A Night Without Moonlight

The town was draped in restless shadows, the kind that stretched long and trembled at the edges, uncertain of their own existence. The night lay thick upon the world, a velvet shroud absent of moonlight, and in the hush of its embrace, the sea itself seemed to hold its breath. Cassian had always found a peculiar charm in these moonless nights—nights that promised secrets, that whispered of things unseen and unspoken.

The tavern doors swung open with the force of a man unaccustomed to standing on solid ground. A presence spilled into the dimly lit room, one that seemed to pull the air with it, like the tide receding before an inevitable storm. Cassian barely spared him a glance at first, more focused on swirling the last of his drink in its cup, contemplating the many ways in which the night might turn profitable.

Then he heard the murmurs.

A name passed from one hushed voice to another, an unspoken reverence clinging to it, as though the syllables themselves carried weight.

Thorne.

Cassian turned his gaze fully then, drawn not by curiosity, but by the inevitability of witnessing a legend.

The man standing in the threshold was all dark weight and untamed motion. His presence coiled tight as if he might unravel at the wrong touch. He was broad-shouldered and draped in the scent of brine and wind, his clothes carrying the wear of journeys untold. The light caught in the amber depths of his gaze, casting them in something near molten, though there was a restlessness to them, like a man forever caught between shores.

Cassian had heard the stories. Thorne only came to land when the sky was void of its silver eye, as though avoiding the watchful gaze of something unseen. A superstition, some whispered. A curse, others claimed.

Cassian had no patience for legends. But he had patience for opportunity.

"Strange night to be in port, isn’t it?" Cassian said, lifting his drink to his lips, watching with the slow amusement of a man who had already seen too much to be easily impressed.

Thorne’s gaze flickered to him, unreadable. Then he strode forward, seating himself at the bar with the weight of a man who did not intend to stay long. "Stranger still to waste it inside," he replied.

Cassian smirked. "You wound me."

Thorne did not smile. But there was a flicker of something, some fleeting acknowledgment that Cassian could not quite name. The air between them was thick with something unsaid, something that felt too much like inevitability.

The barkeep slid a drink toward Thorne without a word, and for a moment, Cassian simply watched him. The way his fingers curled around the cup like he was used to holding something heavier. The way he sat as though he expected the ground to betray him. And beneath it all, the way he flinched—barely perceptible—when the tavern lights flickered from a gust of wind.

Ah. Superstitions.

Cassian had met men like him before, men who mapped their lives around signs and omens. He wondered what Thorne feared, what it was he believed lurked in the dark places of the world.

"Careful now," Cassian mused, watching the way Thorne hesitated before taking a drink. "Might be cursed."

Thorne exhaled sharply, more breath than laughter, but Cassian caught it nonetheless. "If you were half as amusing as you think you are, you’d have twice as many enemies."

Cassian grinned. "Oh, I do."

And just like that, something shifted. A thread pulled taut between them, unspoken yet undeniable. The kind of thing that did not fade, only deepened with time.

Cassian leaned back, watching him, considering. He could let this night end here, let Thorne vanish back into the legend he had woven around himself. But where was the fun in that?

"Tell you what," Cassian said, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. "A wager. You and I, one round of cards. If I win, you owe me a favour. If you win… well, let’s be honest. You won’t."

Thorne's gaze darkened, slow and deliberate. "And if I refuse?"

Cassian's smirk widened. "Then you'll always wonder."

A beat. Then, with a sigh that spoke of equal parts reluctance and inevitability, Thorne reached for the deck.

The game unfolded in careful plays and sharp glances. Cards flicked against the wood, drinks were downed between turns, and every move carried a weight neither of them was willing to acknowledge.

Cassian was good. He had always been good. But Thorne was something else entirely. He played like a man who had wagered more than coin in his lifetime, like someone who knew the stakes of every breath he took. Cassian should have been winning. And yet, by the time the last card was drawn, neither of them could claim victory.

An impossible draw.

They both stared at the results, at the twin hands laid bare upon the table. Silence stretched between them, thin as a blade's edge.

"Well," Cassian said at last, voice slow with amusement, "seems we have a problem."

Thorne exhaled, tipping his head back as if searching for a moon that was not there. "So it would seem."

Cassian drummed his fingers against the table, considering. "There's only one way to settle this."

Thorne raised a brow, unimpressed. "And that is?"

Cassian leaned in, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. "A new wager."

Thorne narrowed his eyes. "You're insufferable."

"I try."

A pause. Then, with the weight of inevitability, Thorne leaned forward, his amber gaze locking onto Cassian's with something perilously close to intrigue.

"Fine," he said. "But this time, I choose the stakes."

Cassian's grin widened. He had no idea what Thorne would ask of him. But gods, he was already looking forward to it.