Lena Acheron
Born with a golden spoon? No.
It was a diamond.
It wasn't just wealth she had—it was power, status, and legacy.
The moment Lena Acheron drew breath, the world bowed. The daughter of the Crimson Duke.
The heir to one of the Four Great Duchies.
Born with an affinity for fire that turned lakes to steam with a sneeze.
Mastering the ancient Acheron Flame Scripture by nine. Reaching the 8th Circle before fifteen.
Every door was opened for her.
Every path laid itself flat.
As time passed, every step became miserably boring.
The world turned dull—grey—monotonous.
Praise became noise.
Compliments? Lies wrapped in fear.
Victories were no different from breathing.
She had long since stopped expecting anything real.
Until she met her.
Arista.
A genius with a blade to match her own fire.
A girl whose sword pierced without sound, whose mana moved like ice.
She thought—hoped—that they would clash as equals.
But fate was cruel.
Arista had sworn herself to Lena's family. A vow of submission and loyalty.
Because of that, in their duels, Arista held back to not hurt her. Always. It wasn't real.
Lena stopped going to classes.
The Imperial Academy became a blur. Professors, nobles, challengers—they were all the same.
Weaklings with loud mouths. She was already better than them.
So she wandered.
To where society blurred.
To the underworld.
There, at least, she could taste the edges of unpredictability. Even if the taste was faint.
Time passed, and nothing out of the ordinary happened.
And then—he appeared.
A name whispered between clinks of coins among the bettors.
Vancroft Lovecraft.
The fourth son of the Lovecraft duchy. The stain. The black sheep. The failure.
And yet… they called him Son of Luck.
He was winning everything.
Rigged games? Won.
Card tables? Swept.
Dice that never rolled high? Cracked the
table with triple sixes.
Lena was intrigued.
Not by his name. Not by his power—he was a Fourth Circle at best.
But by the unknown. The unpredictability.
So she tested him.
A bet. Ridiculous stakes. His limbs for her amusement.
She expected a stuttering retreat. Maybe an attempt to bribe his way out.
But he… agreed.
That feeling—she hadn't felt it in years. The thrill.
The fire inside her stirred.
She walked into the Obsidian Room, her red suit shimmering like blood under the light.
Arista followed silently, her blade wrapped in a frost-sealed scabbard.
The obsidian walls gleamed with ancient enchantments, shimmering with protective runes.
A crowd gathered, whispers kept low out of fear.
The table stood ready.
Blackjack.
The game was deceptively simple. But she didn't care for the rules.
She only cared for him.
Vancroft walked in. Calm. Too calm for someone gambling his arms. He didn't flinch.
Interesting.
Lena took her seat opposite him. She leaned forward, folding her fingers under her chin, a predator waiting.
"Ready to entertain me, Son of Luck?" she whispered.
Vancroft met her eyes, unblinking. "We'll see who entertains who."
The dealer—a middle-aged man with trembling hands—began to shuffle. Slow. Careful. The deck glowed faintly under anti-cheat enchantments.
A silence fell over the crowd like a shroud.
Lena's eyes burnt—not with magic, but with life.
Finally.
The dealer placed the cards.
Two face up. One hidden.
The first hand was dealt.
And for the first time in a decade, Lena felt her blood race.
***
I stared at the obsidian table.
My fingers lightly tapped the edge of the cards.
The mana-restraining ring pulsed faintly around my finger.
I had something better.
Damian whispered calculations in my mind—probabilities, patterns, psychological behaviours—but I waved it off.
This was my stage now.
Lena Acheron. The prodigy. The girl whose flames burnt hotter than dragons.
There was something about her—the way her smile curved upward just enough to feel written, rehearsed even.
The excitement she exuded—it didn't feel normal. It felt… narrative.
'She's a heroine, probably.'
The confidence, the pedigree, the way the world bent toward her. She had that aura.
Either a mid-level villainess or a heroine
Which meant fate was probably on her side.
So what?
I'm Vancroft.
And fate?
All that fate is, is a drunken storyteller with unsteady hands.
The dealer slid the first round of cards across the velvet.
My heart didn't race. My breath didn't quicken.
The game was up.
She flipped her card.
Six. Then eight.
Fourteen.
She tapped the table once. Hit.
A seven.
Twenty-one.
Her lips twitched with satisfaction.
Her gaze snapped toward Vancroft. The boy didn't blink. Didn't twitch. His hand flipped.
Twenty-one.
The crowd murmured.
"A tie," the dealer said with a dry voice.
'Fine.'
It was the first round.
The second came.
This time, Lena played aggressively.
She split her hand and doubled down. Pressure. Dominance. Her flames might be sealed, but her instincts weren't.
She glanced up—he wasn't even sweating.
He played simply.
And he won.
Third round. She countered.
A loss for him.
Then another draw.
Round after round, neither faltered. The onlookers were dead silent, as if breathing too loud would tilt the outcome.
And yet, as the chips moved back and forth…
'He doesn't look worried at all.'
Not once.
Even when he lost a hand, he nodded like it was just part of some inevitable rhythm. It unsettled her.
Her blood burnt hotter.
This wasn't luck.
Was this his hidden talent?
'Are you really the one I waited for? Vancroft.'
***
I could tell I was getting under her skin.
She masked it well.
That eerie smile, the kind you see in characters just before they snap—but there was tension now.
She wasn't used to equals.
She was a walking narrative, and I was screwing with the plot.
Damian whispered again. "Odds favour doubling now."
I let my hand hover above the table. I didn't move.
"Ignore the odds," I whispered in my mind.
"Let her feel like she's winning."
The final round came.
Two cards down. Mine—Jack of spades,
Seven of clubs.
Seventeen.
Hers—Queen of hearts, five.
Fifteen.
She stared at her cards. Her fingers tapped once. Then again. Her smile widened.
"Hit me."
A two.
Seventeen.
She exhaled softly. "Your move, Son of Luck."
The crowd was silent. The obsidian table gleamed like polished oil under the lights.
I stared at my cards. Then at hers.
And I grinned.
"Stand", I said.
The dealer turned the hidden card.
Lena's eyes flicked toward it.
It was a four.
Her total? Twenty-one.
The crowd gasped.
She leaned back, triumphant. "Looks like I win—"
"Wrong pile", I said, nodding to the dealer.
The dealer blinked, then flipped my third card.
A four.
Twenty-one.
A perfect tie again?
No.
"Dealer's error", I said smoothly. "Check the deck integrity."
The enchantments flared. A moment passed.
The actual order was revealed—the four was meant for me, not her. The one she drew was from a miscut.
Silence. Then:
"Invalid card draw," the dealer declared. "By house rules… the final draw is recast."
A fresh card was drawn.
For Lena.
A six.
Her total? Twenty-one becomes twenty-three.
Over.
"Bust," the dealer said.
Gasps echoed like thunder in the obsidian chamber.
I rose slowly, dusting off my shirt.
"Thank you for the game," I said. "But I'll be keeping my limbs."
I turned and walked away.
I, Vancroft Lovecraft, just robbed a heroine blind.