Zak brightened a fraction, even as thunder muttered somewhere far off. “This,” he said, undoing the tie with a little flourish, “is civilization.”

  He unrolled the cloth. Dice tumbled into his palm—four small blocks of wood, edges worn smooth, pips burned into their faces. The numbers weren’t neat like a craftsman’s; they wandered slightly, some larger, some smaller. Toby recognized the look of something carved in stolen moments, more for the pleasure of the making than for anyone else’s approval.

  “You made those?” Reece asked.

  Zak puffed out his chest. “While Tutor Braith was introducing us to the history of treaties between lords no one remembers, yes.”

  Maxwell’s mouth twitched. “That explains your marks,” he said.

  Zak shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “I remember the important bits. ‘Don’t get stabbed for coin you’re not being paid,’ ‘don’t insult a man’s mother unless you can outrun him,’ and ‘never trust a lord who smiles too much.’ The rest is just names.”

  “Braith would throw you out a window if he heard you say that,” Reece said.

  Zak looked toward the tent’s flap. “We’ve already been tossed.”

  The rain hammered down even harder for a moment, as if in agreement.

  Toby shifted, feeling the meat settle in his stomach—it definitely needed more salt. “Got any good games?” he asked. “We played a few back home. Fast Five. Twins.”

  Zak’s eyes lit properly for the first time since the hornets. “Fast Five,” he said. “Quick hands, quicker temper. And Twins—” He rolled one of the dice across his knuckles with idle skill. “—now that’s a game. I know those. Got a couple more besides. High Tower, if you feel like losing coin you don’t have.”

  “We’re not gambling,” Maxwell said, without looking up from the strip of leather he’d started to re-plait out of habit.

  “Of course not, Ser,” Zak said promptly. “We’re just… practicing for a future in which we might.”

  Reece huffed a laugh, the sound almost lost under the roar above. He settled his back more comfortably against his bedroll and held out a hand. “Well,” he said, “we’ve got nowhere to go and nothing to do but listen to the world fall in. Let’s play Twins.”

  Zak’s grin turned sharp. “Now you’re speaking sense.”

  He leaned forward, clearing a small patch of ground between them where the canvas sagged lowest but didn’t drip. The dice clicked softly as he set them there, his fingers oddly delicate for someone who swung a sword like he swung language.

  Toby shifted closer, knees brushing Reece’s, the three of them forming a loose circle around the little pile of carved wood.

  “Twins, then,” Zak said. “Simple rules. Never simple men. I’ll show you the trick, and then you can pretend to hate it while secretly loving how often I win.”

  Toby opened his mouth to retort that Zak lost often enough at everything else, but another voice cut in, dry and amused.

  “Explain it clearly,” Maxwell said around a mouthful of smoked meat. “I don’t like losing to confusion.”

  Three heads turned. Maxwell tore off another bite, chewed, and swallowed, the corner of his mouth curling just enough to show he knew exactly how much surprise he’d just earned.

  “Count me in,” he said.

  For a moment, the only sound was the rain thundering on the canvas.

  Zak recovered first. “You play, Ser?” he asked, eyebrows climbing.

  Maxwell shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve sat out worse storms,” he said. “If I’m going to listen to you three bicker anyway, I might as well take your imaginary coin while I’m at it.”

  Zak grinned and rolled the dice into his palm, giving them a practiced shake. “All right then,” he said. “Twins it is: throw three dice; get doubles from one through six. You hit your double, you roll again. If you skip ahead by accident, we laugh at you for a wasted throw, but you still roll again. If you reroll a lower double, you slip backwards to it, your progress goes down with you.”

  Toby frowned. “So if you’re on fives and you roll double twos…?”

  “Then, well done, you start looking for threes again,” Zak said cheerfully. “And we mock you without mercy.”

  “Seems fair,” Reece said dryly.

  “First to six wins,” Zak finished, then tipped the dice into the cleared patch of ground. “Since I’m the one with culture, I’ll go first.”

  He rattled the dice between both hands like a priest doing a blessing and let them fall.

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  Three, three, five.

  Zak whooped. “See? The saints favor me.” He scooped them up again. “Double threes in one roll, that’s a sign.”

  Reece snorted. “You needed double ones first.”

  Zak froze. “...Right. I knew that.” He cleared his throat. “Practice cast. Proper roll now.”

  He tried again. Two, four, six.

  “Nothing,” Toby said.

  Zak leveled a finger at him. “Your commentary is not required at this time.”

  Toby’s throw went no better. Nor Maxwell’s, the one after that. The dice passed to Reece.

  Reece took the dice with a small, wry smile. “So. Doubles in order,” he said. “Simple enough.”

  “Entirely simple,” Zak said. “Which is why I’m clearly saving my luck for later rounds.”

  Reece rolled. One, one, three.

  “Saints,” Zak muttered. “Traitorous bits of wood.”

  “Double ones,” Reece said mildly. “And I roll again, yes?”

  “Until the world ends,” Zak grumbled.

  Reece’s second throw landed two, five, six.

  Zak perked up. “My turn—”

  “Still on ones,” Reece reminded him, “I’m already on twos.”

  Zak grinned. “It’s anyone’s game.”

  The dice went around the circle, clattering softly in the cramped space. Rain provided the rhythm—a constant pounding above, heavier than any drum. They played by feel more than sight, watching each other’s faces as much as the blocks of wood.

  Toby found he liked the way it made time slip. There was nothing to do but wait for the sky to empty itself, and waiting always gnawed at his nerves. So far, their scouting mission was less than successful.

  His roll turned up double ones after a handful of useless casts. He felt a little spark of satisfaction when Zak groaned.

  “Of course the brute gets steadier luck,” Zak said. “You’ve probably bargained with the saints of turnips and rain.”

  “Turnips don’t have saints,” Toby said. “If they did, we wouldn’t be eating them.”

  Maxwell’s throw landed one, one, two.

  Zak stared. “You said you were new.”

  “I said no such thing,” Maxwell said. “I said count me in.”

  Reece hid a smile. Toby watched Maxwell’s hands as he rolled again—watched the calm, efficient motion of fingers that had strung bows and dressed wounds and broken men. The dice left his grip in a clean, unhurried arc. Three, three, six.

  “Bonus roll,” Maxwell said.

  Toby felt for it—that subtle press in the air that came whenever the Art woke. But there was nothing. No weight, no shift, no prickle over his skin. Just rain and breath and the faint, warm reek of smoked meat.

  He wondered, if Maxwell were using the Art, would he feel it? He always had, except for the climb.

  The game carried on. Zak blustered. Reece focused. Toby did his best not to overthink each throw. The rules were simple; the luck was not. He could sit on fours for ten rolls and then lose them in a heartbeat to an ill-timed pair of ones. He could have five bonus rolls by rolling higher pairs and have everyone howl at him, yet when he needed them, they never came.

  Maxwell finished the first game with a neat pair of sixes that seemed to fall out of his hand rather than be thrown. He didn’t even look particularly pleased—just nodded once and set the dice down.

  Zak stared at the winning cast as if it had personally insulted him. “Beginner’s luck,” he said. “Doesn’t count.”

  “It counts,” Reece said. “Very much.”

  “Another game!” Zak announced. “Anyone can win one by accident.”

  The second game went no better for Zak. Toby came close—for a glorious few minutes he sat on fives, feeling as if the world had finally decided to balance itself. Then a pair of threes dropped out of nowhere and dragged him down. Reece nearly took it next, only for a stray pair of ones to mock him back to the beginning.

  Maxwell coasted. That was the only word Toby could think of for it. No rush. No hesitation. Doubles came when he needed them, late enough that it didn’t look like showing off, early enough that no one could call it hard-won. When the third pair of sixes landed in front of him that night, a third clean win, Zak set his own dice down with exaggerated care.

  “You’re not actually new to this,” Zak said. “Are you, Ser?”

  Maxwell wiped thumb and forefinger together, as if dusting off luck that had collected there. “I’ve been alive a while,” he said. “Long enough to learn how to count to six.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Zak muttered.

  Reece’s gaze went quick from Maxwell’s face to his hands. “Are you using the Art?” he asked, half serious, half curious child.

  “If I was,” Maxwell said, “I’d hardly tell you. You’d complain until the rain stopped.”

  Zak threw his hands up. “So you are.”

  Toby listened again, searching the air the way he’d learned to when steel sang or when Maxwell’s bow had drawn that impossible, heavy line. There was nothing here but the familiar pulse of his own heartbeat, the wet weight of the storm, the quiet scrape of their breathing beginning to slow against the canvas.

  “If you were pushing it,” Toby said, “Surely, I’d feel it.”

  Maxwell met his eyes. In the cramped light, his expression was hard to read. “Then I’m just lucky,” he said. “And you’re tired enough to start seeing ghosts in dice.”

  Zak eyed him suspiciously. “You sure you’re not cursed-blessed?”

  “Positive,” Maxwell said. “Now get some sleep. I’ll take first watch. Zak after me, then Reece. Toby, you’re last.”

  Zak, never one to argue with the promise of not standing in the rain, grumbled but obeyed. He kicked off his boots and wiggled down into his bedroll, still muttering about traitorous bits of carved wood and saint-favored old men. Reece lay down with a soft sigh and was out almost before he finished turning onto his side.

  Toby stayed awake long enough to hear Maxwell unlatch the tent flap and look out into the storm. A sheet of cold air rolled in with him and then was cut off as the canvas fell back. The rain kept beating, but at some point, sleep took him all the same.