Lord Ferin's favorite game was Whisper Tables.
A high-stakes rumor gamble, hosted in rotating secret salons around the capital. The rules were simple: bring a secret, bet on whether it's true, and win if your gamble unveils a confirmed truth or a collapse.
The more dangerous the whisper, the richer the reward—and the deeper the humiliation when proven false.
He arrived masked, as always. A raven-feathered half-mask, silver-trimmed. Around him: other lords and heirs, laughing behind jeweled masks, drunk on vintage wine and immunity.
Tonight, Serina had seeded the table with precision.
She whispered to a gilded noblewoman who owed her favors. That woman passed the secret to another. By the time it reached Ferin, it had been polished to the perfect bait.
A whisper: A name buried in the Flame Relic case.
A bet: Ten gold marks that the name exists.
Ferin bit.
By morning, half the court was whispering it.
By noon, the Crown had issued a gag order.
By sunset, Serina leaked the name again—this time, with context.
The girl who lived. The scapegoat that vanished. The file that never recorded her.
"They're scared," Serina said.
"Good," I replied.
"Now they know we can make noise."