THE FRAUD OF FATE

The scent of stale incense and cheap lavender hung heavy in the cramped parlor of ‘Divinor’s Cosmic Insights.’ Cassian sat slumped in his velvet-backed chair, his eyes rolled back so far that only the whites showed. His hands trembled over a crystal ball that was, in reality, a highly polished hunk of cheap glass he’d bought at a flea market.

“I see it… yes… the resonance is shifting,” Cassian groaned, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly faux-baritone. “The spirits of the Great Beyond are whispering your name, Mrs. Gable.”

“Oh, heavens,” the elderly woman whispered, clutching her floral handbag. “What are they saying? Is it about my Milton? Is he happy in the afterlife?”

Cassian let out a long, shuddering breath, tilting his head as if listening to a frequency no one else could hear. “Milton says… he says he finally found his favorite pipe. The one you thought you threw out in forty-two. He’s laughing, Mrs. Gable. He’s laughing and eating a very large ham.”

“A ham? He loved ham! Oh, Cassian, you really are a wonder!”

Cassian slowly ‘returned’ to the physical plane, blinking rapidly and rubbing his temples with a theatrical wince. “Man, that one really took it out of me. The veil is thick today. Real thick.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” she said, fumbling with her purse. She pressed a handful of silver coins into his palm. “Truly, you’re the only honest soul in this city.”

“I try, Mrs. Gable. I really do. Now, you’d better head out. The shop’s closing early today. Official business. Tax stuff. Very boring.”

“Of course, dear. Don’t let me keep you.”

As soon as the bell above the door jingled and the woman disappeared into the afternoon fog of the capital, Cassian’s posture collapsed. He stood up, swept the silver into a pouch, and immediately began blowing out the candles.

“Tax stuff. Right,” he muttered to himself. “More like ‘if I don’t vanish in ten minutes, the Royal Revenue Service is going to skin me alive.’ Where did I put that suitcase?”

He scrambled toward the back room, kicking aside a pile of ‘mystic’ tarot cards that were mostly just pictures of cats in hats. He had one foot on the stairs when the front door didn't just jingle—it slammed open with a force that rattled the glass jars of dried oregano he labeled as ‘Dragon Root.’

“You’re not going anywhere, Cassian.”

Cassian froze, his shoulders hunching. He knew that voice. It was sharp, cold, and carried the weight of someone who actually knew how to use a library. He turned slowly, a pained smile plastered on his face.

“Saphielle. Hey. What a surprise. I was just, uh, closing up. For a spiritual retreat. Very private.”

Saphielle Oracline stood in the doorway, her pristine white robes a sharp contrast to the dusty, dim-lit chaos of his shop. She held a silver-topped staff, and her eyes—clear and annoyingly perceptive—swept over the room with pure disdain.

“A spiritual retreat?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling a frantic escape from the audit office now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cassian said, stepping down from the stairs. “I’m a busy man. People have needs. Spiritual needs.”

“You’re a fraud, Cassian,” she said, walking toward his table. She picked up the crystal ball and held it to the light. “This isn’t even quartz. It’s lead glass. And that 'trance' you were just doing for that poor woman? Your pulse didn’t even change. You were faking the resonance patterns by tapping your foot against the table leg.”

“It’s called showmanship, Saphielle. You should try it sometime. People like a bit of flavor with their prophecies. Not everyone wants the dry, boring ‘calculated probabilities’ you Oraclines spout.”

“We provide the truth,” she snapped, slamming the ball back onto its velvet cushion. “You provide comfort for a price. There’s a difference. And right now, your little circus is about to be shut down. I’ve been sent to ensure you don’t ‘accidentally’ relocate before the inspector arrives.”

“Look, Saph,” Cassian said, leaning against the counter and trying to look casual despite the sweat beading on his neck. “Can’t we just talk about this? Professional to professional? I’ve got some really high-grade ‘Moon Dust’ in the back. It’s mostly crushed seashells, but it looks great in a potion.”

“Don’t call me Saph,” she hissed. “And I’m not here to negotiate your delinquency. I’m here because—”

She was cut off by the sound of a heavy carriage pulling up outside. This wasn’t the rhythmic clatter of a merchant’s cart. This was the synchronized thud of Purebred stallions and the sharp command of a driver.

Cassian’s heart sank. “Please tell me that’s the tax man. I’d rather deal with the tax man.”

Saphielle straightened her robes, her expression turning from irritation to professional rigidity. “Actually, that would be the client.”

The door opened again, but this time, there was no slamming. A man stepped inside, draped in a heavy velvet cloak embroidered with the gold thread of the Royal Prophecy Bureau. He was tall, silver-haired, and looked like he hadn't slept since the last century.

“Alistair Prophecy,” Cassian whispered, his bravado finally flickering out. “The Head of the Royal Envoy. Great. Fantastic. I’m definitely going to jail.”

Alistair didn’t look at the jars of oregano or the cat tarot cards. He looked directly at Cassian. “Cassian Divinor. I trust I’m not interrupting a… consultation?”

“Just finishing one, my Lord,” Cassian said, his voice cracking slightly. He bowed low—too low. “To what do I owe the, uh, extreme honor?”

“He was just leaving, Alistair,” Saphielle intervened, her tone respectful but firm. “I’ve already confirmed his lack of genuine spectral resonance. He’s of no use to the Bureau.”

Alistair held up a hand, silencing her. He walked toward the table and pulled out the chair Mrs. Gable had just vacated. He sat down, his eyes boring into Cassian’s.

“Sit,” Alistair commanded.

Cassian sat. He felt like a mouse being invited to lunch by a very polite owl.

“Saphielle tells me you are a charlatan,” Alistair began, his voice calm. “She says your techniques are theatrical, your tools are fake, and your ethics are… questionable.”

“She’s always been a bit of a critic,” Cassian mumbled, shooting a glare at Saphielle, who stood by the door with her arms crossed.

“However,” Alistair continued, “she also admits that you have a certain… knack. You see things others miss. You read people. You predict outcomes not through the stars, but through the dirt on a man’s boots and the way his eyes twitch when he lies. You have a hundred percent satisfaction rate among the common folk, even if your methods are, shall we say, unconventional.”

“I’m a people person,” Cassian said. “Is this the part where you arrest me?”

“This is the part where I hire you,” Alistair said.

The room went silent. Saphielle’s jaw actually dropped. “Alistair, you can’t be serious. He’s a street performer! We have the entire Oracline Academy at our disposal!”

“And the Academy has failed to see the shadow looming over the Crown,” Alistair said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He looked at Cassian. “I need a Grand Reading. Not a standard calculation of crop yields or marriage alliances. I need a reading of the Kingdom’s fate. Something is coming, Cassian. Something the 'real' seers can't track because it doesn't follow the laws of magic.”

Cassian blinked. “You want me to do a Grand Reading? For the Crown? Lord Alistair, with all due respect, I usually tell people if their lost cats are in the well or if their cows will have twins. You’re talking about… high-level stuff. That’s way out of my league.”

“I agree,” Saphielle said. “He’ll mess it up and embarrass the Bureau.”

Alistair ignored her. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a heavy leather pouch. He set it on the table with a metallic clink that sounded like music to Cassian’s ears. Then, he pulled out a scroll, unrolling it to reveal a deed.

“Ten thousand gold pieces upfront,” Alistair said. “Another forty thousand upon completion. And this—a full royal pardon for all your past, present, and future tax discrepancies, along with a permanent license to practice 'Mystic Arts' anywhere in the kingdom, tax-free.”

Cassian stared at the pouch. Then the deed. Then the gold again. His brain was screaming run, but his pockets were screaming yes.

“Forty thousand?” Cassian whispered. “And no taxes? Ever?”

“Ever,” Alistair confirmed. “But there is a condition. You must provide a result that is actionable. If you give us a vague prophecy that means nothing, the deal is void, and I let Saphielle here process you for high fraud against the throne.”

Cassian looked at Saphielle. She was smirking, clearly expecting him to turn it down out of fear. She knew he was a fake. He knew he was a fake. But fifty thousand gold pieces was enough to buy a small island where nobody had ever heard the word 'audit.'

“Actionable,” Cassian repeated. He looked at the crystal ball on the table. He had no idea how to actually read the fate of a kingdom. He didn't even know where the kingdom's borders ended. He was a guy who guessed things based on body language and luck.

“So?” Alistair asked, leaning in. “Do we have a deal, Mr. Divinor? Or should I let the guards waiting outside come in and help you pack for the dungeons?”

Cassian reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he touched the cold leather of the gold pouch. He looked up, a wild, desperate grin forming on his face.

“Lord Alistair,” Cassian said, his voice regaining its performative bravado. “You’ve come to the right place. The stars were just telling me you’d be stopping by. Why don't we get started?”

Saphielle groaned, rubbing her temples. “I’m going to have to write so many reports about this.”

“Just keep the ink dry, Saph,” Cassian chirped, clutching the gold to his chest. “We’ve got a kingdom to save. Apparently.”

He had no idea what he was doing. He was going to die. But at least he’d die rich.