Lord Casimir leaned back in his velvet seat like the whole world was already folded in his pocket.
Seraphina sat across from him, legs crossed, glass untouched, gaze unreadable.
Between them sat a table—low, black marble, enchanted. Dice clicked inside a contained ward. Cards glowed faintly at the edges, marked with sigils that only responded to intent. A game of chance, charm, and a little bit of truth magic laced in for good measure.
"How do you keep people from cheating?" Casimir asked, watching her closely.
"I let them," she said.
He laughed. "You're joking."
"No," she said, lifting a card. "I just cheat better."
A ripple of intrigue passed through him.
The game began.
Casimir played confidently. He had the grin of a man used to winning and the eyes of someone testing boundaries just to see what broke.
Seraphina?
She played like a goddess letting mortals think they were clever.
It didn't take long before the stakes shifted.
He leaned in. "Let's make it interesting."
"I don't gamble," she said.
He smirked. "Then you're boring."
She smiled. "Strip. A piece of clothing for every hand you lose."
He froze.
"Unless," she said, voice soft like silk drawn across skin, "you're afraid?"
He removed his gloves.
Lucien, watching from the balcony, sighed like he aged ten years.
Rhys didn't even pretend. He turned, walked out the front door, and muttered something about burning the place down for "ventilation purposes."
Casimir lost. Once. Then again.
Coat. Cravat. Shoes. Gone.
And Seraphina? Not a hair out of place. Not a bead of sweat.
She leaned in, voice low, teeth just barely showing.
"Next card," she whispered. "You lose, and it's your dignity."
He drew it.
Lost.
Smiled.
"Do you always strip men of power this quickly?" he asked.
"Only the pretty ones," she purred.