Chapter Seventeen #2
Orrin drinks fast. Loud. Likes the sound of his own voice.
The man to Ronyn’s left taps twice when he’s bluffing. Can’t help it. Fingers twitch like they’re itching for absolution.
Across from him, a quiet smith with a burn scar down his forearm never drinks during a hand. Smart. Dangerous.
Ronyn files it all away.
The first few hands, he plays exactly as intended—tentative, sloppy, too honest. He folds too early. Calls when he shouldn’t. Wins a lucky round to keep himself in the game. Lets Orrin win with unnecessary theatrics.
“Ahh, bad luck, sunshine,” Orrin crows, raking in the coin.
Ronyn laughs along, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. Like the loss bothers him.
It doesn’t.
Loss is useful.
Brings down the walls. Erases the threat.
By the fourth hand, the pot grows. Someone orders another round. Someone else slaps Ronyn on the shoulder hard enough to jostle his cards.
“Beginner’s mercy only lasts so long,” Orrin warns, teeth flashing.
Ronyn finally looks at his hand properly.
It’s good.
Very good.
But winning now would end the game.
Losing would let it begin.
He sees the path to winning three moves ahead—knows exactly when to raise, when to bait, when to break Orrin’s grin clean off his face.
Instead, he hesitates.
Raises just a little too late.
Plays the hand like a man who almost knows what he’s doing.
The quiet smith across the table eyes him more carefully now.
So he falters.
The final card lands.
Orrin whoops, slapping his cards down. “Full house!”
Groans ripple around the table.
Ronyn exhales, slow and theatrical, then reveals his hand.
Silence.
He had the better play. Had it the whole time. And chose not to take it. Folded it away piece by piece, step by deliberate step.
“Ah,” Ronyn says mildly, pushing his remaining coins forward. “Knew I should’ve trusted my gut.”
Orrin laughs so hard he nearly spills his ale. “Told ya! Outsiders always overthink it.”
Ronyn grins, wide and sheepish. “Guess I’ll stick to ale, then.”
Around the table, shoulders loosen. Laughter returns. Someone claps him on the back again—harder this time.
He’s no threat. Just another fool with coin and curiosity.
Exactly where he wants to be.
“A round on the house, sunshine,” Orrin says, slamming a fresh tankard on the table before Ronyn. “I almost feel bad for bleedin’ ya dry. Almost.” He winks with a cheater’s smile.
Ronyn feels his pockets, making sure his stolen coins don’t hang too heavy or loud. “To commiserate over my losses,” he announces, raising the tankard in salute.
Orrin clinks his tankard. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”
Such an ignorant fucking idiot.
Ronyn huffs a laugh, drawing a long pull from the tankard.
He looks around, as if he’s noticing the crowd of too many bodies, the closeness, for the first time. “Is it always this busy around here?”
Questions look less like prying and more like curiosity if they start superficial.
“Vyrhal is constant. When the realms are as fucked as ours, the right to defend ourselves is all a man has left. Weapons will always be needed. And Vyrhal forges the finest.”
Ronyn agrees instantly. “Too right, my friend.”
But every blade cuts the same, no matter where it comes from.
“Trade is certainly booming in Vyrhal, it seems. Good to see smithies finally getting paid their dues.”
Find a way to become one of them. That’s another rule.
“Vyrhalian weapons are second to none, sunshine. King Thalmyr even overlooks his own smithies in Virellin to trade with us. You said so yourself: we put Virellin smithies to shame,” he brags, earning grunts of agreement and pride from his men.
Interesting. Why would Thalmyr do that? Revryn is a better weaponsmith than these idiots and Thalmyr knows it.
“Too right. That’s a hell of a nod, if the king himself’s tipping his hat,” Ronyn comments, molding the conversation.
Fuck King Thalmyr.
“Sends his finest guards to collect. They personally escort them back to Virellin Castle, they do,” Orrin brags again.
“Is that right?” Ronyn asks, but he leans in, like he’s going to reveal a secret. “Do they drink the tavern dry and steal your women like they do in Virellin? No greater aphrodisiac than that gold-plated armor.”
Not that Ronyn gives a fuck about that. He cares about what’s not being said.
Because in all his years raiding supply caches, and evading the Royal Guard, Ronyn has never seen them carry Vyrhalian weaponry. Not once.
Another man leans in, speech slurred from drink, and rank breath like curdled milk. “Eat, drink, and fuck the place dry,” he confirms. “Stay for days at a time, leave with barely enough weaponry for a single unit, but still pay for the full order. Bastards, but we can hardly turn down the money.”
Because they’re not really here for weapons.
“Is that the big order we’re working on tomorrow?” Ronyn asks, feigning indifference, and slurping an undignified gulp of ale.
“Aye. Due in three days,” Orrin confirms.
Three days.
A long shadow stretches over the table. “Enough questions, outsider.”
The superior. Bald head, scarred jaw. And suspicious eyes.
The room doesn’t go quiet.
It listens.
Orrin grouses, but clanks his tankard against Ronyn’s again. “Must be time to find a whore, me thinks.” He raises his eyebrows, a perverted smile splitting his lips.
Filthy fuck.
But Ronyn forces a laugh.
“Don’t wear yourself out, big fella. We have a very important order to work on,” Ronyn quips sarcastically, gut roiling at the insinuation.
But Orrin is already stumbling for the tavern’s door. “Don’t be fucking late!” he calls over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ronyn says, quieter this time.
The superior glares at him, suspicion catching on his features. “Must be time for you to turn in for the night, boy. Find someplace to rest your head.”
Ronyn doesn’t push his luck.
“I was thinking the same thing myself. Any inns nearby?”
The superior only jerks his head toward the door.
Ronyn drains his tankard.
“It’s been a pleasure,” he bows, and strides for the door, embellishing his gait with a sway and stumble.
Because Thalmyr’s Guard is disguising their trips to Vyrhal as weapon runs.
And Ronyn’s going to figure out why.
Because secrets like this don’t stay buried. They just wait for the right person to dig.