The sky is a silent gray, sunless.
The wind moves sluggishly, yet sharp, carrying winter's first whisper. The air tastes faintly metallic as though rain considered falling, then thought better of it.
Simon and Butler stand in the garden's heart. The grass beneath their feet is sodden, heavy.
Their clothes stir with the wind. Long coats tremble at the hem; sleeves billow, then cling to their bodies. No warmth here only layers of fabric holding flesh together. Their breaths escape in pale ghosts. Neither speaks.
Behind the palace, the mountains rise in stark relief. Distant, yet near enough to reveal their details: grim gray stones tinged with blue, summits veiled in snow. It does not fall, yet it lingers, fixed, ponderous, as if placed there by some colossal hand.
The rings on their right hands gleam a sickly green. The gemstones are half-awake. Their light does not pulse, but persists. Steady. Waiting. The same shape. The same place on their fingers. Unacknowledged, yet undeniable.
No sounds but the wind; no movement but what the elements force upon them.
The palace looms at their backs. The mountains loom ahead.
And between them, a moment so dense it forgets whether it is an end or a beginning.
They walk toward the palace.
Their footsteps on the damp earth are soft, rhythmic. The wind still tugs at their coat-tails, but it no longer troubles them.
At the stone gate stands a guard. His uniform is antiquated, impractical, yet impeccably kept. He holds a ceremonial spear, its ornamentation too pristine to have ever seen use.
As they approach, he dips his head slightly.
"Welcome back, my lords."
Simon does not reply. His eyes remain fixed on the door ahead, his stride unbroken.
Butler gives a single nod without turning. The guard does not react silence, it seems, is part of the protocol.
The door opens soundlessly, as if someone inside had been expecting them.
They step in.
The interior defies logic.
Walls stretch away, then press close. The floor shifts materials with every few steps: marble, wood, glass, carpet. The ceiling sometimes soars, sometimes dips so low one must stoop.
Yet neither hesitates. No flicker of surprise. As if the path is etched in memory. No signs. No doors sealing behind them. Just silent passage through a corridor that refuses to be understood.
At the corridor's end, a single wall bears a large oil painting.
An old man stands rigid, a book in his right hand, a sword lowered in his left. His expression holds neither sorrow nor pride—only something between, as if he knows something that no longer matters.
Beneath the painting, frameless and unadorned, a short line is inscribed:
"Here he stood not to die, but to end what no one had begun."
It was a portrait of Simon's father.
No one speaks. No remark from Simon, no glance from Butler.
Both study the words, then the face in the painting, then fall still.
The corridor behind remains open. But it invites no return.
The two stand before the portrait.
The silence stretches, but does not suffocate. It is merely time passing.
Butler, eyes still fixed on the painting, asks:
"My lord… what did you forget here? What brought you back?"
Simon does not answer at once. He reads the words beneath the portrait again, silently, then says:
"I forgot the most important reason for leaving."
A pause, as if rearranging the thought in his mind.
Then, softer:
"No not forgot. I never knew, to begin with, why I wanted to leave."
Butler looks at him for a moment.
"Was it not because you were chasing immortality?"
Simon smiles half a smile. A sigh.
"Yes… that was the final destination. But I wonder did I board the right ship?"
He let out a light, short laugh—
as if it had escaped him unintended. Then continued:
"I remember when Mogan once asked me: 'Why do you want to find the ship?'"
He raised an eyebrow, mocking his own past self:
"I answered with all the confidence of a fool: 'Precious things need no justification.'"
A pause.
"Now? I don't believe that anymore.
What's the use of divine power… if all you can imagine is a biscuit?"
Butler blinked slowly. No smile. No mockery.
"You said you see the future now," he murmured. "What does it tell you?"
Simon didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on the wall, yet focused on nothing.
"The future is malleable," he said. "More than it should be.
Infinite possibilities.
Not one leads to what I truly wanted."
"And what did you want? Immortality? Or was it just a means?"
"Are you asking about my purpose?"
Simon's voice frayed at the edges.
"The truth, Butler? I am a slave to two terrors:
One lashes my back like a whip chasing me into the sky like a frantic bird.
The other runs deeper…
A dread that if I lift my head, I'll see Fate standing bare before me,
and know the game is over.
Today, it's the latter that strangles me,
freezing my blood to frost in my veins.
I want a life not driven by fear…
neither fleeing nor paralyzed!"
This time, the silence between them was heavier.
When Simon finished speaking, neither of them moved.
Then, something trembled.
Not a sound. A sensation beneath the skin, as if the space between every atom had begun to groan.
The corridor did not collapse. It went mad.
The walls, once fixed, now moved at incomprehensible speeds retreating, advancing, multiplying, twisting in on themselves. Shapes flickered in and out of existence, details too fleeting for the eye to grasp. Paintings, windows, columns, repeating without logic. Everything transformed without order, yet with purpose.
Then,
Everything stopped.
Not gradually. Abruptly. As if the mind itself had drawn a curtain.
The air went still.
The walls contracted into just four solid, silent.
The floor darkened into unpolished hardwood.
A dim yellow light swung from a ceiling lamp, casting restless shadows where nothing moved.
At the room's center:
A square mahogany table, heavy — the kind not easily shifted.
Four chairs, nameless.
On the table:
A deck of cards, placed precisely at the center.
Old cigarette ash in a brass tray.
Gambling chips gold, black, green.
A half-filled glass, its contents unresolved: whiskey or blood.
The air tasted cold. Wax and old leather.
No one spoke.
The room seemed to know exactly what was meant to happen here.
And so, it seemed, did Simon and Butler.
Simon sat first.
As if the chair had been waiting for him, and him alone.
Butler lingered a moment, then settled quietly across from his master.
Not a word was spoken.
Simon's hand reached for the deck. He shuffled with slow precision, the rasp of cards against one another louder than it should have been. It sounded like he was wiping dust off time itself.
He dealt five cards to each of them.
The motion was automatic, as if they'd played this round a thousand times before.
Each took their cards in one hand. Neither looked at the other. Neither smiled. No sound but the faintest breath.
On the table:
A stack of chips.
A cigarette tray.
A half-filled glass neither had touched.
Butler was the first to speak.
"Does betting mean anything… if the future has no value?"
Simon didn't lift his eyes from his cards.
"The bet isn't for the future.
It's just our way of saying: I believe in something, even if only for a minute."
He slid two gold chips to the center.
Butler studied him, then added one.
And so the game began.
Every move was measured.
Eyes betrayed nothing.
Hands moved as if replaying a rehearsed scene.
Simon discarded, drew anew.
Butler watched, unblinking, swapped two cards.
No sound but faint breathing, the whisper of cards drawn, placed, turned.
After two rounds, the pot grew heavy.
Something in the air shifted.
The yellow light dimmed slightly, as if sensing what brewed beneath it.
Butler said quietly,
"You seem confident."
Simon's voice didn't waver.
"Oh, confidence is cheap…
I just have nothing left to lose."
A beat of silence.
Then,
Simon pushed his last chips forward.
"All in."
Butler looked at him, breathing slow. Then, a whisper:
"You're still trying to lose, aren't you?"
Simon neither denied nor confirmed.
The cards lay on the table.
But they remained unrevealed.
Simon finally shoved them forward.
The sound was faint, yet it sliced through the room's silence like a scalpel.
Butler didn't move. He looked at the pile. Then at Simon's hand. Then back to his own cards.
He didn't utter a word.
The yellow light above them swayed gently, as if breathing.
Simon spoke softly, like a man talking to himself:
When I was young, I thought cheating was the only way to win.
A pause.
Now I think playing fair... might be the worst kind of cheat.
Butler didn't answer, but his thumb began tapping the edge of the table in a steady rhythm.
Five taps. A stop. Then, quietly:
Losing doesn't pain you, does it? What pains you is winning something you never wanted.
Simon looked at him for the first time since the game began. He said nothing.
The table between them was now an open battlefield.
Each held five cards.
Neither reached to reveal them.
Time stood still or so it seemed.
Butler asked:
Shall we turn them over?
Simon replied after a beat:
Not yet.
Silence returned.
As if they were waiting for something else entirely something beyond the game, something that would decide whether the cards would ever be seen... or remain a secret forever.
In that moment, the heavy cards on the table seemed to hold more than symbols.
They held decisions. Possibilities. Things lost. Things not yet born.
And the pile at the center remained, awaiting a verdict that wouldn't come from the players.
The light began to dim abruptly.
Or perhaps the light stayed the same... and it was Simon who was fading.
Somewhere between the bet and the silence... the yellow glow pooled over the mahogany table.
The scent of burnt wax and sweat.
Simon picked up the Queen of Hearts, but his fingers trembled as if the card were scorching his skin.
I feel watched... even in the act of sitting here.
His voice was hoarse, clawing its way up from a well.
Am I controlling the cards... or are they controlling me?
The bones of his knuckles stood stark as he pressed down on the card.
The distorted Queen glared back at him with disdain.
Butler silently dropped the Two of Diamonds onto the wood.
His white gloves gleamed under the faint light.
God is not a player, my lord. He is the House itself.
He deals the cards... and watches.
Simon shoved his chair back with a scrape:
Blind draws... and bets with our lives.
His breaths quickened before he continued:
What game is this? Who writes the rules?
The golden rule is: You never win against the house. It may let you win once... but the house always takes more.
Butler slowly reached his hand across the table.
Its shadow resembled a wounded bird.
The flaw isn't the game... but your addiction to staring at the empty hand.
You're running from your other five cards... as if your loss was decided before you began.
Simon froze. His eyes darted from Butler's face to his outstretched hand:
Cards... I haven't played?
Even if they exist... how do I trust they're not another trap?
Butler leaned forward slightly.
The lamplight drew a copper line across his brow.
Trust? It's not certainty.
It's throwing down the card that burns your palm... even if it's a losing one.
The puppet doesn't burn. You do... so you must be real.
Simon flung his cards onto the table.
The Queen of Hearts landed face down.
I don't know the next move.
Even these words... did I choose to say them?
Butler gathered the cards like someone retrieving wet papers after a storm:
Time is the wild card. Don't let it burn a hole in your pocket.
As Simon left, Butler ran a finger along the table lamp.
The light dimmed gradually.
In the near-dark, his eyes gleamed like two worn coins.
Now... show me what you've hidden.
The sound of Simon's footsteps dissolved into the distant hall.
Butler drew a single card from his coat: the Joker.
He placed it at the table's center and covered it with his pale palm.
Darkness swallowed everything.