Sir Hiss and the House of Whispering Cards

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It is said that the Palais Fortuna only appears where chance smells of velvet and fate is ready to bluff. No road leads there, yet it finds those who might lose something—or steal. Sir Hiss found himself in a foggy square where there had previously been only alleys. Before him was a palace of red glass, crisscrossed by gold veins and smoke, without windows, but with doors that opened if one began to lie. He entered without hesitation. His top hat sat askew, his cloak smelled of tobacco and deception. In his breast pocket was a loaded die, in his sleeve a hidden card: the mirror-backed Ace of Spades. Inside, the lights danced like tired promises. The casino was a labyrinth of gaming tables, mirrored columns, and living cards. They moved like people, but their faces flickered. The Queen of Hearts gave him a look sharper than glass. The Joker winked at him from three directions at once. "Sir Hiss," whispered a voice made of smoke. It was the King of Diamonds, half smoke, half lacquer, on a throne of chips. "Tonight you play against us. The deck. The rule is simple: Play or be played." Hiss smiled. "What's the stake?" "Not your life. Just your opportunity." He nodded. He had bet against probabilities before. And won more times than he should have. The game began with a thunderclap of cards. The tables moved like ships, while the cards themselves slid across the shimmering green cloth, whispering, conferring. The Jack of Clubs stepped up and unleashed a chain of marked moves on Sir Hiss. But Hiss was faster. He drew an invisible ace from thin air, made it appear double, laughed softly—and laid down the next hand with a wink that no one understood, but everyone felt. The crowd—cards, mirrors, shadowy creatures—murmured. The King of Hearts leaned forward, his crown melting into gold. But then came the moment when Hiss's wit failed. The cards slowed. The room shimmered. And a voice said, "I remember you." The Queen of Hearts stepped forward. Her card glowed pale, as if she had lost time. "You were once my mirror. My deceit." Sir Hiss paused. His hand hovered over the next throw. "What do you mean?" he asked. "You became part of the deck when you put your face on our backs." His smile froze. The cards spun around him. He recognized symbols he himself had once invented. Signs that shouldn't have existed. Probabilities that were only possible with his signature. The deck didn't want to defeat him. It wanted to bring him back. He drew his last card—the Fool card with his portrait. He threw it into the air. A flash of light. A scream, as if from a thousand throats. Then silence. When the smoke cleared, Sir Hiss was gone. Only a single die lay on the floor, still warm. And a card—half Queen of Spades, half Fool, with a top hat in the corner.