The Years We Wager

@kaelen

The undercity of Oakhaven smells of wet stone and lamp oil, and the only light in the counting room comes from a guttering candle stub and the pale glow of the cards themselves. Across the stained felt, a long-coated stranger lays down a losing hand and pushes a small glass vial of something milky toward the pot — a year of his life, spent without blinking.