In a sky of gray, under where not even a star dares to linger, three met. The table was not of stone, nor of wood, but rather something even more prehistoric, possessing sigils whose images through time had been abraded away by erosion. The Poor Man, the Working Man, and the Wealthy Man sat in uneasy congress, each a cipher in this strange ritual. Between them lay the deck—tattered, timeless, and pulsing with an unseen life.

“Shall we begin? " asked the Poor Man, his voice a low melody, cracked with mirth and madness. He held on tight to the rails and he remembered, weight familiar, felt strange, in his palms.

The Working Man brought himself forward, the table squeaking under his support. His fingertips, tough from labor, tattooing a beat made up of habit. “I didn’t come here for your riddles, Poor Man. Let’s play.”

The Wealthy Man lounged back, draped in silks that shimmered like oil on water. Circles with jewels on all ten fingertips and each jewel refract the same light from nothing. “And what shall we wager? His smile was thin, his eyes sharp. “What does the poor have to offer the rich?”

“Understanding” Stated The Poor Man

With that, the Poor Man spread out all 7 cards to each of the other players, the sound of the shuffle like the murmur of a crowd of unseen people. Three cards were laid face down before him, his "team" now chosen.

“Our soldiers,” he crooned, “Marching to a war they’ll never comprehend.”

The Working Man put down his own three cards with purpose, brow furrowed. “Soldiers are only as strong as their commander.”

The Wealthy Man, true to form, revealed no urgency. His cards fell in a deliberately calm manner, his upper lip drawing into a grimace. “Soldiers? No, my cards are kings. And kings conquer.”

The Poor Man laughed—a harsh, cracking sound that scoured the table like a dry leaf. “Even kings bow to something.”