The week is— fine. As fine as any week he has, at least. The past couple of weeks were an anomaly, a sudden and unexplained increase from baseline—but not a new baseline. He understands that now, and he spends the week slowly rebuilding the shell that he'd let degrade since meeting Jasnah, making sure all of his soft, vulnerable areas are fully covered. It's not hard; he used to live like this all the time. It doesn't feel good, really, but it does feel familiar, and that's enough.
He does everything that's asked of him—shuts up when Jasnah doesn't want him heard, entertains when she does, makes pleasant, surface-level conversation. He doesn't ever delve close to the depths of discussion they would have at Jochi's or on the ship—that was a mistake, and one he intends to learn from—but it's amiable and engaging enough, his attitude perfectly agreeable.
By the end of the week, his feelings have cooled enough—or he's at least managed to wall them up enough—for him to feel quite little at the message. There's no jump of excitement in his chest, no fluttering feeling in his stomach like a schoolboy with a crush. After decades suppressing his emotions to survive, it's not so hard to suppress them to continue to tolerate life here in Urithiru. If anything, it's just embarrassing he didn't do it sooner.
It's late enough that he wonders if they should discuss his hours, but he pens a short intent to meet her back, then packs the deck of cards away in his pocket. Does it bother him that she blurs the lines between 'work' and 'social call' like this? It would, if he were letting things like that bother him anymore. He's not, so it doesn't. Not at all.
After meeting Jasnah on the Cloudwalk, he settles at a small table next to the railing so that he can shuffle the deck. It's still just as hard as it was the first time. While shuffling, he catches a glimpse of the queen he'd sketched to look like Jasnah. Quel embarras.
"I've been meaning to get some proper cardstock," he says. "I'd like to redo them." For a multitude of reasons. He holds up the Jack of Spades, eyeing its not-quite-perfect lines critically. "You can tell this one was drawn on a moving ship."
The last few days have been wholly — exhaustingly — defined by three discussion points that refuse to stay confined to the coalition table. They spill into dinners, into corridor ambushes, into low-voiced sidebars in borrowed studies. First: serious doubts, now bordering on allegations, regarding Taravangian's loyalty to the coalition of monarchs. Second: a rare and time-sensitive opportunity to reclaim territory in Herdaz. Third — and most devastating — because of the first two, any attempt to reclaim Alethkar has been shelved indefinitely. Kholinar included.
If Verso has been paying attention during these long, grinding days, he'll already know how deeply that last point has lodged under her ribs. And if he hasn't? Then she likely reads as she always does in public now: distant, displeased, difficult to approach. It's possible he hasn't seen her smile since they returned to Urithiru. Other heads of state at the table could lapse into gentle ribbing and laughter, and she continues to stay stormy.
Even here, perched beside the sheer drop of the tower's outer wall, she is stern and preoccupied. Jasnah would have preferred to summon him to her study — except she'd found the desiccated husk of a strange cremling behind a shelf earlier that morning, and has since talked herself out of trusting even that space. Knowing what she knows about the Sleepless and their spy hoards. Her gaze flicks, now and again, to the periphery of where they sit. Watchful and wired thin. And likely too, too tired.
No one in the coalition knows there is something wrong with her Radiant powers. No one but the surgeon knows how much of her recovery has been accomplished under her own steam and without much stormlight. And no one but Ivory knows how stalled she feels — trapped at something that feels uncomfortably like her first Ideal.
Still, she makes herself focus. The decision to reach out to Verso at all had taken hours of internal argument. It was Ivory, finally, who'd broken her stalemate. Distraction is. Frustration is, he'd told her, irritatingly gentle. Lean on him. As you already have.
So Jasnah sits across from Verso now — immaculate, composed, hair pinned — and tries not to interrogate the simple, unsettling truth of why she wanted him here. Only that something has been missing. Something she wants back, even if she hasn't named it.
When he mentions redoing the cards, her mouth creases despite herself. The instinct to refine, to improve, is not a bad one. She shares it. And yet something in her tightens at the thought of replacing the familiar deck with something sturdier. Something unused.
She reaches across the table and, with two fingers, lifts the Jack of Spades from his hand. The corner is bent — a stubborn flaw from one night at Jochi's end table when they'd tried, unsuccessfully, to flatten it. Every game after that, they'd both known instantly whether the other held the Jack.
"If you do," she says quietly, "I'd like to keep this one."
"I was hoping to burn the evidence of my shoddy work," he says, half-joking and half-very serious, "but I suppose the Jack can be pardoned for his crimes against art."
Reaching out, he gingerly plucks the Jack out of her grasp with his index finger and thumb before sliding it back in the deck to be properly shuffled. Not like it'll matter, since it's an obvious giveaway which one it is, but it's the principle of the thing. As he finishes shuffling, he preempts the question of what game they'll play and deals out two cards for her, two cards for him. Face down.
There's no discussion of gambling tonight, at least not from his end. He peeks at his two cards and then says, "I'll hit," reaching out to grab another card from the deck.
Her brows crease. And her fingers tighten around nothing — a quick, thoughtless instinct to protect the deck from his half-threat. Jasnah's eyes drop to his hands, to the cards, to the practiced method he's developed for shuffling even with the thinner, flimsier paper. She's had a privileged seat to that progress. She remembers the first night they played — back on the ship — and how much trouble the notebook page cards had given him.
Then game by game he got better at shuffling them. Adjusting what must have been habit for a stiffer set to something gentler, more fluid, for these makeshift rectangles. Tonight, you'd never know they weren't exactly as they were meant to be.
Jasnah lifts the corners of her cards — noting in silence that despite the shuffling she got stuck with the identifiable jack all the same — and delays her choice.
The work had been done quickly, first out of excitement for something to show her—he'd been so giddy and restless to show her, like a child holding their finger painting up for their parent to see—and then out of boredom, a need to fill the time while she convalesced. The workmanship is... it's fine, but it could be better. A lot better.
"Rudimentary, then," he replies. With proper cardstock, a nice ink pen, and some paints, he could make them look exactly like a card you might buy in a shop in Lumière.
But Jasnah would classify them more like a start or a beginning. And then they grew into something else: an emotional root structure that held together whole nights. And when he's done with this deck, she'll keep it for herself. Lock it up with all the other nice things she doesn't let herself have.
"Why are they both still face down?" She points at his cards. She points at her cards. And she makes a fuss about something entirely unimportant because it's a release valve she desperately needs. "Surely, I can't choose whether to hit or stand without that point of data."
It's how he'd taught her to play. Originally. If this is some variation, she doesn't know it.
—He'd been running on autopilot, just going through the motions without paying the sort of close attention he has during their games in the past. She doesn't need to know that, though. Probably not the sort of job performance she's looking for.
Verso laughs a little at the half-accusation, bemused. He is an inveterate cheater, but it's not like she knows that. Not like he's ever cheated when playing with her.
"If I wanted to cheat, don't you think I would have been a bit more crafty?" Another tap of his cards. "Stand."
Cheating. Only upon this fresh accusation — if it even can be called an accusation for Jasnah to think for a moment he mightn't be the cheating type — does she raise her attention and meet his eyes. Maybe the little spark of laughter eased something between her shoulders.
Jasnah doesn't dare hit again. So, sliding her fingers under her remaining cards, she flips them to reveal a sum total of sixteen. Oh. She's playing a cautious game.
Verso looks at the sixteen, eyebrow trending up slightly. Unusually cautious for her. She could have pulled a card with a value of five or lower and cemented her victory. But since she didn't, he turns over his cards to reveal a ten, a six, and a two.
"If I was going to cheat, I would have made sure I had a more decisive victory," he points out, before gathering up their cards. He wouldn't have expected her to stand on a sixteen. "Again?"
Each day this week — in every council meeting and dinner-turned-negotiation — Jasnah has been the one to say aloud that they'll need to de-prioritize Alethkar in favour of other efforts. Especially if Dalinar insists on keeping his word to the Mink and sending reinforcements to Herdaz sooner rather than later. Coldly, callously, she has argued against a push on what ought to be Alethi territory because the numbers simply don't make sense.
Maybe it's hard not to read the characters on the cards like troop numbers. Lives, committed or not. It's making her feel risk averse.
Hmm. He reshuffles the deck, dealing out two cards for each of them. With a pointed look, he turns one over—an eight. With only a cursory look at the other, he says, "I'll stand."
Jasnah reveals her top card. A four — nothing to get excited about. And he manages to make his call before she even does the mental math. Of course, that makes her assume that he's got something good. Something high. A ten or a face.
And she's got — hmm. She does hit, frowns at her third card, but stands nevertheless.
"Go on, then," she gestures for him to reveal first.
And he does reveal his cards: on the other side of the eight is a seven, for a total of fifteen. He's adjusted his playstyle to hers, immediately trending more cautious rather than following his natural instinct. It'll be more entertaining for her if they're on a level playing field. "Your turn."
— Well, this is awkward. On the assumption that he'd already secured himself a lofty number, she's as good as given up after her third card. Jasnah eyes her hand, delaying a moment longer before splaying them out. Four, eight, three.
She also pulled fifteen.
"Is there such thing as a tiebreaker in vingt-un?"
Edited (can't spell my own dumbass language) 2026-01-30 17:22 (UTC)
Oh. Wow, she's really off her game today; even with him purposefully handicapping himself, she still only managed fifteen. His nose twitches, corner of his mouth tugging down for just a moment. There's a question on the tip of his tongue—what's going on with you today?—but he swallows it.
"Typically, it results in a draw. No win or loss." He reaches out to gather up her cards again. "But it's fair enough to say that a tiebreaker goes to the queen, I think."
One-handed, she elides her cards together and gently lifts them from the table with the edge of her nail. Then — pinched between her index and middle fingers — she offers them back. Another stark difference between their time spent hiding out in Thaylen City and now: she's no longer enjoying the relative mobility afforded by a gloved safehand rather than a sleeved one. Still, she deftly makes do.
Tiebreaker goes to the queen. If only all stalemates could be solved so tidily.
"I don't know of many games that allow for draws," she comments. Tone dark.
Well, the vibe is all kinds of off today. Not that it's ever been on since getting back, exactly, but perhaps they haven't been alone together long enough for him to really pick up on it. Verso is aware, in some obvious way that doesn't even require a moment of realization, that it's his responsibility to fix it. It's always his responsibility to fix things.
So, he shuffles the deck again, then fans the cards out and holds them out to her.
Somewhere further along the Cloudwalk, there's a gentle rustle of wind through stone corridors. And a slightly less gentle clink-and-rattle of spheres bracketed and locked in lamps along the outer wall. Inconvenient, really, to use one's currency for lighting.
Jasnah picks something on the far right of his fanned out collection of cards — studying it as she turns the card towards herself.
"Remember that card," he instructs, before nodding toward the deck. "And put it back in."
When she does, he shuffles the deck again, more showy than the perfunctory shuffling he'd been doing during their game. He's gotten better at doing the shuffle tricks with thin, bendable paper—it isn't as impressive as it is with real cardstock cards, but it's respectable.
As he shuffles: "Now picture the card in your mind's eye, and I'll use my skills of mindreading to see it." Skills of mindreading that he's never once mentioned or used until this moment. He shuffles a little more, then makes a performance of looking at the deck, squinting in thought, before he holds up the Ace of Hearts.
Jasnah one hundred percent — without a doubt — does not believe in mind-reading. At least between two non-spren. But she goes through the motions, she pictures the card as instructed, and doesn't allow herself to get too too distracted by those shuffling techniques.
What? It's always worth watching someone do something well. Even in the heat of a strategic crisis, she appreciates skill.
He proffers his guess and — without confirming or denying aloud — she simply says: "Again."
Because of course his slight-of-hand landed on the right card. And because she's determined to catch how it's done the next time.
"Okay," he says with a shrug, because at least she's entertained. "Again."
He shuffles the deck, then holds it out for her to pick a card just as she did before, offering the same sort of verbal showmanship as he did the first time. When she places it back in the middle of the deck, he cuts it with her chosen card on top, then proceeds to shuffle in increasingly performative manner—the shell game, but with little handmade cards.
Finally, he holds the cards out in front of him, looking thoughtful before he picks a card from the same position he had last time—dead last—and holds it out.
Close-up magic is — quite obviously — a masculine art.
She watches his hands with rapt attention. This time, she doesn't let herself get waylaid glancing at eyes or listening to his words. And she thinks (she thinks!) she catches something off about the way he cuts the deck. Or the fact that he cuts it at all instead of riffling straight into a shuffle.
Jasnah's head drifts to the side in a thoughtful tilt. She takes the card (her card!) and their fingers brush but barely as she does. She examines the card itself, wondering whether (like the jack of spades) it too has some tell-tale bruise or scar.
"When did you learn this?"
Alone, on the continent? Before, among others? In all the brackish, miserable awkwardness of the past week she's forgotten not to lead with an interrogation.
Before, he might have shared how he'd first tried to learn it to impress girls at parties (because of course he did). He might have explained that he only succeeded about half the time and the young ladies were rightfully unimpressed, but that endless time on the Continent gave him plenty of opportunity to redeem himself. But this isn't before anymore, so he says:
"I was born with mindreading abilities. Ostracized among my peers until I learned to use my powers for entertainment purposes."
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He does everything that's asked of him—shuts up when Jasnah doesn't want him heard, entertains when she does, makes pleasant, surface-level conversation. He doesn't ever delve close to the depths of discussion they would have at Jochi's or on the ship—that was a mistake, and one he intends to learn from—but it's amiable and engaging enough, his attitude perfectly agreeable.
By the end of the week, his feelings have cooled enough—or he's at least managed to wall them up enough—for him to feel quite little at the message. There's no jump of excitement in his chest, no fluttering feeling in his stomach like a schoolboy with a crush. After decades suppressing his emotions to survive, it's not so hard to suppress them to continue to tolerate life here in Urithiru. If anything, it's just embarrassing he didn't do it sooner.
It's late enough that he wonders if they should discuss his hours, but he pens a short intent to meet her back, then packs the deck of cards away in his pocket. Does it bother him that she blurs the lines between 'work' and 'social call' like this? It would, if he were letting things like that bother him anymore. He's not, so it doesn't. Not at all.
After meeting Jasnah on the Cloudwalk, he settles at a small table next to the railing so that he can shuffle the deck. It's still just as hard as it was the first time. While shuffling, he catches a glimpse of the queen he'd sketched to look like Jasnah. Quel embarras.
"I've been meaning to get some proper cardstock," he says. "I'd like to redo them." For a multitude of reasons. He holds up the Jack of Spades, eyeing its not-quite-perfect lines critically. "You can tell this one was drawn on a moving ship."
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If Verso has been paying attention during these long, grinding days, he'll already know how deeply that last point has lodged under her ribs. And if he hasn't? Then she likely reads as she always does in public now: distant, displeased, difficult to approach. It's possible he hasn't seen her smile since they returned to Urithiru. Other heads of state at the table could lapse into gentle ribbing and laughter, and she continues to stay stormy.
Even here, perched beside the sheer drop of the tower's outer wall, she is stern and preoccupied. Jasnah would have preferred to summon him to her study — except she'd found the desiccated husk of a strange cremling behind a shelf earlier that morning, and has since talked herself out of trusting even that space. Knowing what she knows about the Sleepless and their spy hoards. Her gaze flicks, now and again, to the periphery of where they sit. Watchful and wired thin. And likely too, too tired.
No one in the coalition knows there is something wrong with her Radiant powers. No one but the surgeon knows how much of her recovery has been accomplished under her own steam and without much stormlight. And no one but Ivory knows how stalled she feels — trapped at something that feels uncomfortably like her first Ideal.
Still, she makes herself focus. The decision to reach out to Verso at all had taken hours of internal argument. It was Ivory, finally, who'd broken her stalemate. Distraction is. Frustration is, he'd told her, irritatingly gentle. Lean on him. As you already have.
So Jasnah sits across from Verso now — immaculate, composed, hair pinned — and tries not to interrogate the simple, unsettling truth of why she wanted him here. Only that something has been missing. Something she wants back, even if she hasn't named it.
When he mentions redoing the cards, her mouth creases despite herself. The instinct to refine, to improve, is not a bad one. She shares it. And yet something in her tightens at the thought of replacing the familiar deck with something sturdier. Something unused.
She reaches across the table and, with two fingers, lifts the Jack of Spades from his hand. The corner is bent — a stubborn flaw from one night at Jochi's end table when they'd tried, unsuccessfully, to flatten it. Every game after that, they'd both known instantly whether the other held the Jack.
"If you do," she says quietly, "I'd like to keep this one."
The whole deck, really. Not just the card.
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Reaching out, he gingerly plucks the Jack out of her grasp with his index finger and thumb before sliding it back in the deck to be properly shuffled. Not like it'll matter, since it's an obvious giveaway which one it is, but it's the principle of the thing. As he finishes shuffling, he preempts the question of what game they'll play and deals out two cards for her, two cards for him. Face down.
There's no discussion of gambling tonight, at least not from his end. He peeks at his two cards and then says, "I'll hit," reaching out to grab another card from the deck.
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Then game by game he got better at shuffling them. Adjusting what must have been habit for a stiffer set to something gentler, more fluid, for these makeshift rectangles. Tonight, you'd never know they weren't exactly as they were meant to be.
Jasnah lifts the corners of her cards — noting in silence that despite the shuffling she got stuck with the identifiable jack all the same — and delays her choice.
"The work isn't shoddy."
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"Rudimentary, then," he replies. With proper cardstock, a nice ink pen, and some paints, he could make them look exactly like a card you might buy in a shop in Lumière.
He taps her cards. "Hit or stand?"
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But Jasnah would classify them more like a start or a beginning. And then they grew into something else: an emotional root structure that held together whole nights. And when he's done with this deck, she'll keep it for herself. Lock it up with all the other nice things she doesn't let herself have.
"Why are they both still face down?" She points at his cards. She points at her cards. And she makes a fuss about something entirely unimportant because it's a release valve she desperately needs. "Surely, I can't choose whether to hit or stand without that point of data."
It's how he'd taught her to play. Originally. If this is some variation, she doesn't know it.
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And. Well. Jasnah does flip her jack. And then, leaning forward, grabs another card to add to her hand — presumably choosing to hit.
But then she has to go and ask: "Did you forget or were you trying to cheat?"
No eye contact.
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Verso laughs a little at the half-accusation, bemused. He is an inveterate cheater, but it's not like she knows that. Not like he's ever cheated when playing with her.
"If I wanted to cheat, don't you think I would have been a bit more crafty?" Another tap of his cards. "Stand."
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Cheating. Only upon this fresh accusation — if it even can be called an accusation for Jasnah to think for a moment he mightn't be the cheating type — does she raise her attention and meet his eyes. Maybe the little spark of laughter eased something between her shoulders.
Jasnah doesn't dare hit again. So, sliding her fingers under her remaining cards, she flips them to reveal a sum total of sixteen. Oh. She's playing a cautious game.
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"If I was going to cheat, I would have made sure I had a more decisive victory," he points out, before gathering up their cards. He wouldn't have expected her to stand on a sixteen. "Again?"
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Maybe it's hard not to read the characters on the cards like troop numbers. Lives, committed or not. It's making her feel risk averse.
Nevertheless, she taps the table.
"Again."
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And she's got — hmm. She does hit, frowns at her third card, but stands nevertheless.
"Go on, then," she gestures for him to reveal first.
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She also pulled fifteen.
"Is there such thing as a tiebreaker in vingt-un?"
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"Typically, it results in a draw. No win or loss." He reaches out to gather up her cards again. "But it's fair enough to say that a tiebreaker goes to the queen, I think."
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Tiebreaker goes to the queen. If only all stalemates could be solved so tidily.
"I don't know of many games that allow for draws," she comments. Tone dark.
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So, he shuffles the deck again, then fans the cards out and holds them out to her.
"Hey, pick a card."
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Somewhere further along the Cloudwalk, there's a gentle rustle of wind through stone corridors. And a slightly less gentle clink-and-rattle of spheres bracketed and locked in lamps along the outer wall. Inconvenient, really, to use one's currency for lighting.
Jasnah picks something on the far right of his fanned out collection of cards — studying it as she turns the card towards herself.
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When she does, he shuffles the deck again, more showy than the perfunctory shuffling he'd been doing during their game. He's gotten better at doing the shuffle tricks with thin, bendable paper—it isn't as impressive as it is with real cardstock cards, but it's respectable.
As he shuffles: "Now picture the card in your mind's eye, and I'll use my skills of mindreading to see it." Skills of mindreading that he's never once mentioned or used until this moment. He shuffles a little more, then makes a performance of looking at the deck, squinting in thought, before he holds up the Ace of Hearts.
"Is this your card?"
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What? It's always worth watching someone do something well. Even in the heat of a strategic crisis, she appreciates skill.
He proffers his guess and — without confirming or denying aloud — she simply says: "Again."
Because of course his slight-of-hand landed on the right card. And because she's determined to catch how it's done the next time.
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He shuffles the deck, then holds it out for her to pick a card just as she did before, offering the same sort of verbal showmanship as he did the first time. When she places it back in the middle of the deck, he cuts it with her chosen card on top, then proceeds to shuffle in increasingly performative manner—the shell game, but with little handmade cards.
Finally, he holds the cards out in front of him, looking thoughtful before he picks a card from the same position he had last time—dead last—and holds it out.
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She watches his hands with rapt attention. This time, she doesn't let herself get waylaid glancing at eyes or listening to his words. And she thinks (she thinks!) she catches something off about the way he cuts the deck. Or the fact that he cuts it at all instead of riffling straight into a shuffle.
Jasnah's head drifts to the side in a thoughtful tilt. She takes the card (her card!) and their fingers brush but barely as she does. She examines the card itself, wondering whether (like the jack of spades) it too has some tell-tale bruise or scar.
"When did you learn this?"
Alone, on the continent? Before, among others? In all the brackish, miserable awkwardness of the past week she's forgotten not to lead with an interrogation.
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"I was born with mindreading abilities. Ostracized among my peers until I learned to use my powers for entertainment purposes."
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