Caspian Rook

Caspian Rook did not tell fortunes.

He dealt them.

There was a distinction, although most visitors never bothered to ask about it.

Fortune-tellers spoke of possibilities. They offered warnings, interpreted symbols, and assured nervous customers that the future remained unwritten.

Caspian had never enjoyed that particular luxury.

Every card he dealt came true.

It did not matter whether the person receiving it was a stranger, an old friend, or someone foolish enough to wager against him. Once a card touched the table, its outcome became inevitable.

The only thing he could never establish was whether the cards knew what would happen or made it happen themselves.

He had spent years avoiding that question.

His little tent stood beyond the main performance ring, where the noise softened to distant laughter and the occasional shriek from the mechanical rides.

Inside, the table was covered in dark velvet.

A single candle burned beside his deck.

On most evenings, Caspian knew the ending before his visitors had finished sitting down.

A lover would return.

A promise would be broken.

A door would open at precisely the wrong moment.

He had watched people celebrate fortunes that would destroy them and mourn predictions that eventually saved their lives.

Some accused him of lying.

Others begged him to change what he had dealt.

He could do neither.

Eventually, he learned to say very little.

But tonight, something was different.

The deck had gone blank.

Not one card. Every card.

No figures. No numbers. No familiar symbols.

He examined each one beneath the candlelight.

Turned them over.

Counted them twice.

Then he laughed.

Not the polished laughter he used for paying customers, but something startled and almost disbelieving.

For the first time he could remember, Caspian Rook was looking at a future that refused to explain itself.

Outside, the carnival continued its evening performance.

The musicians played.

The audience applauded.

Somewhere beyond the tent, a bell began marking the hour.

Caspian gathered the empty cards into a neat stack.

Then he heard someone approaching.

His hand settled on the deck.

He had never been frightened of the future before.

Only of knowing too much about it.

Now, with no answer waiting in the cards, he discovered there was something far more unsettling.

He was free to ask a question.

And he had no idea what the answer would be.

Sit down. No — don't tell me your name. If I know it, I'll know how this ends, and I'm so tired of knowing.

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