ROWAN
My heart pounded violently in my chest, each beat a hammering echo in the silence that surrounded me. My breath came in ragged gasps as if the very air had turned to ash in my lungs. Her voice—ethereal and haunting—wrapped around me like a shroud, pulling me deeper into the abyss. I was trapped, ensnared by the melodic torment, unable to break free.
The world around me shifted in fragments: the thunder of hooves pounding against the earth, the roar of flames devouring everything in their path, the whistle of arrows slicing through the air. And her face—her face was the only clear image amidst the chaos, a visage of despair and determination as she carried me away from the devastation. I tried to cry out, to scream, but no sound escaped my lips. My voice, like my body, was imprisoned, muted by the fear that gripped me.
She looked at me with eyes full of sorrow, her mouth moving as though she were speaking—pleading, perhaps—but her words were lost to the storm that raged around us. I strained to hear, to catch even a whisper, but all I received was silence. And then, like a cruel twist of fate, I was pulled away, dragged into a dark, swirling vortex that yawned open beneath me.
I was falling—falling deeper and deeper into the void. I clawed at the air, trying to find something, anything to hold onto, but there was nothing. Only darkness. I shouted, the sound tearing from my throat, but it was as if the blackness swallowed it whole. There was no one, nothing, to answer my desperate cries for help. The weight of it all crushed me, and smothered me, until it was overwhelming.
I struggled against it, fought to break free. My screams were raw and frantic, driven by the primal need to escape. And then, suddenly, there was a sound—a faint murmur that grew louder with each passing second.
"Miss! Miss!" The voice pierced through the darkness, urgent and insistent, rising above the roar of my panic. "Miss! Miss!"
I jolted awake, springing upright in bed, my chest heaving as I gasped for breath. My surroundings came into focus—my room, bathed in the dim light of early morning. It had been a dream, a nightmare that felt far too real. I looked down at my white nightgown, the fabric clinging to my skin, soaked through with sweat. My heart still raced, and it took me a moment to realize that my hand was gripping something—something soft and warm.
"Miss!" The voice came again, closer now, tinged with pain. I turned my head to see Tara standing beside me, her face twisted in discomfort. "Miss, you're hurting me!" she whimpered, her voice breaking.
It was then that I noticed my fingers digging into her arm, the nails biting into her flesh. I released her immediately, a weak smile of apology tugging at my lips as I saw the faint red marks my grip had left behind. She scoffed softly, rubbing the thin scars that were already beginning to form.
"Was it the same nightmare?" she asked gently, concern evident in her voice as she reached for the small vial on the nightstand. She poured the familiar herbal concoction into a cup, the earthy scent filling the room as she handed it to me.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I accepted the cup. "Yes," I exhaled heavily, the weight of the memory pressing down on me as I fell back against the pillows. "It's always the same. I'm back in that night, and I still can't hear what my mother was trying to tell me."
Tara's brow furrowed as she prepared fresh clothes for me, her movements calm and practiced. "The physician did say that the nightmares could be your mind's way of trying to recover a lost memory. Maybe there's something important your mother said that night, something you've forgotten."
I nodded, though the frustration bubbled within me, threatening to boil over. "I know... but damn it, why can't I remember? Why can't I hear her voice?" The words burst from me, and I tangled my fingers in my hair, pulling at the strands in desperation. "What was she trying to tell me?"
Just then, a clamor of noises erupts from outside, pulling my attention away. I turn to Tara, who has just finished her tea, the empty cup trembling slightly in her grasp. I shake my head in confusion, and her eyes widen, filled with an almost comical dread.
"What is going on?" I ask, the cacophony growing louder. "It's unusually loud today." I leap off the bed, crossing the room in quick strides to the window. Pushing it open, I gaze down at the street below. The golden warmth of the sun bathes the town, suggesting it's around nine o'clock, yet the streets are already brimming with people.
"Miss, don't tell me you've forgotten!" Tara cries out, her voice tinged with urgency. I turn to her, perplexed.
"Forgotten what?"
"It's the Golden Festival," she replies, shaking her head in disbelief. "In five days, we'll be hosting the grand MoonBound event." She lets out an exasperated sigh. "This is what happens when you drink five jars of liquor by yourself."
I glance toward the side of my bed, where five large jars of black liquor lie abandoned, their contents clearly having contributed to my current disheveled state. My room is a complete disaster, with clothes and books scattered everywhere. As the fog in my mind begins to clear, I turn back to the window, refocusing on the bustling scene below.
Before I forget, I am Rowan Fairch Grimclaw, daughter of Augustine Grimclaw IV, the reigning king of Jingajar, one of the human kingdoms. I am the fourth princess and the current mistress of the Kristen clan. My mother, the former lady of the house, was coldly murdered, leaving me to fend for myself in this harsh world. Tara has been by my side since I was a child. She hails from the Beast Nation, a swan-bird shifter with a loyalty as unwavering as her grace.
I drop from the window and dash to my wardrobe, pulling out a black bastite gown. The fabric shimmers like obsidian under the light, its intricate embroidery catching my eye. I slip it on, fastening it with quick, practiced motions, and pair it with sturdy brown leather boots. Grabbing Tara's hand, I lead her out of the room in a rush.
Our household, though not as grand as some of the higher-ranked royal families, still commands a certain reverence. The estate is reminiscent of Chinese historical royal homes, a sprawling complex of interconnected courtyards and halls. Red-tiled roofs arch gracefully over wooden beams, each adorned with intricate carvings of dragons and phoenixes. The corridors wind through the estate, leading to various wings of the mansion, each designed with the precision and elegance befitting a royal lineage. We pass through the central courtyard, where a large koi pond sits beneath the shade of weeping willows. Stone lanterns line the pathways, their surfaces worn smooth by time, while the scent of blooming lotus flowers fills the air. Despite being one of the lesser royal clans, our estate is vast, rivaling that of any of the twelve houses outside the royal bloodline.
"Miss!!" Tara calls from behind, her voice laced with concern as I pause to catch my breath.
"My lady!!!!!" I hear Girlden's voice echo from the knight's quarters, his footsteps heavy on the stone path. "My lady!!!!"
He hurries toward us, clad in his dark metallic armor that gleams under the sunlight. I flash him a quick smile before turning to Tara. With a nod, she begins to chant, her voice low and melodic. The air around us shimmers as her beast magic envelops us, and in the blink of an eye, we are transported to the capital, leaving the noise of the estate behind.
The Human Kingdom, often called the Land of PIRCH, is ruled by CaffKuss, the mightiest of all thirty kingdoms. With twenty-four states under its dominion, CaffKuss is the largest and most powerful of them all. It's a land where various races live side by side—elves, dwarves, horse people, and even a few fairies and beings who have transcended the ordinary. But none of that truly matters to me. What I adore most is the capital city, Yulden, a bustling hub where the streets are alive with people, animals, and…
"Money," I sigh contentedly as we head toward the Red Pavilion, the famed house of beauty and gambling.
"Morning, miss," greet the familiar voices as I make my entrance. With a regal air, I glide inside, feeling at home as I venture deeper into the heart of the building.
The Red Pavilion is a grandiose structure, towering three stories high, its walls adorned with crimson and gold, exuding an aura of wealth and power. The first two floors are a riot of activity, teeming with life. The scent of burning incense mingles with the rich aroma of spices, filling the air as the sounds of gambling—dice clattering, cards shuffling, coins clinking—create a symphony of excitement. Rows of tables, covered in rich fabrics and surrounded by eager patrons, stretch out as far as the eye can see. The floor is polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting the glow of the hundreds of lanterns hanging from the ceiling, each one a fiery orb of red or gold. Silk drapes cascade down the walls, their deep hues adding to the opulence of the space, while servants weave through the crowds with trays of drinks, their movements practiced and graceful.
But the third floor—that's where the true magic of the Red Pavilion lies. This exclusive level is reserved for only the most skilled and daring gamblers, those whose wealth and reputation allow them entry into this world of high stakes. Here, the atmosphere is more subdued, but far more intense. The tables are fewer but grander, made from dark wood polished to perfection, inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl. The chairs are plush, upholstered in velvet that feels like a whisper against the skin. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their light refracting into a million tiny rainbows that dance across the room. This is the place where fortunes are won and lost with the turn of a card, where the tension in the air is palpable, and every bet could change the course of a life.
It was on this floor that I first encountered Tara, a wager I won thanks to the teachings of my former master, a man whose cunning and skill at the tables had earned him the title of the King of Gamblers. His influence still lingers in the air here, in the very fabric of this place. The Red Pavilion feels more like home to me than the cold, imposing mansion where I live—a place that feels more like a prison with each passing day.
"Miss, you're here early," a voice calls out, drawing my attention. It's August, the second young master of the Red Pavilion. He's a familiar figure, with a sharp mind and an easy charm that makes him both a formidable gambler and a trusted friend. In the world of gambling, there are few I trust as much as August. Together, we've navigated the perilous waters of high stakes, always emerging victorious—or at least intact.
I nod in acknowledgment, feeling the familiar thrill of the game building inside me. This is where I belong, amidst the velvet and gold, where every decision could tip the balance between triumph and disaster.
"Odds!" a bearded man bellows, slamming five silver jade coins onto the table with a thud that echoes through the room.
"Even!" declare two women draped in elegant blue silk, the signature attire of the Blue Bird Clan, their voices ringing in unison.
"Odds!" another group of three men join the fray, tossing four golden jade coins onto the pile. The anticipation in the air thickens, and August's smile widens as he begins to shuffle the dice. His hands move deftly, rolling the dice within the metal cup with a practiced ease, creating a rhythmic clatter that silences the crowd.
With a flick of his wrist, August removes the cup, revealing the dice as they spin on the table before coming to a stop—one odd, two even. The women curse under their breath as they reluctantly surrender their coins, while the men grin, triumphant. Without missing a beat, August gathers the dice, his fingers flicking them into the air with a flourish before slamming the cup down over them once more. The room holds its breath as he spins the cup, the sound of the dice rattling within creating a tense, almost electric atmosphere.
"I bet even again!" the bearded man laughs, his voice booming as he adds a single golden jade coin to his previous wager, his hands twisting through his thick beard in anticipation. "Fucking even," he chuckles to himself, his confidence evident.
"I'll take odds!" a voice interrupts, sharp and precise. The speaker is a tall, slim man, his presence commanding attention. Dressed in a green-lined robe, white pants, and green boots, he stands out from the crowd. A green pendant hangs from his waist, marking him as a member of the Azume Clan—one of the founding clans, known for their unyielding resolve and strategic brilliance. His eyes lock onto mine with a challenging glare, the kind that only a rival could give. Among the royals, he and I are the only ones addicted to the thrill of gambling, our relationship a volatile mix of camaraderie and rivalry—a frenemy bond forged over countless bets and risks.
"I'm betting even," I declare, tossing two golden jades onto the table, meeting his challenge head-on.
"I raise," he counters smoothly, adding three more golden jades to his pile, the stakes climbing ever higher.
"Anyone else?" August's voice cuts through the tension, his hand poised to reveal the outcome. "One…two…and three!" With a swift motion, he lifts the cup. The dice settle, revealing three odds—a perfect score for Harlen. His lips curl into a smirk as he pulls in his winnings, the gleam in his eyes unmistakable.
"Oh well, I had a feeling today was my day," Harlen says with a nonchalant shrug, his hand sweeping the fortune toward him while the bearded man storms off, cursing under his breath. Frustration churns within me as I slam my hand on the table, the sound reverberating through the room.
"Wait a minute, kid. I'm not done yet!" I declare, pulling out five gleaming gold bars and slapping them onto the table with a defiant grin. "Tara!"
"Yes, miss?" Tara, ever dutiful, stands behind me, awaiting my command.
"Bring me the usual," I instruct, my tone firm. She nods, moving swiftly to fulfill my request as a small crowd begins to gather, their curiosity piqued by the escalating tension.
"Are you sure you want to go up against me?" Harlen asks, his tone dripping with faux concern as he motions for his own attendant to fetch his drink. The challenge in his eyes is unmistakable, the rivalry between us flaring brightly.
"Best of five? Damn right, I'm sure," I retort, propping my left leg on a raised seat and smirking at him. Tara returns, handing me a marbled glass jar filled with lotus wine, its surface cool to the touch. I take a deep inhale, savoring the floral scent before tipping the jar back and letting the liquor flow down my throat in a smooth, intoxicating stream.
"Aaah! Nothing like getting lost in ecstasy as the sun rises," I growl, slamming the jar onto the table with a force that sends a few coins clinking onto the floor.
"You really should mind your manners," a new voice joins the fray. A man, taller than Harlen, with dark eyes that glitter like obsidian. He's clad in black and red robes, a sword strapped beneath his arm, its hilt barely visible beneath the folds of his cloak. He takes a seat beside Harlen, his presence commanding.
"Master Odwen, as always, it's a pleasure to have you with us," August greets him with a respectful nod, signaling his attendants to bring forth Odwen's usual drink.
"Best of five? That's dull," Odwen remarks with a smirk, his gaze shifting between Harlen and me as he pulls out seven gold bars. "Let's make it best of ten—unless you're too scared to see it through," he taunts, his lips curving into a wicked grin.
"Best of ten it is," Harlen agrees, taking a leisurely sip of his wine. The scent of morning dew wafts through the air, adding a fresh, crisp note to the tension-laden atmosphere. "Well, shall we begin?"
"Not so fast," a voice interjects, slamming his hefty jar onto the table, the impact sending a ripple through the gathered crowd. "You can't do it without me. But let's spice things up—we'll predict the outcome of the dice. Whoever guesses closest or gets it spot-on wins. What do you say?" He pulls out five gold bars and five green jade coins, tossing them onto the table with a challenging gleam in his eyes.
"Always the spendthrift," Odwen mutters, shaking his head as he agrees to the new terms. "But I'm in," he says, turning his gaze toward us. I down the remaining liquor in my jar, the burn of the alcohol fueling my resolve, and slam the empty container onto the table with a satisfied grunt.
"Do you always have to be so dramatic?" Harlen complains, though his tone carries more amusement than annoyance.
"That's just the best part!" Julden chimes in, his laughter ringing out as he joins in the banter, his voice swelling into a roar. "Two even, one odd!" he calls out, his bet placed with reckless confidence.
"Perfect even," I declare with a smirk, signaling Tara to bring me another drink.
"Two odds, one even," Odwen adds, his voice calm and measured, his eyes sharp.
"Guess I'll stick with odds, as usual," Harlen says, pouring himself another glass of wine, the rich scent of fermented fruit filling the room. By now, a sizable crowd has gathered, their eyes fixed on the table, eager to see how the game will unfold.
The game begins, and in that instant, everything narrows to the singular, intense focus that only true gamblers know. The room falls away, leaving just us, the dice, and the spinning cup in August's hand. This is what gambling means to the favored few—those who can feel the pulse of fate in every spin, who thrive on the razor's edge between fortune and ruin.
As August closes the dice into the cup, we all lean forward, our gazes locked, but our attention elsewhere. The dice spin within the cup, not yet slammed onto the table, but already our innate spirits are at work. Each of us releases a thread of our essence, our spirit, to influence the outcome. It's a delicate balance—a touch too strong, and you'll be noticed; too weak, and you'll lose control. The trick is in the precision, in laying just enough of your will upon the dice to sway them to your favor without drawing unwanted attention.
It's cheating, yes, but that's the thrill of it. The unspoken rule among us is simple: don't get caught. We all know August can sense the subtle manipulations, but he doesn't care. His focus is on the game, on the money it draws in, and on the spectacle that keeps the crowd on the edge of their seats. As long as the wagers are high and the tension higher, he's content.
The dice spin within the cup, and the real game begins—not just a battle of chance, but a clash of wills. Our spirits clash, each trying to override the others, to force the dice to bend to our desires. It's a silent, invisible war, each of us attempting to outmaneuver the others without tipping our hand. The dice twirl, suspended in the maelstrom of competing energies, each of us striving to guide them to our chosen outcome.
The seconds tick by, each one stretched to eternity as the dice spin within the cup. Then, with a flourish, August pulls the cup away, revealing the outcome: two odds and a single even.
Odwen's smile spreads across his face, triumphant and smug. "Looks like I take the first round!" he declares, his voice ringing with satisfaction.