Seven stood in the fine foyer of her father’s study and tried not the squirm. The carpet was plush and familiar, the shelves, well-trafficked and filled with books she’d read through multiple times. And yet, she couldn’t shake the idea that the red tapestries decorating the walls were the color of blood.

  Her father watched her sternly from behind her desk, waiting for her to speak. She wasn’t sure what he wanted her to say, exactly—something to clear her name, perhaps?

  He finally shook his head at her, a look of disgust crossing his familiar features.

  “When are you going to admit that enough is enough?” he finally asked. Surely this isn’t the kind of life you want to live—your crimes at the tournament were extensive enough, but now you’re adding petty thievery to the list?”

  Oh. That’s what this was about.

  “I was going to bring it back,” she lied. What she’d really wanted to do was split it in half again. Granted, the first such experiment had ended with an explosion and a small fire, but that had been on a combat dice. This one had been green—the color of a healing and support dice. Surely the effect would have been different, but now Seven would never know.

  “Seven, I know this may come as a shock to you, but you cannot borrow the dice of other people—particularly when they’re for sale in a crown-sponsored market. Are you that daft?”

  “I’m not daft, father,” she snapped. “I—”

  “You must be,” he hissed, leaning forward in his seat. “Because not only do I hear reports of your petty thievery in the city, but more reports have come in of failing dice. Must we tie you up in the dungeons to convince you to keep your hands to yourself?”

  Seven flinched at the tone in his voice—and the threat. Still, there was something strange about his words. She hadn’t touched that many dice recently. In fact, she’d mostly stuck to her extremely safe plan of busking with her lute for a few spare ones. “Where are you getting these reports from?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Because I haven’t been—”

  “All over the city,” he replied, his tone low and dangerous. When she opened her mouth to argue, he held up a hand, and Seven went silent and hated herself for it. The thing about her father was, it was hard to feel strong beneath his gaze. Hard to remember that she’d done more with less than he could ever hope to.

  And yet, she couldn’t help but default to years of her family’s luck-forsaken training. Years of lessons had taught her to keep her mouth shut, her head down, and most importantly, to hide everything that made Seven herself.

  “Luck take me,” her father muttered, running a hand through his hair. “When your mother asked for another child, I obliged her, but…”

  He trailed off, then seemed to remember she was standing there for the first time. There was a flash of guilt in his eyes, which Seven found rather shocking. Her father had never exactly hidden his disdain for her existence.

  “Did you just call me here to tell me you wish I’d never been born again, or did you have something more constructive to discuss?” she asked, her voice cold and steady. “I have better things to do with my day, so if you could just—”

  “Better things?” he asked, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Gambling with the lowlifes of the city? Playing games of chance in the plaza with—”

  “It’s not a game of chance,” she interrupted. “It’s a game of skill, father.”

  “It has chance in the name, Seven.”

  “People take lifetimes to master it,” she argued, stepping forward. “If you’d just learn about it, you’d see that. The gambling aspect of the game is only one small part.”

  “You defile the dice to move your pieces,” her father snapped, his voice clipped and bitter. “I’ve seen plenty of it—and watched it ruin your life to boot. It’s gambling, plain and simple. A disgrace to our name.”

  “How is gambling any different from the dice you and Mother have? Or Aleph, or—”

  Her father slammed a hand onto the desk, denting it slightly. “Do not say that to me ever again,” he said. “Don’t speak of our dice, and don’t speak of our skills. Dice are for skills and magic only, Seven—not for making money with cheap tricks and winning tournaments.” When she said nothing, her words dying in her mouth, he settled back into his chair, obviously satisfied he’d won the argument. “We should be grateful that your…condition…interfered with the tournament results.”

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  Seven adjusted the strap of her lute case, wishing she could leave her father’s study—anything to be away from the mockery. “What is there to be grateful for?” She asked quietly. “My future life as a criminal?”

  “No,” he replied, watching her carefully. “That you’ll have a life at all outside of gambling and that Beggar’s Chance nonsense.” He looked at her for a moment longer, then sighed, his features softening. “In any case, none of it will matter after tomorrow.”

  Seven took a tiny step back. “Tomorrow?” She asked. “Why? What happens tomorrow?”

  Her father avoided her eyes, then finally met them, and the steel in his gaze was enough to make her heart skip a beat in fear. “We’re sending you away, Seven,” he said quietly. “We cannot weather this kind of scandal—particularly with your behavior of late.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. Several breaths for the reality to hit her. Exile. They were exiling her. Away from Veilhome. Away from Juno and Moore and everyone else. Away from everything she’d ever known.

  “You’re what?”

  Her father avoided her eyes again—a strange sort of behavior, now that she thought of it; he’d always looked her dead in the eye, even as he was about to say something vile. He’d never been ashamed of how he treated Seven. Had never worried about making her feel like an outcast from her own family. With this, it seemed, even her father knew he’d gone too far.

  “I made a plea bargain with the courts on your behalf,” he explained. “We agree to exile you—publicly—and they agree to drop the charges and forget about this entire thing. We’ll never recover from the scandal of it, but at least my youngest daughter won’t be in prison.”

  “I might as well be!” Seven snapped, her voice going high-pitched in panic. “You’d have me leave Veilhome? Veil itself? I’ve barely set foot outside of the city. Does mother know about this?”

  “She does,” her father said solemnly, “and while she worried about your safety, certainly, she agreed that it would be better than visiting you in a cell.”

  “She’ll never visit me at all—not if I’m three kingdoms away.”

  “Seven.” The near-pity in her father’s voice shocked her. She’d never heard him so much as say sorry in her life. To her father, duty came first. Duty, power, and looking dutiful and powerful in the eyes of everyone around him. To think he had any pity for her at all…it had to be a trick. Yet the sorrow in his eyes was strangely real. “This will blow over, child. Exile might sound…dramatic, but it will give you a chance to learn how the world works outside of Veil. And a chance to straighten out your life.” He shook his head. “I cannot sit by idly while you gamble your life away here. If my daughter is to be a common thief, then she will not continue to do so in Veilhome.”

  There it is, she thought, listening to that familiar rumble return to her father’s voice. It was practically the only voice she’d ever heard him use with her. A far cry from the warmth in his voice when addressing Aleph, the oldest, or Tessa, the obvious favorite of the two girls in the family.

  Perhaps her father had felt he had no choice; in his mind, after all, exile was the preferable option to imprisonment. Imprisoned, Seven would be a sore spot on his mind. Proof of his failures as a parent, as a king. Exiled, she’d be out of sight and out of mind—the perfect way for her father to forget about a very present and very loud problem in his kingdom.

  And, with Seven out of the way, he wouldn’t have to worry about weakening dice and the reputational damages that particular issue was causing. Still, Seven couldn’t help but try to fight for her future. Even if, in this case, it seemed decidedly finalized. She took a deep breath and laid her chips on the table.

  “I’ll come back to the palace,” she said, her mouth gone dry. “I’ll give it all up. I’ll never play another game of Gambler’s Chance, and I’ll…I’ll…” She trailed off, unsure of what more to offer. Hadn’t she practically offered everything she had? The chance to feel that thrill of a bet well-placed. To feel the dice in her hands—dead and lacking the spark and warmth of real dice, but in her hands nonetheless. But she had one more thing to offer. One thing that pained her even more than giving up her gambling habit. “And I’ll keep my gloves on at all times,” she added, quiet and broken. “I’ll never touch another dice again.”

  The room went silent but for the wind buffeting against her father’s windows, and Seven felt naked, standing there without her gloves. They were tucked away in her lute case, and truth be told, she hated the sight of them. They were another reminder—of everything she was, and everything she couldn’t be. Another barrier between her and the dice. Another barrier between her and some form of normalcy. Without them, she almost felt free, but for the scars decorating her palms. With them, it was like wearing a set of shackles.

  Her father seemed to consider this, his gaze piercing through her as she fought not to shift from foot to foot, her lute case digging into her shoulder. Finally he sighed, and that sigh was like her world tilting on its axis.

  “I can’t, Seven.” His voice broke just at the edge, and he buried his eyes in his palms. “This is the only way to keep you safe. You’ll be unknown out there. Not a princess—not even a noble. Rook won’t have any way to find you, and with this plea bargain, he’ll have no need to. It’ll be a better life, without the expectations of the kingdom on your shoulders. A quieter life. A simpler one. Trust me when I tell you that this is the best option—for all of us.”

  Seven listened to her father’s measured words. To the words of a ruler. A man forced to toss her aside to preserve the family’s legacy. She heard the words, heard her father’s reassurance of a quiet life, a simple one. Each word cut like a dagger. Because Seven didn’t want a quiet life, a simple one. She didn’t want to be unknown, forgotten, cast aside.

  At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be remembered. Nothing more than for her family to defend her, to acknowledge her existence—even with the curse that made her utterly useless as a child of the royal family.

  She wanted to be seen. For once in her life, to be relevant. To matter.

  And knew, with a chilling sort of crystalline clarity, that she would be forgotten.

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