I've made some questionable decisions in my life.

  There was the time I wagered my best hunting falcon on a horse named "Certain Victory," which proved to be aspirational rather than descriptive. Or when I convinced the Duke of Adavar's son that his father's imported Thormark brandy was actually watered-down cooking spirits, and offered to "dispose of it properly" on his behalf.

  But following a silver-tattooed woman in an unconventional nun's habit through a door that hadn't existed minutes earlier? That was setting a new standard for poor judgment, even by my admittedly subterranean bar.

  The doorway led to a narrow corridor lined with shelves containing objects that defied easy categorization. Glass jars filled with what appeared to be moving shadows. A collection of hourglasses, all flowing upward. A preserved hand that seemed to be slowly forming a different gesture each time I looked away.

  "Administrator Thorne handles the tedious parts," said the woman walking ahead of me, her long black hair swaying with the motion. Her voice carried the clipped precision of someone who calculates odds for entertainment. "Paperwork, risk assessments, actuarial tables. Necessary evils."

  I focused on keeping pace despite the room's increasing tendency to tilt. The blue patterns beneath my skin pulsed in time with my heartbeat, glowing brighter with each step.

  "And what parts do you handle?" I asked.

  She glanced back, amber eyes assessing me as one might evaluate a lame horse at auction. "I alter probabilities, Lord Greywers. I find the timeline where your condition improves rather than deteriorates, and I pull that future into your present."

  "That sounds..."

  "Heretical? Impossible? Beyond the scope of licensed healing practices?" She smiled thinly. "I assure you, the odds of your survival increase dramatically in my care versus conventional options. Currently standing at approximately twenty-seven percent."

  "Only twenty-seven?" I tried for nonchalance, but the number hit like a mailed fist to the stomach.

  "Up from the eight percent you walked in with. I find that improvement statistically significant." She stopped before another door. This one was ordinary enough, though the symbols carved around its frame definitely weren't included in any chapel iconography I'd seen.

  "I'm Sister Morgana Blackthorn," she said, turning to face me fully. "You've contracted with the Twilight Covenant for treatment of a probability-altering contaminant. I'll be handling the first phase of your treatment."

  "First phase?" The blue lines crawling toward my throat suddenly itched unbearably.

  "Each Sister specializes in different aspects of healing. Your case requires all three of us, in sequence." She tilted her head. "You have questions about the cost."

  It wasn't a question. "Administrator Thorne was somewhat vague on the details."

  "Of course he was." She rolled her eyes. "He enjoys his little mysteries. Your premium covers the basics. Additional services may require... alternative compensation."

  "Such as?"

  Morgana's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Let's focus on keeping you corporeal for now, shall we? We can discuss supplementary fees once you're stabilized."

  She opened the door, revealing a circular room that seemed larger than the townhouse should have contained.

  The walls were covered with intricate mathematical formulae written in silver ink that occasionally shifted and rearranged itself. In the center stood a simple examination table surrounded by what looked like astronomical equipment—brass armillary spheres, star charts, and devices I couldn't begin to identify.

  "Remove your shirt and lie down," Morgana instructed, moving to a cabinet filled with small drawers.

  As I complied, I noticed loaded dice, marked cards, and other gambling paraphernalia scattered among the medical instruments. A board covered in chalk notations hung on one wall, tracking what appeared to be elaborate betting odds on everything from horse races to which city districts would experience rainfall.

  "Hobby?" I asked, nodding toward a pair of weighted dice she'd absently picked up.

  "Professional research," she replied, rolling the dice between her fingers while examining my now-exposed chest. "Probability manipulation requires understanding its patterns. Gambling provides excellent practical application."

  She set the dice down, frowning at the blue latticework covering my torso. "Seventy-three percent chance this is derived from forbidden Adavarian research. Fifteen percent likelihood of independent origin. Twelve percent possibility of deliberately planted evidence to suggest the former."

  "You can tell all that just by looking?"

  "I can calculate probabilities based on pattern recognition." She leaned closer, her amber eyes reflecting the blue glow. "These aren't ordinary contamination patterns—they're following energy resonance lines in your body. Quite unusual."

  Her fingers hovered just above my skin, tracing the paths of the blue lines without touching them. "Interesting. They align with natural currents I typically see only in certain locations, never in a person."

  "I don't understand," I said.

  "Few would." She straightened, retrieving instruments from a small table. "Your body appears to be developing channel structures that shouldn't exist in human anatomy. The serum is mapping something inherent to your bloodline—a trait that's been dormant, perhaps for generations."

  "I don't have anything unusual in my bloodline," I said automatically.

  Morgana's expression suggested she'd heard more convincing lies from children caught stealing sweets. "Ninety-eight percent certainty that statement is false, whether you're aware of it or not."

  Before I could argue, she pressed her palms together, then slowly drew them apart. The air between them shimmered, forming what looked like a web of silver threads that writhed and twisted as though alive.

  "These are your probability lines," she explained. "Each represents a potential future stemming from your current condition."

  Most of the threads were dull, fraying at the edges. Only a few gleamed brightly, and I noticed how they seemed to pulse in time with certain nodes in the blue patterns on my chest.

  "The dim ones lead to outcomes where you transform or expire," she said matter-of-factly. "Our job is to strengthen the threads leading to your continued existence as a human nobleman, however marginal that existence might be."

  I chose to ignore the slight. "How exactly do you do that?"

  "I redirect probability flows through calculated interventions." She manipulated the silver threads with her fingers, plucking some like harp strings while weaving others into new configurations. As she did, I noticed some threads seemed to connect to specific points on my body where the blue patterns formed nodes or intersections.

  "The process requires physical contact and will be... uncomfortable."

  In my experience, when medical practitioners use words like "uncomfortable," they're typically understating by several orders of magnitude.

  "Define uncomfortable," I said.

  "Imagine every possible version of pain you might experience, branching out in infinite variations, briefly compressed into a single moment." She shrugged. "Statistically speaking, some of those variations might include pleasant sensations, but the odds are negligible."

  "That's... remarkably specific."

  "I believe in informed consent. Approximately sixty-three percent of practitioners don't properly explain procedural discomfort, leading to patient distrust and reduced healing efficacy."

  She pressed a leather strap into my hand. "You'll want to bite down on this."

  "That's not reassuring."

  "It wasn't meant to be. It was meant to be accurate." She positioned her hands above my chest, the silver threads dancing between her fingers. "Try not to move. It disturbs the probability matrices."

  I placed the leather between my teeth just as her hands descended onto my skin.

  The world exploded into infinite possibilities.

  I was drowning in freezing water. I was burning alive. I was shattered into countless fragments. I was every version of myself that could exist—dying, living, transforming, remaining. All simultaneously, all compressed into a single excruciating moment.

  Through it all, I heard Morgana's voice, impossibly calm: "Interesting. Your probability threads show unusual connections to something beneath us. Almost like roots seeking water."

  I might have screamed. I might have laughed. I might have done both, or neither, across different timelines that briefly overlapped in my perception.

  For an instant—so brief I nearly missed it—I saw through the floor, through stone and earth, to glowing lines that crisscrossed beneath the building like a vast, luminous web. The blue patterns on my skin seemed to reach toward them, resonating at the same frequency.

  Just when I became certain my mind would fragment permanently, everything snapped back into singular focus. I found myself gasping on the table, sweat-soaked and trembling, the leather strap in shreds between my teeth.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "That went better than expected," Morgana said, examining her handiwork with clinical detachment. "Eighty-seven percent success rate on the first attempt. Most impressive."

  I tried to speak, failed, and tried again. "That was... better than expected?"

  "Considerably. I calculated only a twenty-two percent chance of consciousness retention." She picked up a silver hand mirror from her workbench and held it before me. "See for yourself."

  The blue patterns had changed. Where before they had spread chaotically across my skin, now they formed ordered, symmetrical designs centered around my wound. More importantly, they'd retreated from my throat and face, contracting back toward the original injury site.

  But something else had changed too.

  The patterns now resembled a network of channels or pathways, with clear nodes at what seemed like important junctions. It looked disturbingly like maps I'd seen in my father's study—maps of roads or rivers or trading routes.

  "You've realigned the energy vectors," Morgana explained, using terms I didn't fully understand. "The serum now has a ninety-four percent chance of remaining dormant rather than transformative, assuming you follow the maintenance protocol."

  I gingerly touched the patterns, finding them cool but no longer pulsing. "Maintenance protocol?"

  "Secondary treatments to reinforce the probability locks." She turned away, writing rapid calculations on a slate. "Sister Circe will provide alchemical stabilizers, and Sister Hekate will address any lingering corruptive elements."

  "When?"

  "Probabilities suggest Circe will find you within two days, when the alchemical aspect of your condition reaches the moment of greatest sympathetic influence." She set down her chalk and faced me again. "Her methods differ from mine. Prepare accordingly."

  I struggled to sit up, muscles protesting every movement. "Different how?"

  "I redirect futures. Circe transforms the present world. Hekate processes past trauma." Morgana reached for the weighted dice again, rolling them absently between her fingers. "Each approach has advantages and limitations."

  As I carefully pulled my shirt back on, I noticed Morgana studying me with renewed interest.

  "Your response pattern is statistically anomalous," she said. "The energy matrices in your blood responded to my probability manipulation as if they'd been waiting for activation."

  "Is that... bad?"

  "Unusual. Which makes you interesting." She stepped closer, her amber eyes calculating. "I'd wager there's more to your bloodline than you're aware of, Lord Greywers. Something that resonates with deeper patterns."

  The way she said it—like a gambler spotting a valuable tell—made me distinctly uncomfortable. "My family history is hardly relevant to my treatment."

  "Ninety-nine percent certainty that statement is false." She smiled thinly. "But we all have our little secrets, don't we?"

  Before I could respond, she turned toward a cabinet and produced a small silver box.

  "Your first payment," she said, holding it out.

  I took it cautiously. "I thought the premium covered treatment."

  "Basic services, yes. This is... supplementary." She nodded toward the box. "A small wager between us."

  When I opened it, I found a set of dice carved from some iridescent material that shifted colors as I tilted them in the light.

  "What exactly am I supposed to do with these?" I asked.

  "Roll them every night before sleeping. Record the numbers. Bring the results to our next meeting." She began tidying her instruments with brisk efficiency. "The patterns they generate will help me fine-tune your treatment."

  It sounded suspiciously like ritualistic nonsense, the kind charlatans prescribed to keep patients occupied while natural healing occurred. "And if I don't?"

  "Then the probability locks I've established have a sixty-eight percent chance of deteriorating within a week." She didn't look up from her work. "Resulting in an eighty-one percent likelihood of you completing your transformation into something with considerably fewer legal rights than a nobleman."

  Put that way, rolling dice seemed a small price to pay.

  "One more thing," she added as she escorted me back toward the entrance. "The treatment creates a sympathetic link between practitioner and patient. You may experience occasional... echoes."

  "Echoes?"

  "Precognitive flashes. Heightened awareness of energy flows. Brief moments where you perceive things others cannot." She shrugged. "Nothing debilitating, but potentially disorienting if unexpected."

  Wonderful. As if my life needed additional complications.

  At the door, I found Willem pacing anxiously, his hand never far from his knife. His expression when he saw me was worth every moment of pain I'd endured—pure, unfiltered relief.

  "You look... better," he said, eyes widening as he noted the changed patterns visible at my collar.

  "Statistically improved," I agreed. "Though apparently I'm now magically linked to a gambling-addicted probability witch who calls herself a nun."

  Sister Morgana arched an eyebrow. "Healing mage specializing in probabilistic realignment would be more accurate, but witch serves well enough in casual conversation."

  Willem's hand tightened on his knife hilt.

  "It's fine," I assured him, though I was far from certain myself. "We have an arrangement."

  "Indeed." Morgana's amber eyes gleamed with something like amusement. "I've bought favorable odds on your survival, Lord Greywers. Try not to squander my investment."

  With that, she retreated into the townhouse, the door closing behind her with a soft click that somehow conveyed finality.

  "Do I want to know what happened in there?" Willem asked as he helped me back to our wagon.

  "Probably not." I settled against the cushions, exhaustion finally claiming its due. "But I'll tell you anyway, because misery loves an audience."

  As we pulled away from the Twilight Covenant's unassuming headquarters, I could have sworn I saw curtains twitch in an upper window—and briefly glimpsed the other two Sisters watching our departure with expressions of mingled curiosity and calculation.

  ***

  By the time we reached my keep, night had fallen. The journey back from the capital had been mercifully uneventful, though I'd spent most of it drifting in and out of consciousness. Whatever Morgana had done had left me feeling hollow, as though parts of me had been temporarily scattered across multiple realities.

  "You've seen strange things in your years of service," I said, studying Willem's weathered face.

  "War shows a man plenty that can't be explained," he replied with characteristic economy. "Don't need to understand the why of something to deal with it. Just need to know if it's a threat."

  "And this?" I gestured to the fading blue patterns on my skin.

  Willem's eyes narrowed in assessment, the same look he'd give when scouting unfamiliar terrain. "Unknown. But you're still you, which counts for something."

  The castle surgeon examined me with undisguised fascination, poking at the reconfigured blue patterns with the cautious touch one might use to approach a venomous snake.

  "Extraordinary," he muttered. "The patterns have completely restructured. And you say this Sister Morgana did this with... probability manipulation?"

  "So she claimed." I winced as he pressed too firmly on a sensitive area. "Though it felt more like having my soul put through a flour sifter."

  "And there will be additional treatments?"

  "Apparently my case requires all three Sisters, in sequence." I pulled my shirt closed. "I'm to expect the second one—Circe—within two days."

  The surgeon's expression grew troubled. "My lord, these methods... they're not sanctioned by the Royal College. If word gets out that you've sought treatment from the Twilight Covenant—"

  "Then people will say the Greywers have fallen even further than previously believed." I shrugged, immediately regretting the movement. "Better alive and scandalized than dead and respectable."

  He couldn't argue with that logic, though his frown suggested he wanted to.

  After he left, I sat alone in my chambers, staring at the silver dice Morgana had given me. They felt heavier than they should, as though packed with something denser than material substance. When I rolled them experimentally across my desk, the numbers that faced upward—a three and a six—seemed to momentarily glow before settling into ordinary ivory.

  Following instructions, I noted the numbers in a small ledger, feeling slightly ridiculous. What game was Morgana playing? Was this genuinely part of my treatment, or some elaborate scheme to satisfy her gambling addiction through proxy?

  I was pondering this when a knock came at my door.

  "Enter," I called, expecting Willem with an evening meal.

  Instead, my mother glided in, her face a perfect mask of composure that didn't quite hide the worry in her eyes. "I see you've returned from your... excursion."

  The way she said it suggested I'd been caught sneaking out to a tavern rather than seeking life-saving treatment.

  "Mother." I inclined my head, too tired for a proper confrontation. "Yes, I visited the capital."

  Her gaze fixed on my partially open shirt, where the blue patterns—now neatly ordered in symmetrical designs—were clearly visible. "And did you find what you were looking for?"

  "Treatment, yes. A cure, not yet." I met her eyes directly. "The Twilight Covenant offered what the Royal Corps wouldn't."

  Her lips thinned to a bloodless line. "At what cost, Magius? These people don't provide charity."

  "A reasonable premium, actually. Less than I was paying for coverage that didn't even acknowledge my condition."

  "And what else?" She knew me too well to believe that was the entire arrangement. "These... practitioners... always demand more than coin."

  I hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. The dice on my desk suddenly seemed to pulse, as though reminding me of their presence.

  "Some follow-up treatments," I admitted. "Nothing unreasonable."

  "Your father would have done the same," she said softly, to my astonishment. "Always too practical to die for propriety's sake."

  I stared at her. "You're not... disappointed?"

  "Disappointed that my son chose survival over convention? No, Magius." She touched my shoulder where the blue patterns were brightest, her fingers lingering with what seemed like recognition rather than concern. "Though I had hoped... well, timing is rarely perfect in these matters."

  What did she mean by that?

  She straightened, composure returning like a familiar cloak. "The court summons still stands. Nine days remain. Will you be fit to travel by then?"

  "If the remaining treatments proceed as planned, yes." I glanced at the dice. "Though I may have some... unusual visitors in the meantime."

  "I'll ensure the staff are discreet." She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Magius?"

  "Yes, Mother?"

  "Whatever bargain you've struck... be careful. Some prices aren't apparent until they come due."

  With that cryptic warning, she departed, leaving me to wonder just how much she knew about the Twilight Covenant—and why she'd changed her position so dramatically.

  I picked up the dice again, studying their shifting colors in the candlelight. According to Morgana, Circe would find me when my condition reached "the moment of greatest sympathetic influence," whatever that meant. I hadn't asked how she would locate me or how she'd know when the time was right.

  The answer came to me suddenly, with the strange certainty of knowledge I shouldn't possess. The dice. They weren't just for recording numbers—they were a beacon, a sympathetic link connecting me to the Sisters. Each roll broadcasted my condition to them, allowing them to track my progress from afar.

  I had no idea how I knew this. The information simply appeared in my mind, as clear and certain as my own name.

  One of Morgana's "echoes," perhaps?

  I set the dice down with newfound wariness. What else might flow through this connection? What else might I be unwittingly sharing each time I rolled them?

  As I stared at them, I experienced a momentary disorientation—a brief flash where I could see faint lines of light beneath the floor, pulsing ever so slightly with each heartbeat. The vision lasted only a second before vanishing, leaving me questioning whether I'd actually seen anything at all.

  Sleep proved elusive that night. I lay awake, watching the blue patterns glow softly in the darkness, wondering what transformations still awaited me—and whether they would be limited to the merely physical.

  Just before dawn, I finally drifted off, and dreamed of a woman with constantly shifting eye color, brewing concoctions that released multicolored vapors forming images of futures that might never be.

  When I woke, a strange hunger gnawed at me—not for food, but for something I couldn't name. And on my tongue lingered the phantom taste of herbs I'd never encountered.

  Circe was coming. And somehow, part of me was already reaching out to meet her.