Seven spent the rest of the day with Emmet. Far from being emotional or fun at all, really, their time together was weighed down with a sort of grim practicality. They visited the bustling markets, and even a few that Seven was fairly certain wouldn’t be allowed in Veilhome at all, their counters laden with dice that should have been illegal, and a few wicked blades that she thought might be as well.

  Emmet bought her practically everything she could carry, and while she considered feeling guilty for his charity, she knew that it might keep her alive in the mines. And, well, it was Moore’s money anyway.

  A few hours later she pushed the door to Emmet’s townhome open, her arms laden with mining gear and battle gear both. She dumped the lot on the floor near the Emmet-shaped hole as he shut the door behind her, and felt, strangely, like she was going camping.

  “Okay,” she said, surveying her pile of gear. “I’ve spent enough chips to make the crown send someone out to investigate for fraud, so that’s one angle covered.”

  Emmet let out a long sigh. He’d spent most of the afternoon doing that. But it was true. If she didn’t make it back, her father would at least send out an audit team to investigate Emmet. At least then her family would know what had happened to her.

  She twisted her mouth in thought, folding her arms together. “I’ve got another twelve hours to prepare for certain death. What else do I need?”

  Emmet settled down at the desk in the corner of the room, writing something feverishly. He barely looked up. “A better plan.”

  “Not helpful.”

  Pocket peeked out of her shirt. “Therapy.”

  “Also not helpful.”

  Emmet scrawled a few more notes on his page before his pen paused, and he looked up in thought. “Technically,” he said, “before entering a hazardous deep-sector environment, workers are required to undergo a four-step legal briefing on rights, risks, compensation parameters, and corporate liability waivers.”

  “I’m pretty sure I waived my right to all of that when I took this job.”

  “That you did.”

  She looked at the pile of gear—at clothes so light and flexible that even her sister would have been jealous. At a sword, short enough and light enough that she thought she might even have a chance with it—provided she remembered her fencing lessons. At the myriad pile of mining implements, the ration packets—everything she’d been able to think of in that dazed trip through the market.

  But there was something bigger she hadn’t dealt with yet. Something she had only a few hours to master—or at least to familiarize herself with.

  Seven stripped her glove and glanced at her hand, studying it. It glowed faintly at all hours now, and it was fortunate she was so used to keeping it covered. Two faces of what looked like a dice pulsed faintly in her palm, as if waiting for something.

  But what? She thought. She was a little ashamed to admit that she’d done little to investigate her powers or their limits since coming to LMC. It had been an endless litany of survival, of palming that dice, of trying to dodge Bert and Rook both, that she’d practically forgotten about the very thing that might save her life in the mines.

  She’d gone far too long ignoring it. She’d spent far too much time focusing on the wrong things entirely.

  “I need to see how far it goes,” she said quietly. “Test its limits. See what I can do with it.”

  “You should also sleep,” Emmet pointed out. “You’ll be down there for three days straight in the best-case scenario.” He had a point, but there would be no sleep if she couldn’t survive. And her curse was the best chance she had.

  “Survival first,” she said. “Then we can worry about sleep.”

  ***

  Seven spent the rest of the afternoon and long into the evening working through the pile of dull dice that Emmet had filched from the recycling bin outside of HQ. Many of the dice were barely dice at all, not worth being kept around, but LMC gave employees incentives to return them before they were entirely useless. They were probably worth a meal ticket or two, if Seven was being honest. But for her, they were priceless.

  Each dice was an opportunity to pinpoint what, exactly, Luck did for her in a pinch. And just how far she could take it. Emmet disappeared upstairs with Pocket, leaving her alone for the first time in weeks. There was something calm in the silence—and in the knowledge that this was her last chance to figure out what, exactly, she was working with.

  She palmed a few dice, watching the color and light seep out of them, then stood in the barren basement, studying her golden palm. The markings there were impossible to miss now; glowing strongly in the dim light of the single basement lantern, the sides of the dice were now clearly lit, stronger than before she’d drained the nearby dice.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Is it some sort of power indicator? She thought, turning her palm in the light. Or something else? So far, she’d only really been able to confirm one thing: that her powers would give her far more strength than she had any right to have, really. But how far could she take it? And what else could she do with it?

  It took her several moments of staring at her hand to force herself to make a plan. For so long, her curse had been a source of shame, of bitter resignation that she would never be anyone—not just in House Veil, but in the Veil at all. To reveal it would be to ruin her family’s reputation. To speak of it would be to ruin her own. And, while she hadn’t exactly enjoyed a good reputation in Veilhome, it was better than being seen as the orchestrator of the entire kingdom’s downfall.

  House Veil still enjoyed plenty of power over the rest of the Wheel. Enough power, in fact, that her family was the de facto ruler of most of the Wheel, even if the other families got some say in the final judgement of things. Veil was seen as an enigma, a mystery, a house so powerful that no one dared question their authority. Rumors abounded about the clandestine deals they must have made during the Fragment to secure such mind-boggling power.

  Of course, if there was any kind of power, this was the first time Seven had heard of it. Her siblings, while powerful because of the dice they wielded, were otherwise normal. She was sure she would have noticed something growing up alongside them—strange behavior, tics, and the like. But if there was something that made House Veil special, her parents had worked tremendously hard to hide that truth from the world. She and her siblings had been trained to be watchers, diplomats, and representatives—not weapons.

  Now, though, she wondered if they’d been wrong.

  She sat on an old bench and plucked a few dice from the bag Emmet had brought her, waiting for their glow to fade to nothing. This time, though, she forced her attention inward—towards that little flame of power she felt stirring deep within. She’d felt it before—a roaring hot hearth on days when she’d been lucky enough to get her hands on better quality dice. On those days, she’d felt like she could take on the world with one hand.

  It was part of the reason she sought dice endlessly, and also the reason her family had banned her entirely from the dice vaults; it simply felt too good to be around them. Too good to feel that power wink out of them. Yes, there was some guilt involved, but she realized now that she’d felt the physical changes long before she’d seen it in action. The question now was, could she control it?

  That flame flickered slightly with the addition of the dice—not much, but noticeable at least. Focusing on that feeling inside, Seven turned to the gym equipment scattered throughout the basement.

  Seven started with Emmet’s weight rack. It was just as nice as any she’d seen in the training area of the palace, but she’d never frequented one herself, preferring to run, to jump, to ride—anything to avoid the bulky weights, and more importantly, the always crowded palace gym.

  There was some technique involved, of course, but Seven had a hunch she wouldn’t need it. Feeling foolish, she shoved on a few weights—what she figured she’d be able to do naturally—and positioned herself under the bar.

  She went down into a squat and up—far too easily, she realized. And yet, as she did so, some of that flame ebbed. She stuck her hand back into the bucket, this time pulling out enough to really feel the heat spreading through her arm, the flame gathering in her core, and slapped on a few more plates—far more than even Emmet had been lifting.

  Those went down with ease, and her flame with it.

  She frowned, taking a moment to catch her breath. Well, it would make sense that there are limits, she thought. Still, it seemed like one good stash of dice might not even last her that long.

  And worse, with each use, she began to feel it in her bones—like her body couldn’t quite keep up with the demand she was placing on it, even with that Luck coursing through her veins.

  Still, with each use, she felt more alive somehow—as if she was learning about a new limb she hadn’t realized she’d had. She wasn’t cursed. She was blessed. Blessed with extraordinary power that her family had somehow, miraculously overlooked. What would they have done had they known the truth? Locked her away? Turned her into an assassin and made her do the family’s bidding? None of the options were good.

  As the basement grew darker and the afternoon wore on, Seven lost track of everything but that burning energy in her chest. She didn’t remember Emmet coming down to check on her. She didn’t remember the faint rumble of thunder overhead. She didn’t remember, even, that she was destined for the most dangerous mine in Rook’s arsenal later that night.

  She ran laps around the basement, sparred awkwardly with the bag in the corner, and knocked herself silly with her own powers, launching off of walls, gauging that roaring flame within, until the bag was empty and she was empty. There was no consistency in what she did, and indeed, it seemed impossibly lucky that she’d managed to defend herself with them before at all.

  But they were her powers, and she would learn to use them, one way or another. Maybe she was exiled and disgraced, but she wouldn’t be powerless. She’d had enough of that.

  Hours later, or so she thought, Seven fought her way back to her feet after a particularly nasty blow sent her backwards. She’d learned—unfortunately—that her small stature still meant that the bulk of her blows would send her backwards even if she connected with her target.

  Chest heaving, she stuck her hand into the bag, waiting for that trickle of power, that warmth in her arm, that tiny little flame of energy.

  Nothing.

  She swore, reaching into the bag. Most of the dice were dark, but one remained. She picked that one up and the light inside winked out, but she nearly dropped it, hissing in pain.

  The warmth spread faster than she could contain it, like a wildfire running up her skin. Her fingertips buzzed, and her arm vibrated strangely, the light in her palm flickering as her pulse shifted into a sickening double beat, far too heavy. Nauseated, she rolled over onto all fours, trying to catch her breath.

  The door to the basement clicked open.

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