THE KINGDOM OF WOLVES - PART 2: There Is Little to No Honesty in Winning

Nath Sky was born and raised on the western fringe of the Kingdom of Wolves—a land carved rigidly into four castes: the royal Gewels, the noble Fangs, the merchant Pawns, and the common Beggars. Nath, a Beggar by birth, was a man of many talents but a trickster at heart. Slick with words and confident in his lies, he lived life by chance, never fearing to risk everything for more.

He was nothing like his peers. While others sought wealth, status, and secure futures, Nath cared little for such things. His obsession was chance itself—the roll of dice, the turn of a card, the fleeting moment when luck tipped in your favor. Yet, ironically, he had no chance, especially in the game called Meno. For most of his life, Nath lost more games than he could ever win. Time and again, he believed he’d crafted a flawless strategy, only to watch his coins slide across the table to another. For five straight years, his losing streak deepened, stretching into his early twenties without a single thought of quitting.

To fund his habit, he worked as a salvager—a harsh job under a burning sun, with long days on the open sea. For Nath, it was worse. He suffered from a rare, persistent form of motion sickness; no matter his age or time aboard, his body never adjusted. Months at sea left him pale and shaky, but he had no choice. He needed the coins for Meno.

Then came the storm.

No one predicted the terror that unfolded that evening. Howling winds tore through sails; the ocean itself seemed to rise and splinter the hulls of ships and boats alike. Nath clung to debris, salt, and rain blinding him. When dawn finally broke, only a handful of survivors washed onto the rocky shore of the kingdom’s edge. Nath lay gasping, his glasses lost to the depths.

As the high tide retreated, swallowing the last remnants of the wreck, a shaken voice called out. One of the crewmates had found a pair of spectacles further down the beach. They were bent, one lens cracked—but they were glasses. Nath took them without a word. The walk home was silent, heavy with the memory of screams and the weight of the lost.

That night, under the steady drum of rain, Nath sat in the dark of his rented room. A single candle flickered as he tried to bend the frames straight. His hands trembled—not from cold, but from the echo of waves and the faces of those who hadn’t made it. He felt no hero’s relief, only a numb, hollow guilt. He had survived. Again.

The next morning, heavy knocking jarred him awake. Authorities—doing a headcount, collecting names of the dead. Nath gave his statement mechanically. Minutes after they left, another knock: his landlady. He was behind on rent, and now he was jobless. With only three copper coins in his pocket, he was two days from homelessness.

He paced, clueless, desperate. He needed air. As he lifted the salvaged glasses to his face, he paused. Something felt different. The frames were darker than he remembered, etched with faint, swirling markings he hadn’t noticed before. The lenses, though scratched, seemed clearer—sharper. He shrugged and stepped outside.

He went from shop to shop, asking for work. Every keeper gave the same answer: “No.” But Nath found their responses oddly vivid. It wasn’t what they said—it was what he saw. A faint, crimson glint in their pupils as they spoke, a quick flutter at the corner of an eye. Almost like a… tell.

By sunset, only one tavern remained. Exhausted, Nath sat at a sticky table, watching the keeper struggle—serving drinks, wiping counters, sweeping the floor. Nath approached. “Need help?”

The keeper didn’t look up. “Not at all.”

There it was again—that quick, red gleam in his irises, like a spark in shadow. Nath’s pulse quickened. He’s lying.

That night, Nath tested his theory. He spoke to a Pawn, a beggar, a guard on patrol. Each time someone lied, however small, the red flicker appeared. By morning, he was certain: it was the glasses. These weren’t his. They must have washed ashore from the underground tunnels—the kingdom’s secret veins, where strange, lost things sometimes surfaced.

With three coins and one day until eviction, Nath made for the alleyways. He found a Meno game in the back of a smoky stable. He bet his last coppers.

This time, he didn’t play the odds. He played the players.

He chatted, told small tales, and asked harmless questions. And with every reply, he watched their eyes. A crimson glint meant a bluff. A clear gaze meant truth. He folded when they were strong, raised when they were weak. Within an hour, his three coins had multiplied into a heavy pouch.

He paid his rent. Then, with careful hands, he reshaped the glasses—polishing the lenses until they shone, gilding the frames in bright, alluring gold. They looked new. Respectable. Like they belonged to someone going places.

And Nath was going places. Week after week, he played. He moved from alley games to shadowy parlors, then to polished halls where the air smelled of wine and wealth. His winning streak became legendary. Before long, he found himself sitting at velvet-lined tables with the wealthiest Pawns and even a few curious Fangs of the Kingdom of Wolves.

But as he stacked his winnings, a new thought began to itch at the back of his mind: if the glasses could see everyone’s lies…What could’ve pushed someone to create such a conception?