withdraw? You summoned me for this?" Eileen's nails bit her palms.
"Else wouldst thou heed?" Caspar's jowls quivered with mirth. "Green girl! Though your sire's will names you heir—what weight parchment against absent armies? The King decrees testament's validity. Your... brother—"
"He is NOT my brother!" Her voice spiked an octave higher.
"Your father's bastard, then." Caspar spread his hands. "Duke Behir's byblow."
"Nor bastard! No such spawn existed in my father's lifetime!"
"How else to name him?" Caspar shrugged. "The Crown proclaims him Behir's get. The dukedom shall pass to him. You may retain your maternal estates—provided you wed my son and renounce your house name."
Eileen's gaze crystallized into glacial fury.
"How favorable these terms! Retain your wealth, avoid bloodshed, spare your rabble from slaughter. Brilliance incarnate!"
Eileen's lowered gaze trembled. "You vowed fealty to my father's heir."
"My oath bound me to House Behir. You wear no ducal coronet."
??CRASH!?? The grand doors burst anew.
Eileen's soldiers flooded inward, shields interlocking around her. Caspar's own troops swarmed the hall, encircling her retinue.
The chamber became an armored hive.
"Dear niece," Caspar purred, "this rabble cannot prevail."
"You scorn their valor?"
"Scorn? Hah! Perhaps."
"Then let our forces test mettle!"
……
Adam exited the tavern, coin-sack bulging. Before he could mount his skeletal steed, two dozen ragged cutthroats materialized.
"Foreseen complication," the cat drawled. "Reveal your lich-nature? Summon magic? The cathedral's paladins would stage splendid spectacle."
The red-bearded bald man brandished a dagger. "Yield your silver, cheat. Final warning!"
