But now’s not the time to think about that. Tonight, we’re playing Liar’s Dice, a tradition my siblings and I have had since we were children.

When we first started playing this game, we each had a set of five plastic, six-sided dice, like you’re supposed to play with. Then Lyre decided to swap one of hers out for a weighted die that always lands on six, which we all caught on to after a few games. Next Drom broke one of hers in half—I’m still not sure how she managed to do so, but the thing was thoroughly unusable—and replaced it with a lopsided metal die that somehow never lands on one. Soon enough Pol brought in an eight-sided die as a joke, which became an accepted part of the game as soon as we saw how much the changed statistics annoyed Lyre. And so it went. At this point, our collection is about half original dice that work as intended and half an assortment of others. Part of the game is figuring out which you’ve ended up with and which the others are holding.

It’s a mess of a game, probably completely incomprehensible to anyone outside of the family, and the only one we ever agree on playing.

“Shit,” Pol says, hefting one die in his hand. “Think this one’s weighted.”

“Shouldn’t have told us that,” Drom says. “Too late to swap now.”

“Maybe I’m bluffing.”

“We all know you’re not bluffing.”

“Come on, let’s go,” I say.

We down our drinks, drop our dice into the empty cups, shake them up, and flip them over on the table. I glance around at my siblings’ reactions to their hands before I check my own, noting the wrinkle on Lyre’s forehead, Drom’s slightly raised eyebrow, Pol biting his lip. Then I cup my hand around my glass and lift the edge to peek at my own assortment of dice. One, three, four, six, and another six.

“Who goes first again?” Pol asks, despite this being the millionth time we’ve done this.

“Oldest,” I say, still considering my dice.

There’s a pause.

“That’s you, Scorpia,” Lyre says.

“Oh. Right.” Just when I had gotten used to that, word of Corvus’s return has my mind all screwed up again. I shake my head and focus on the game, setting my cup down and rolling the numbers through my mind. Calling sixes is the obvious play… or I could lie my ass off.

“Five fives,” I say, making eye contact with Lyre to my left. It’s a baseless estimation at best, and should mislead the others that I have at least one five on the table. But more importantly, it’s low enough that it should make it impossible for Lyre to win unless she makes a risky call—which she won’t.