A gambler has to know when to double down.

"Ten years imprisonment." The sentence is declared with the finality of doom, with the impassivity of common disconcern. The voice of a man who's decreed similar sentences for so many years he no longer even listens to himself speak.

The guards tug at the chains; the prisoner's time in the courtroom is over.

"Wait!" Lelan shouts, frantic desperation in his voice. "The Royal Edict. I can enter a trial for my freedom. It's my right!"

The courtroom, which had begun to fill with the usual disinterested babble of the observers, falls silent.

Lelan swallows, mouth dry. It's a gamble, but right now the only future he can see is being out of the game for so long his kids will be adults, his network will be in tatters, and his reputation will be ruined before he sees the light of day again. A royal trial could be the death of him, but what was languishing ten years in prison but another kind of slower death?

The judge peers over at Lelan, a scowl on his forehead. "You only bring this up now? If you were going to petition for a royal trial, you should have filled out the paperwork before you entered the courtroom."

"I didn't think it would be necessary," Lelan protested. "I'm entirely innocent, I thought I had nothing to lose. I thought this would be justice."

The judge's expression doesn't change, but Lelan hears a ripple of laughter through the room behind, titters and scoffing. It's all he can do not to turn, grin, and bow to the observers with a knowing wink. His reputation precedes him. No one could possibly believe he's innocent. But he has to keep up the facade, for legal purposes. Proper deniability, and all that. Never confess. Never acknowledge.

The judge leans back in his chair and waves a hand for the royal aide. A thin, mousy fellow with perpetually unkempt hair, the aide scurries forward. "Send for the trialkeeper. Tomorrow at dawn, Lelan Althef will stand for his royal trial. Now, get him out of my courtroom."

A gambler has to know when to go all in.

In the dim predawn light, Lelan stands on an elevated platform between jeering crowds of onlookers. He smiles and waves cheekily; a few of the more credulous or romantic among them shout in support rather than condemnation, but he has far too many enemies for their voices to matter.

He has been standing here for nearly half an hour, his extremities growing progressively colder in the morning chill, waiting while word spreads and the crowd assembles.

The trialkeeper steps forward, finally. A ripple of shushing as the assembled onlookers silence one another.

"Today, we stand for the royal trial of Lelan Althef. The King's decree is as follows:"

Eight muscled assistants are carrying a heavy flat object, like a table with no legs, up the steps to the platform. Lelan follows them with his eyes, while straining to catch every word of the trialkeeper's reading.

"The prisoner will be given three choices. He may accept his sentence of ten years imprisonment."

The assistants set up the object on its end, revealing it to be a wooden door. Deep red wood, carved with intricate symbols, and bearing a glowing character. 'ONE'.

"The prisoner may instead be slowly tortured to death."

Lelan stares around at the trialkeeper, unable to keep his jaw from dropping. What kind of choice is that? He's so distracted he misses the assistants bringing up the second door, this one a dark grey wood, just as elaborately decorated, and adorned with the glowing character 'TWO'.

"Or, the prisoner may be set free to a land far from here, where he may live in peace without troubling our city."

"I'll take option three, please," Lelan calls, to much laughter.

The trialkeeper lowers his scroll long enough to glare over the page at Lelan, then clears his throat pompously before continuing.

"If the prisoner chooses not to serve his sentence, he will select among the other two by way of this Royal Trial: Two doors stand before you. One leads to freedom, the other to slow and painful death."

And there it was. Fifty-fifty. A flip of a coin.

"How long do I have to make my decision?" Lelan's voice rasps from his dry throat, all his earlier flippancy gone. His heart speeds up in anticipation. Fear. Excitement.

"You may consider as long as you wish. This choice, after all, will define the rest of your life."

Shouts of advice or of derision from the crowd fade away. Lelan focuses only on the two doors before him. The choice between life and death.

He holds out his manacled wrists to his escort, who glances at the trialkeeper once for confirmation before releasing him.

Then Lelan walks slowly toward the space between the two doors.

This is it. Last chance at freedom.

Flicking quick glances to the crowd and the waiting guards, he slowly walks around the red door labeled ONE. The symbols on it are far beyond anything he's studied. He gets the sense that it's a way to turn the door into a portal to somewhere else, but he could have known that just by listening to the trial's description. Portable portals, one to safety in a distant land, one to the most sadistic of the king's torturers.

The door labeled TWO is no clearer. Grey wood, carved in similar style but completely different patterns. Nothing about the patterns reveals the door's nature or destination. Just spirals and geometric shapes, with occasional spellwork.

Lelan circles again, glancing out across the crowd. Part of his mind is still focused on the choice, another part frantically scrambles to form some alternative plan. Some way to run, escape into the sea of strangers, but even without his manacles he's too distinctive of a figure. No one here cares enough to help hide him, and none of the guards are lax in their posture. His chances would be better breaking out of the courtroom than running away from this trial.

Choose a door. Flip a coin. Live or die.

Lelan stops abruptly and whirls back to face the trialmaster. "I have made my choice."

A gambler has to know when to fold.

"I choose to serve my initial sentence."

Sometimes the only way to win is not to play at all.