Brandy always thought life was a gamble, and if that was true, she was holding the worst hand imaginable. At twelve years old, she shuffled a worn deck of cards in her hands like a seasoned pro, her nimble fingers moving with the precision of someone twice her age. The cards weren't just a toy; they were a lifeline, a way to pass the hours and forget, even for a moment, that her parents had been taken by a war she didn't understand. They were also her ticket into the smoky back alleys where men bet on dreams and drank away regrets, where she was just a kid with a mouth too big for her tiny frame.
She lived with her aunt now, in a cramped little house on the outskirts of Liberio, the Marleyan capital. Aunt Lorna was a bundle of nerves wrapped in a wool shawl, perpetually peeking out the window as though the war itself might stroll up to her front door. She rarely ventured outside, leaving Brandy to fend for herself most days. It was a good arrangement, Brandy thought; Lorna was too busy hiding from imagined enemies to notice her niece sneaking out with a deck of cards tucked into her coat and a half-formed plan to win enough money for dinner.
The thing about Brandy was that she didn't look like trouble at first glance. With her wiry frame, short-cropped hair, and a smattering of freckles across her nose, she could almost pass for innocent. But those who knew her, or rather, those who had been conned by her, would tell you otherwise. Her dark eyes had a spark of mischief that turned sharp when she thought she had you figured out. And Brandy always thought she had you figured out.
On this particular afternoon, she was sprawled on the floor of her aunt's tiny living room, dealing herself a game of solitaire and narrating her own commentary in a dramatic voice.
"And the queen takes the jack-an unexpected move, but a bold one! Meanwhile, the king sulks in the corner, waiting for his chance to strike." She flicked a card into place with a grin.
"Brandy, stop talking to yourself," Aunt Lorna called from the kitchen, her voice tight with nerves. The sound of water boiling on the stove filled the silence. "And don't even think about leaving the house today!"
"I'm not leaving!" Brandy lied, rolling her eyes and shuffling the cards back into a neat stack. "I'm just practicing."
Practicing, in this case, meant rehearsing how she'd outplay the older boys at the makeshift poker table behind the bakery. She was sure she could win this time. Last week, she'd barely escaped with her cards intact after a bluff gone wrong. "Amateurs," she muttered to herself, already planning her strategy for the evening.
Of course, her plans never quite went the way she imagined. Trouble had a way of finding her, no matter how clever she thought she was. Whether it was stealing an apple from the market or slipping a few coins from an unsuspecting pocket, Brandy's attempts to make ends meet often left her running from angry merchants or dodging the city watch. She didn't mean any harm, at least, not usually. But when your aunt refused to leave the house and you were too young to get a real job, sometimes you had to get creative.
And so, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and Aunt Lorna fretted over the soup that was always too thin, Brandy tucked her cards into her coat and slipped out the back door.
"Just a quick game," she told herself, her irreverent grin spreading wide. "What could possibly go wrong?"
Plenty, of course.
Brandy's boots scuffed against the cobblestones as she weaved through the alleyways behind the bakery, her coat a bit too big for her and flapping with every step. She hummed a tune under her breath, one she barely remembered from when her parents were still alive. It was comforting, though she'd never admit that. She wasn't the sentimental type, not unless it helped her win a hand or two at poker.
Her stomach grumbled as she rounded the corner, and she muttered to herself, "Shut up. I'm working on it." She patted her stomach for effect, like she was scolding a pet dog.
The poker table was already set up by the time she arrived. A rickety wooden board balanced on two crates, surrounded by three boys who looked up as she approached. One of them, a scruffy teenager named Milo, smirked.
"Well, if it isn't the little thief herself," Milo said, shuffling a deck of cards with practiced ease.
"Thief?" Brandy shot back, her voice dripping with mock outrage. "That's rich, coming from the guy who tried to bet a button and called it a family heirloom. You're lucky I didn't report you to the guards."
The other boys snickered, and Milo narrowed his eyes. "You got the guts to sit down, or are you just here to run your mouth?"
Brandy grinned and plopped herself onto an overturned crate. "Deal me in. Let's see if you're as good as you think you are."
The game began, and Brandy played her part beautifully, shuffling her cards like a pro, smirking when the boys tried to bluff her, and throwing out sarcastic comments every chance she got.
"I see your two chips," she said, tossing a ragged coin onto the pile. "And I raise you one piece of stale bread. Don't laugh, it's probably worth more than whatever's in your pocket, Milo."
"Careful, kid," Milo said, leaning forward with a grin. "You're in deep now."
Brandy was feeling good, maybe too good. She had a decent hand, a sharp tongue, and just enough cocky bravado to keep the boys on their toes. But then she spotted him; a tall, broad-shouldered man in a military uniform, standing at the end of the alley. His arms were crossed, and his expression was sharp.
"Shit," Brandy muttered under her breath, trying to shrink into her coat.
"What's wrong, kid?" Milo asked, glancing at her cards. "Don't tell me you're backing out."
"Shut it, Milo," Brandy hissed. "We've got company."
The boys turned to look, and Milo cursed under his breath. "That's Sergeant Halstrom. What's he doing here?"
"Looking for someone to ruin his day, probably," Brandy whispered, trying to edge away from the table without drawing attention to herself.
"Hey, you there!" Halstrom barked, his voice echoing down the alley.
Brandy froze. "Me? Oh, no, sir, I'm just a humble... uh... bread inspector. Making sure the bakery's bread isn't too, uh... stale. Stale bread's a crime, you know."
Halstrom raised an eyebrow and started walking toward her.
"Run!" Milo hissed, and the boys scattered like rats, leaving Brandy to face the sergeant alone.
She stood her ground, though her knees felt like jelly. "Listen, officer, I think there's been a misunderstanding. I'm just a hardworking citizen trying to make an honest living."
Halstrom stopped in front of her, towering over her like a storm cloud. His eyes dropped to the table, lingering on the small pile of mismatched coins and the scattered cards. His brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line as if he were carefully weighing the evidence.
"Where'd you get these?" Halstrom asked, his voice low and even.
Brandy hesitated, her mind racing for an answer that wouldn't make things worse.
"Oh, those?" She shrugged, forcing a smile. "They're, uh... donations. For charity. Yeah, I'm raising money for... the orphaned birds of Liberio. Sad, isn't it? Little birds, no homes."
Halstrom's sharp blue eyes narrowed, and the wrinkles on his forehead deepened, as though peeling back the layers of her lie. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but enough to make it clear he'd seen through tougher cons than hers.
"Empty your pockets," he ordered.
Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, panic flashing across her face. It's over. I'm screwed.
Brandy sighed dramatically, flipping the cards out of her coat with a flourish and letting a few more coins clink onto the table. "Fine, here's the rest of it. Happy now? You just ruined the hopes and dreams of some very needy pigeons."
Halstrom ignored her comment, raising an eyebrow as he pointed at the table. "And you call yourself honest? That why you've got a deck of cards in your pocket and a pile of stolen coins in front of you?"
Brandy forced a grin. "Well, you know, honesty's relative. Like... uh... taxes. Nobody likes taxes, but we all live with them, right?"
Halstrom stepped closer, and before she could dart away, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was firm, calloused from years of soldiering. "You're coming with me."
"Come on, I was joking!" Brandy protested, tugging against his hold. "You don't have to drag me off like some kind of criminal. Im twelve! I've still got so much to learn about life!"
"Quiet," Halstrom said, giving her a strong pull.
As he led her down the alley, Brandy muttered under her breath, "Oh, fantastic," rolling her eyes. "A personal escort to the city's finest holding cell. Really pulling out all the stops for me, huh? Do I at least get a snack for the trouble?"
Halstrom didn't answer, though Brandy swore she caught the faintest curl at the edge of his lips.
"Great," she muttered, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Aunt Lorna's gonna love this. Can't wait to hear her lecture about how I'm ruining the family name- again."