The tavern patrons fled. Cermia should have shot him then. But the crack hummed with a melody only she could hear—the song of a wager she’d never made before.
“Impossible,” he whispered.
Cermia leaned back, boots propped on the table. Her wild orange hair caught the light like a flame. “You’re out of coin, friend. And out of luck.” She flicked a gold piece at him. “Buy yourself a new shirt. That one smells like regret.” epic seven crac
Glasses shattered. The floor cracked. And from the fissure in the wooden planks, a thin, purple-black smoke curled upward. It smelled of ozone and old magic. The tavern patrons fled