THEO Thorne tapped his middle finger on the table twice. The dealer flicked him a new card. Theo kept his chin up as he snuck a glance at it, slightly lifting it up.
A reserve card.
A good reserve card.
Fata Morgana was a game he was a master at. His luck was golden and his poker face was steely—the card table was always at his command.
He never lost a game.
Theo looked up from his cards.
The Jeweled Palace truly was a beautiful place.
With sprawling ceilings of glass and gorgeous multicolored stained-glass windows, the most dazzling and elegant gambling hall boasted its title loud and proud as the grandest in the West Nest of the Emporium.
It was meticulously designed and organized, each game diligently color coded.
The Trigger Finger tables in the far left corner flaunted a rich ruby red—ideal for a game that involved certain death in most situations—with croupiers dressed in matching red vests and burgundy shirts, their hair equally as red.
The Oblivion tables to the right were sapphire blue, the men and women manning the games in blue coats and shaved heads speckled with bright blue flecks.
Beautiful women in sparkly amethyst dresses and tightly braided purple hair watched over the Penumbra tables of violet with purple tinted eyes and shadowed lids.
The bar hugging the wall directly to Theo's right twinkled brightly with bottles and glasses of varying colors, a shelved rainbow of brilliance, barmen and waitresses in silver and gold pouring wine and spirits before gliding from table to table with glasses and goblets.
The Jeweled Palace lived up to its name: a spectacular glass kaleidoscope.
"Your turn, ser."
Theo turned his gaze back to the table, to the dealer ahead of him watching him carefully. Theo's eyes flicked to the third man at the table. His opponent.
Bo-Hal D'Farah. The owner of The Jeweled Palace.
Bo-Hal D'Farah was a charismatic guy, there was never any doubt about that. He was slick—slick like grease—a well-organized professional renowned for his pioneering of gambling hall management. He was charming, which one would assume was a given for a guy as irritably attractive as he was. It was just unfortunate that his attitude and demeanor was nothing short of rotten. He was nasty, conniving and nothing short of cruel, all he hid masterfully behind a false, untrustworthy smile and cutting charm.
Theo noted the way the croupier before him shuffled his weight in his seat.
He knew the young man dressed smartly in an emerald vest and slicked back dark green hair was trying to communicate Theo's cards to his opponent—it was the job of all croupiers to keep all the gold on the tables in house, and what better way to do that than make every player lose.
But Theo was no fool. He knew about such tactics. He developed a few of the now popular ways of cheating himself. Theo could see it as plain as day as the croupier telegraphed all his moves crystal clearly. And Theo was not easily deceived.
"Thinking thoughts of defeat, runt?"
Theo's attention whipped back to D'Farah as he slouched back into his chair.
"Your expressions need work," the balding dog remarked. "I can see your cards written all over your pitiful face."
Theo simply smiled. "Or perhaps my fooling of you is working." He shrugged. "But that's something we'll see at the end of the hand."
YOU ARE READING
Raven
Fantasy#1 in The Aldoran Chronicles The Black Raven Syndicate is the most prolific crime organization in Florain. Spies, assassins, and thieves stalk the streets, all on the hunt for their next conquest. Among them is the infamous Silver Tongue, Theo Thorn...
