The first few hands, he plays exactly as intended—tentative, sloppy, too honest. He folds too early. Calls when he shouldn’t. Wins a lucky round to keep himself in the game. Lets Orrin win with unnecessary theatrics.
“Ahh, bad luck, sunshine,” Orrin crows, raking in the coin.
Ronyn laughs along, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. Like the loss bothers him.
It doesn’t.
Loss is useful.
Brings down the walls. Erases the threat.
By the fourth hand, the pot grows. Someone orders another round. Someone else slaps Ronyn on the shoulder hard enough to jostle his cards.
“Beginner’s mercy only lasts so long,” Orrin warns, teeth flashing.
Ronyn finally looks at his hand properly.
It’s good.
Very good.
But winning now would end the game.
Losing would let it begin.
He sees the path to winning three moves ahead—knows exactly when to raise, when to bait, when to break Orrin’s grin clean off his face.
Instead, he hesitates.
Raises just a little too late.
Plays the hand like a man whoalmostknows what he’s doing.
The quiet smith across the table eyes him more carefully now.
So he falters.
The final card lands.
Orrin whoops, slapping his cards down. “Full house!”
Groans ripple around the table.
Ronyn exhales, slow and theatrical, then reveals his hand.
Silence.
He had the better play. Had it the whole time. And chose not to take it. Folded it away piece by piece, step by deliberate step.
“Ah,” Ronyn says mildly, pushing his remaining coins forward. “Knew I should’ve trusted my gut.”
Orrin laughs so hard he nearly spills his ale. “Told ya! Outsiders always overthink it.”
Ronyn grins, wide and sheepish. “Guess I’ll stick to ale, then.”
Around the table, shoulders loosen. Laughter returns. Someone claps him on the back again—harder this time.
He’s no threat. Just another fool with coin and curiosity.
