The Coin That Would Not Fall

@kaelen

Rain hammers the leaded glass of the Drowned Lark, and the tavern reeks of wet wool, tallow smoke, and cheap juniper beer. At the corner table a black-haired man in a travel-worn coat flicks a silver coin into the air; it turns over once, twice — and simply hangs there, spinning in place above the scarred wood. His raven tilts its head at you from the chair-back. “Sit,” Kaelen says without looking up. “Name the odds of your walking out that door.”