The sound was not the table. It was the case. A thin, sharp splintering, like ice breaking on a winter pond. The wooden case had split from age, revealing a hollow compartment behind the velvet lining.
The gamblers screamed. Chips scattered like startled birds. But Valentin just picked up one ivory card: the Hanged Man.
Valentin wiped his brow. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the sour perfume of desperation. Across the table, Silas Crane smiled. It was the smile of a man who had already counted the winnings.
The room was silent. A single oil lamp swung above, making shadows dance like caught fish.
In truth, he was listening.