Perched on the edge of the Keep''s roof, Rhody’s muscles seethe like a forge stoked to its limit, her arms quaking as she pulls against a rope. Her breath bursts out in ragged hisses, each exhale a battle. Below, the pack swings like a mule caught in quicksand—stubborn, heavy, and unwilling to budge. It clings to the tower’s face, its weight dragging against the stone and mocking her every effort.


    “Move,” she growls through gritted teeth. The coarse rope tears at her palms. Her fingers ache with the urge to let go, to release the cursed thing and let it crash into the shadows below. But the thought of Zeph’s cutting disappointment and the stakes of their mission chain her to the task.


    The village of Row looms below, its scattered lanterns like a constellation of stars. Sounds of chaos simmer up from the windows across the Keep: the sharp crack of gunfire, the ring of steel meeting steel, and the hollers of some spoiled brat who hasn''t shut up since they started their climb. All of it fades, eclipsed by the fibers of the rope biting into her hands and the inferno raging in her limbs. Toil. Her thoughts wander.


    <hr>


    The courtyard of the King of Wands Temple buzzed with life the day Rhody first laid eyes on a Royal Tarot Deck. Its towering spires pierced the sky, their intricate carvings glinting in the sunlight. Fiery red banners rippled in the breeze, each emblazoned with the King’s golden emblem, a staff wreathed in flames. Beneath the spires, grand stone columns encircled the courtyard, their bases etched with winding depictions of the god’s endeavors. The air was rich with incense, a heady mix of cedar and frankincense, mingling with the murmur of awed voices.


    Rhody, nine years old and rail-thin, hid behind one of the towering columns. Her patched dress hung loosely on her, and her tangled inky-blue hair cascaded into her wide, dirt-smudged eyes. Barefoot, her calloused toes gripped the stone as she leaned forward, peeking at the scene before her. The acolyte, her flowing robes edged with gilded patterns, stood at the courtyard''s center. Her deck gleamed like treasure, each card catching the sun''s light and shimmering.


    The crowd gasped as the acolyte revealed destinies of those fated members of her audience. Her calm voice belied secrets as though reading from the gods’ own script. Rhody’s breath caught—awed, envious, yearning. This was power. This was divinity.


    From that day forward, Rhody’s dreams were steeped in the allure of fate’s mysteries. Every moment she wasn’t working—scrubbing the temple floors or hauling water for the priests—she spent in the temple''s back alley. Reading the faces of her fellow orphans, watching for the faint twitch of an eye or the telltale quirk of the mouth, she wagered and bluffed, mastering another deck of cards. Five-card draw became her second language. With it, she might be able to afford a third.


    She learned the art of bluffing, feigning hesitation in a hand’s slight tremor or the downward flick of her gaze. But the rush of a perfectly played hand paled next to the thought of holding a Royal Tarot Deck. Those cards, blessed by the King of Wands himself, could reveal a person’s divine rank—their place in the intricate web of existence. Scraping together her winnings, she purchased a battered old Tarot deck from a second-hand shop, an invaluable tool in achieving her ultimate goal. The next week, she won a book on reading the cards off one of the temple''s elders.


    <hr>


    The next Spring, bittersweet news came in the announcement of a contest to become the temple''s next acolyte, the position left vacant in a tragic accident. Royal Tarot Decks, bound to their acolytes, were expensive for the temple to create. As such, positions among the acolytes didn’t open often and were reserved for youth, who had more time to train and maximize the temple''s investment in them. Knowing this might be her only chance to claim her dream, she gave it everything she had. Studying any materials she could get her hands on and drilling gymnastics routines until her muscles screamed. Even then, she felt the gap between herself and the others—children from wealthier families who had tutors and training, whose Tarot decks weren’t scuffed and peeling like hers.


    Brenna. Sweet, perfect Brenna. Her friend, her rival. Her jealous obsession. Each of the three aspects of the contest—reciting sacred texts, gymnastics, and Tarot reading—was just a part of who she was. Rhody used to look up to her; now she saw her as a mountain to summit.


    “You don’t have to push yourself so hard, Rhody,” Brenna said after practice one day, offering a hand to pull Rhody out of yet another failed cartwheel. “Don''t worry, it’s okay if this isn’t for you. You''re great at cards!”


    Rhody smiled through clenched teeth, her palms burning from the rough stone. “I’m fine.”


    But she wasn’t. When the final test came, her readings faltered. She couldn’t remember the second half of the passage she''d tried to memorize, and her gymnastics routine ended with her lying on her back. She came in last, dead last, her performance so poor that Father Herus didn’t bother to tally her score.


    Brenna was chosen, of course. Rhody watched her ascend to the altar, radiating pride in the robes of an acolyte, her new Royal Tarot Deck gleaming in her hands. The bitterness burned worse than failure. Brenna hardly even tried.


    <hr>


    Over the next three years, Rhody continued to push herself, hoping desperately for another chance. She begged Brenna to share insights on her training, trying to replicate it with her limited resources.


    The conversation always went the same way. "Rhody, you''re thirteen... another year and you won''t even be eligible..." Brenna would say, trying to dissuade her. "Besides, it''s not as great as it seems."


    That Fall, Brenna disappeared, leaving nothing but a note in her chambers. The temple elders released a statement that she had taken a pilgrimage, but Rhody knew she wouldn’t be coming back. Brenna loved the idea of being an acolyte, but it didn’t challenge her. She’d grown bored.


    When the temple elders sought a replacement, Rhody’s name wasn’t even whispered. She’d failed too spectacularly. The other orphans snickered behind her back, calling her "Table-scraps.” Even Father Herus, who indulged her endless questions about the gods, seemed to pity her.


    But Rhody wouldn’t give up. She poured herself into her training, cutting all frivolities from her life. Her Tarot readings grew sharper, her interpretations more profound. Still, the elders dismissed her. She had her chance, and she failed.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    One night, sitting cross-legged on the temple floor with her deck before her, Rhody flipped a card over slowly, meditating on her next step. The King of Wands stared back at her, the card’s golden edges gleaming in the candlelight. Her pulse quickened. The message was clear: This wasn’t over.


    <hr>


    Father Herus’s vice was no secret. The old priest, with his stooped shoulders and threadbare cassock, loved gambling as much as he loved to preach. His wispy gray hair never stayed combed, and his sunken eyes, perpetually shadowed, gave him the air of a man who wrestled nightly with his conscience—and usually lost. His cracked fingers often fiddled with a weathered coin, his luck charm, as he recounted tales of divine wisdom from the pulpit with a charm that belied his failing stature. Yet, at the poker table, his charisma faltered.


    Over the years, Rhody had played countless hands with him, learning his tells—the way his left eyebrow twitched when he bluffed, how his breath hitched just a moment too long when holding a strong hand. Back then, he would lose a few coins, chuckle at his folly, and wave her off with a self-deprecating grin. But lately, his losses had grown larger, the laugh lines around his mouth giving way to deeper creases of worry. His coin purse hung pitifully light on his belt. Each ante seemed like a prayer for deliverance that the gods refused to answer.


    Rhody knew the acolyte position was still vacant. And she knew they would never offer it to her. Unless…


    <hr>


    Rhody riffled the deck, the cards shuffling with a satisfying hiss. She dealt five cards each, her movements practiced and deliberate. Across the table, Father Herus rubbed his temples, his stack of coins pitifully small.


    “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, fanning out his cards. His expression tightened, but Rhody spotted that telltale twitch in his left eyebrow. A bluff.


    “You’re right,” she said lightly, rearranging her cards. “But here we are.”


    Father Herus groaned as she pushed a bet into the center of the table. “You’re relentless.”


    “That’s what makes me good,” Rhody said, her tone calm, her gaze sharp as she discarded a card and drew its replacement.


    Father Herus hesitated, then discarded two cards with a sigh. “All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”


    The pot grew as they upped the stakes, coins glinting faintly in the lamplight. Finally, the moment came to lay down their cards.


    Father Herus revealed his hand first. “Queen high straight,” he said, his voice tinged with satisfaction. "What ya got?"


    “Nice." Rhody said, her grin slow and deliberate as she flipped her cards. “But not nice enough.” Three Jacks and two sevens lay in front of her. "Full house. I know you love those, Mr. Preacher."


    Father Herus groaned, leaning back in his chair. “You’re bleeding me dry,” he muttered, his eyes growing wet.


    “How about a wager?” Rhody offered, gathering the cards to shuffle.


    He hesitated. "I don''t have much more to give you..."


    Rhody pulled a hefty leather sack from her patchy book-satchel and set it on the table. "Your last three months'' losses, one hand. I don''t want any more of your money."


    She saw his hands begin to shake. A good sign. “What... what do you want in return?” he grumbled.


    “The acolyte position,” she said, dealing out their cards. “If I win, you''ll back me. Convince the other elders I can handle it.”


    Father Herus froze, his face tightening. “Rhody, I can''t—” he said, "It... It wouldn''t be a good fit for you."


    "You''re wrong!" Her voice strained, breaking her expertly-crafted demeanor. "I know what happened in that contest, but I''ve come so far since then. I''m better than Brenna. I actually care about this."


    His eyes narrowed upon her. "It''d be an abuse of my position..."


    "Let fate decide it." she interrupted. “If you win, I’ll leave the temple and find something else."


    He let out a sigh that carried the weight of resignation, and picked up his cards.


    <hr>


    The powerful rhythm of Applause''s barks ends, and Rhody returns to her senses. Shit, she''s run out of bullets.


    The pack has to reach the roof. If Rhody falters now, their entire mission could crumble like a castle of cards.


    She jerks at the rope, and the pack scrapes upward with a reluctant screech. Rhody gasps at the movement, dragging in icy air. For a fleeting moment, hope stirs in her. “Almost there,” she whispers, the words pleading.


    She leans back, bracing her blistered feet against the roof''s edge. The motion sends a shiver of terror through her. One misstep, and she’ll tumble over the edge. She grits her teeth.


    “Come on,” she hisses, her voice edged with desperation. She can see Zeph’s smirk in her mind, hear her sharp, irreverent quip: Slowing down’s for people who don’t have a warlord to kill. The words carve into her.


    Zeph thinks I can do this.


    Another heave. The pack inches higher. Sweat stings her eyes, blurring her vision, and frustration wells up within, threatening tears she refuses to shed.


    Tools, ammunition, Zeph''s logbook—the pack carries everything they need to bring down Karich Urough. She won’t fail. She can’t.


    "Rhody!" She hears Zeph''s commanding voice and flinches, her grip tightening. Damn it, why am I so weak?!


    Zeph is incredibly capable, but she isn’t invincible. And she certainly isn’t patient. If the pack doesn’t reach the roof soon, Rhody’s tender palms will be the least of her problems.


    The pack grates upward, inch by agonizing inch. Rhody pauses, her head drooping forward as she gulps air. Her body shakes, her arms feel like jelly, and the temptation to tie off the rope for a moment’s rest gnaws at her resolve. No one would know.


    I would know.


    With a feral growl, Rhody squats and yanks one last time. The pack lurches, cresting the edge and teetering back against her as she lands on her ass.


    Rhody collapses onto the cold stone, her limbs splayed, her chest heaving. The length of the Tower blurs in her vision, mocking her exhaustion with its indifferent glow.


    “Never again,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.


    "Rhody!" Zeph shouts again, jolting her upright. The battle below rages on. Groaning, she drags herself to her knees and grips the pack like a stubborn beast. With one determined motion, she slings it over her shoulder.


    <hr>


    Below, in the Keep''s kitchen, Zeph moves with feral grace. Her every step is sharp, deliberate. She whips about the room with Applause, parrying sword strikes with its barrel.


    A guard charges, the tip of his saber driving toward her midsection. Zeph doesn’t dodge—she flows, her long coat flaring out behind her. The blade whistles harmlessly past her side. Spinning on her heel, she rounds Applause with the precision of a striking viper. The man collapses to the ground, knocked out cold.


    "This is your defense, Karich?!" Zeph bellows, her voice cutting deep into the Keep''s labyrinthine tunnels. “Send me someone worthy!”


    Her words barely settle before another guard barrels toward her, a jagged blade raised high. His face twists in a grimace of desperation, his eyes flickering between Zeph and the fallen already littering the ground. He charges with a roar, but Zeph steps into his momentum, her motion incredibly sudden. The butt of Applause slams into his temple with a crunch. His roar dies in his throat as he rebounds against a stone wall. Zeph catches the hilt of his falling blade, spinning it into her free hand without missing a beat. She resumes her hunt.