Familiarity

There’s no mistaking it. Somehow… This world has poker…

I shouldn’t be this shocked, right? People everywhere gamble. It wouldn’t take a genius to invent cards. But it’s not just the cards. It’s the whole setup: the oval table, the colored chips, the dealer shuffling with practiced hands.

It’s… too similar. Too modern.

“You remember when I said this world felt weirdly familiar to mine?” I ask Io, still staring.

“Yes,” she says, curiosity tugging at the edge of her voice. “Why do you mention it now?”

I point, almost dumbly. “That’s definitely poker.”

Io follows my gaze. “Is this… a game?” she asks, leaning slightly forward. There’s a spark of intrigue in her eyes - the kind she gets when something new pokes at her curiosity.

“Yeah. And you can gamble,” I explain.

“Are you good at it?” she asks, without missing a beat.

“The worst,” I confess, half-laughing. “I know the rules, but that’s about it.”

Her eyebrow quirks, but before she can reply, a man from the back waves at us. “Come, come! I’ll explain everything!” His voice is too loud, and there’s something almost rehearsed in his cheer.

“Should we…?” I ask, glancing at Io.

But she’s already moving. Of course…

We step closer to the table. The man, somewhere between mid-thirties and maybe older, with a round face and quick hands — begins explaining, words tumbling out fast, as if he’s performed this little speech countless times.

“We use chips in place of coins. Everyone is dealt cards — see, like these — and the goal is to have the best combination or make everyone else fold. We call it a ‘hand.’”

He sprinkles the local language with familiar English words: hand, fold, flush, chips.

It sounds… weird. Like a village trader dropping random bits of French to sound sophisticated. Except this isn’t French. It’s my language.

And that… that’s the thing that makes my skin prickle.

If they’d come up with this game themselves, the terms would’ve been local. And they would be foreign to me or had to be translated by the chip. Instead, it’s poker, almost letter for letter.

“Do I need to repeat anything?” the man finishes, beaming. “Any questions?”

Io jumps in first. “May I see the cards?” Her voice is calm, but I know that look, she wants to study them.

“Of course! A fine lady like yourself must appreciate the feel of good cards,” he says, handing them over with a little flourish.

Io flips through the deck, her eyes sharp, measuring every detail.

I clear my throat. “I’ve never heard of this game before. Is it new?”

“It’s been around twenty years, give or take,” the man says. “At first, just in rough inns — but word spread.”

“And do you know who invented it?” I try to keep my voice casual, but my mind is racing. What if it was someone like me?

“That part’s a mystery,” he says, shrugging. “As far as we know, it showed up one night in a little inn — some beggar or wanderer taught it, they say.”

“Any idea how it spread to here?” I push.

“Oh, it caught the eye of the wealthy, of course. Even Lord Rhenoult himself took a liking to it,” the man says, puffing slightly with pride. “There’s talk of a grand tournament being planned — nobles and commoners alike!”

That bastard. From everything we got to know about him this is no innocent game night. It’s either some kind of scam or a nice facade. Maybe both…

The man keeps talking, clearly delighted to share: apparently, commoners can qualify if they win local tournaments — some half-hearted nod to fairness, but probably rigged. Still… It is an opening.

I glance at Io. Her expression is thoughtful, eyes narrowed. She’s already calculating odds, angles, people. I can almost see the gears turning.

The man finally stops for breath. “So, what do you think? Care to play?”

Io starts dragging me along. We head to one of the tables.

Still, my mind is reeling from those English words, from the idea of some other stranger bringing poker here decades ago. Maybe I can investigate that person. What brought them here?

Another investigation, huh.

Maybe it’s all a fluke. For now let’s try to play. I will know for sure what this game really is if I lose a bunch.

###

We’re seated at a small round table tucked in the corner. This seems to be the beginners’ pit. Probably meant to hook newcomers before they wander toward the real tables and real stakes. Clever.

No need to buy chips up front. How considerate of them… or maybe a trap: give you a taste, then reel you in. The house always wins, right? Some truths cross worlds.

The flow of the game… It's exactly poker. The same hands, the same rules, even the same ritual of checking cards and tossing in chips. Should I be happy to see something from back home? Or should I start questioning if this is some sign that the universe is smaller-and stranger-than I thought?

With how my luck has gone so far, it’s a coin toss.

The table is half full, mostly younger men and a woman who looks like a merchant’s clerk on her evening off. They laugh awkwardly, handle cards like they’re made of glass, and bluff like people who have never had to hide anything serious.

I’m not even really focused on the cards. I know I’m terrible at poker-but against total newbies, even someone like me can manage a hand or two. What really catches my eye is Io.

She just got to know of the game. But she watches every card, every bet, like she’s tracing an invisible pattern. By the second hand, she’s already folding without a second thought when odds are against her, or raising when the others hesitate.

She’s new, but it’s like she sees it.

Part of me wants to be more excited. A quiet pride, maybe. But I’m stuck thinking about how wrong it all feels. They know ancient Greek math here. Sure. It’s something so deeply rooted in how humans think that even separated by entire worlds, people might discover the same ideas. That made sense to me.

But poker? A specific game, with English words mixed in… That’s not inevitable. That’s something carried.

Where’s the threshold? Why was I calm when I found out they know Euclidean geometry, but now, seeing Io playing poker, I’m stuck halfway between fascination and dread?

“And the lovely miss wins!”

The dealer’s voice yanks me out of the spiral. The others look mildly surprised, maybe a bit bruised in their pride, as Io collects her little pile of chips. I glance down-somehow I’ve still got a handful of chips left, despite barely paying attention.

Io tilts her head, her eyes on me. “So? Want to keep going?”

I should say no. We’re not exactly rich. But… what the hell. We could do with a bit of fun, and maybe, just maybe, I can figure out what’s really going on here.

“I want to play for real,” She smirks, that faint crooked grin that’s equal parts mischief and challenge.

“Sure thing,” I say, surprising even myself with how sure it comes out.

I force a breath, shake my head clear. Enough worrying about cosmic riddles. Cards are cards, chips are chips. And for now, at least, it’s just us at the table-two outsiders, quietly trying to understand both the game and the world around it.

“Alright,” I say, as the dealer gathers up the deck. “Let’s see how bad I really am.”

And under the warm, smoky light of the inn, we lean forward, the next hand already being dealt.

###

This is fun. Really fun. It’s like trying to strike a deal with those greasy grain merchants back home - except now, it’s a game, and the stakes feel lighter… sort of. And playing with real money? Ohh, it makes your heart race in the best possible way.

Why didn’t I ever think to ask Nate about games like this? I’ve always been so focused on “useful” things but something purely for fun, something that makes your pulse skip… it never crossed my mind. Maybe I forgot how to let myself enjoy things. Or maybe I never learned.

Nate, though… he doesn’t look like he’s having nearly as much fun. His face is distant, eyes darting over the cards, the chips, the other players - like he’s half here and half somewhere else entirely. His presence feels… clouded. As if he’s thinking about something heavy. Maybe this game reminds him too much of where he came from. I’ll ask him later. After I win a few more hands.

I catch myself smirking. The man on my right smiles every time he thinks his cards are good - it’s almost painfully obvious. And the boy opposite can’t help but drum his fingers when he’s bluffing. All those years of negotiating grain prices, of reading the tiniest flicker in someone’s eyes, are paying off here more than I expected. Who’d have thought that arguing over sacks of barley would turn out to be gambling practice?

Every chip I slide toward myself feels like a small victory - not just over them, but over the helplessness that still hangs around us since the riot.

Still… I have to keep my head. We’re not exactly flush with money. If I get too greedy and lose, we’ll have to tighten our belts again, and right now that means skipping dinner. And it’s not just about me anymore - it’s us. Nate can be cautious… well, sometimes. At least he tries. I think I can trust him to stop me if I go too far.

As long as the stakes are just enough for a bowl of soup or some warm bread, I’ll let myself play. Just for now.

Money… right. We still need to see Viktor. The contract is stored away, so we’re almost ready. Maybe after that, we’ll have a little more to spare - and then… then I really wouldn’t mind coming back here. Just to see how far this can go.

For now, I’ll let myself enjoy it: the clink of the chips, the tiny rush when the dealer reveals the cards, and the quiet satisfaction of outmaneuvering people who never expected a “pretty girl” to take the whole table apart.

Just for a moment…

###

Finally, the afternoon burns itself out, and we head back to the inn. My legs are sore, my brain feels like it’s still shuffling cards - but somehow, the city feels softer in the evening light. Like it exhales once the day is done.

“So, how similar was it?” Io asks, breaking the quiet.

“The game? Exactly the same as I remember. Even the names for the bets and the hands - it’s all identical,” I say. It still feels surreal to say that out loud.

“So that’s what it sounds like…” she says, almost dreamy.

“What? My language?” I ask, confused. “You’ve heard me speak like that before. In the forest, remember?” I can’t lie - it stings a little that she might’ve forgotten.

“But you never do it. So even if I did hear, it’s hard to remember,” she answers, almost sheepish.

She bumps her shoulder against my arm. “It’s time,” she says, suddenly serious.

“Time for what exactly…?” I ask, and for a moment my mind jumps to a thousand possibilities, most of them ridiculous.

“Another lesson. We haven’t done one in a while,” she reminds me.

Right. It feels like that was years ago.

“And what do you want to learn this time?” I ask.

“Your language,” she says, direct as ever.

“Huh… but why?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

“I taught you mine. Now you teach me yours. It’s only fair,” she says. Then softer, almost too quiet, “And it’s yours. That’s nice.”

That catches me off guard more than it should. It is mine. A piece of a life that feels like it’s fading the longer I’m here. And she wants to share it.

Besides… It could be useful. English would be a secret code, something just ours.

We walk on. The street feels different now: the market noise thinning out, the sky turning copper above slate roofs.

“Do you think there are more people like you here?” Io asks, voice lower, thoughtful.

“I mean… there has to be, right?” I say. “Ideas don’t just jump across worlds by themselves.”

“So maybe something like what happened to you happened here, twenty years ago…” she says, turning it over in her mind.

“What happened to them?” she asks, softer.

“Well, if we trust that guy from the inn… this person must’ve taught locals how to play. So they must’ve learned the language, lived here long enough to spread the game,” I say.

“Are they still alive?” she wonders.

“If they are… should we try to find them?” I ask. Part of me wants to, part of me hesitates.

“Maybe we don’t have to do anything new yet,” Io says, more pragmatic. “We still need to get that deal with Viktor moving. When you sell him your stories, maybe someone hears something familiar and comes to us.”

That… makes sense. It’s less forced than hunting shadows. And it wouldn’t cost us anything except paper and ink.

“And if they do turn up… we can decide then if we want to talk to them,” she finishes.

“So we have another plan,” I say.

“Always,” Io answers, with a hint of a smile.

I keep walking, but my mind starts counting them off. “We need to go back to the archives,” I start.

“Obviously,” she says.

“And we need to get the story business going,” I add.

“And we should come back to the card tables,” she adds.

“Wait, that’s new,” I say, half-laughing. “You really liked the game that much, huh?”

She doesn’t answer, just gives me a playful sideways glance and tugs my hand, pulling me along the street. I let her.

I guess that is my answer.