Now what to do?
Ashan walked, the blackish-brown pendant spinning idly between his fingers. The fading orange-yellow rays of the sun caught its surface, throwing back a faint, dull gleam that flickered with each rotation. His steps were slow, measured, the steps of a man who had learned that haste was the enemy of survival.
Nine bronze coins. He let the number settle in his mind, turn over, reveal its edges. That's all. I should take another mission, but most require leaving the base. I don't like the idea of venturing out again so soon.
His stomach growled, a reminder that the body's needs did not wait for strategy. He headed to the restaurant for his meal, the pendant still spinning, still catching the light.
The air inside was thick with overlapping voices—hushed conversations, laughter, the familiar boasting of members who had found something to boast about. Ashan took his usual seat near the back, ordered the same flatbread and curry, and let his gaze drift across the room while he waited.
"Today is your treat!"
"Yeah, the bastard made a fortune playing Chaturanga!"
A group was cornering their third member, demanding a free meal with the particular enthusiasm of men who had just discovered a new way to spend money they had not yet earned.
Chaturanga? Ashan's ears perked up. His fingers stopped their idle spinning. The game of strategy. The map in my badge did mark a hall for it.
The waiter brought his food. Ashan paid his two bronze coins, watching them disappear into the man's palm, and began to eat—small, silent bites, his eyes still on the group, his ears still tuned to their conversation.
If my luck holds, I could win some coins. He dipped flatbread into curry, chewed, swallowed. After all, I hold the ultimate information.
His eyes flickered with a faint grayish-white light, there and gone.
After finishing, he slipped into a back alley behind the restaurant. The walls pressed close on either side, the shadows deep, the air cool. He checked his surroundings with both Life and Soul Sense, feeling the pulse of the settlement around him, the presence of the members who moved through it, the absence of anyone who might be watching.
He was alone.
He took out the pendant, holding it loosely in his right hand, letting it hang from the thread, letting it catch the last light of the dying sun.
He chanted softly in Ashurain, the words falling from his lips like stones dropped into still water.
"Am I going to win today in Chaturanga?"
"Am I going to win today in Chaturanga?"
"Am I going to win today in Chaturanga?"
[Viksana: Scrying]
His eyes bloomed into swirling whirlpools of grayish-white.
His perception shifted. A spatial disturbance pulled at him, dragging him momentarily into a different layer of reality—a place where the laws of the world were not the laws he knew. The ever-bright, luminous threads of the cosmic web stretched before him, vast and interconnected, each one a strand of fate, a thread of possibility, a line drawn between what was and what might be.
The vision lasted only a split second. Then his eyes snapped back to normal.
He blinked, glancing down at the pendant. It was spinning in a firm, clockwise direction—a steady, certain motion that left no room for doubt.
Well. He tucked the pendant back into his robe, feeling its weight against his chest. If fate itself favors me, then who dares to stand in my way?
He headed south.
The Chaturanga hall was a dedicated space: a large stone platform under an oval roof supported by pillars that had been carved with patterns so old their meaning had been forgotten. Dozens of members sat on the ground, their bodies arranged in loose circles around the boards between them, their faces illuminated by the lanterns that hung from the ceiling in iron cages.
"Yes! My win!"
"Fucker! You stole my turn!"
Cries of anguish, sorrow, and excitement echoed under the roof—a cacophony of raw emotion that rose and fell like waves against a shore. Coins changed hands. Side bets were made and settled. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and the particular tension of men who had staked more than they could afford to lose.
Ashan approached a counter where a middle-aged man and an old man were managing wagers, their hands moving with the mechanical efficiency of those who had done the same task a thousand times before. His eyes flickered over an open rulebook on the desk, and in an instant, his siddhi absorbed the information on Chaturanga's history and rules—the movements of the pieces, the strategies of the game, the thousand small details that separated victory from defeat.
"Haha! We meet again."
A voice called out from behind him. Ashan turned slightly.
Rokan.
"Trying your luck here?" The man approached, his steps quick, his smile wide. "Why don't we play? I'm a beginner myself." He spread his hands, the picture of harmless enthusiasm. "How about it?"
A small, oily smile crept onto his face.
But Ashan's eyes saw the truth behind it.
He's trying to loot me.
Ashan curled his lips. "How about a fifteen bronze coin wager?"
"Fifteen bronze coins..." Rokan's smile dimmed, flickered, almost died.
"What? Afraid?"
"No! No!" The smile snapped back into place, wider than before, more desperate. "I just hope you have the money to pay after you lose." He hurried to the counter, exchanged words with the old man, and returned swiftly. "Let's go. There's a free board."
They moved through the crowd of players and spectators who were already making side wagers on matches that had not yet begun, calling out odds and amounts, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm that was almost musical.
It's the nascent version of a stock market, Ashan mused, watching a man stake five bronze on a match that was already in progress. Chaos given form.
He sat before an eight-by-eight grid board known as an Ashtapada, its squares alternating between light white and dark black, the pieces already set in their starting positions.
"Black or white?" Rokan asked, pulling pieces from a wooden box with hands that moved a little too quickly, a little too eagerly.
"Black." Ashan answered calmly, quickly placing his pieces in their starting positions, his fingers finding the grooves, the weight, the shape of each carved figure.
The vertical columns are numbers one through eight, he noted, his eyes moving across the board. The horizontal, letters of the Sankhrein alphabet.
"Oh, right." Rokan's voice was light, casual, the voice of a man who had nothing to hide. "I hope you know the rules and objectives."
So what if the Kumar has plans for him? The man's thoughts were almost visible behind his eyes, his calculations as clear as if he had written them down. He won't mind if I relieve him of a few coins. A little extra income for me.
Ashan gave him a deadpan glance. "I know. The objective is to capture the enemy's Raja, or capture all other pieces besides the Raja."
"Good! You know the basics." Rokan shook a small sandglass and set it beside the board, the grains already beginning their slow descent. "The match ends when the last grain of sand falls."
He reached into his pocket and produced a small, carved wooden cube. It was unremarkable—the same size, the same shape, the same color as the dice that were used in a hundred games across the settlement. But as he held it out, a con man's grin spread across his face, wide and knowing and utterly without shame.
"It's your first time." He placed the die on the board between them. "Here. Shake it and drop your fortune."
Ashan picked it up.
The weight was wrong.
He turned it over in his fingers, feeling the subtle imbalance, the way the wood had been hollowed and filled in ways that could not be seen. It was a cheat's die, weighted to favor certain outcomes, to punish the unwary, to separate the foolish from their coin.
Of course.
He met Rokan's eyes. The man's smile did not waver, but something flickered behind it—something that might have been anticipation or might have been the first stirrings of fear.
Ashan's lips curved.
"Thank you," he said, and he meant it.
He raised the die, let it catch the light, let Rokan see the confidence in his face, the certainty in his eyes. Then he shook it once, twice, three times—a loose, casual motion that gave nothing away—and let it fall.
The die clattered against the board, bounced once, twice, and settled.
A six.
Rokan's smile flickered.
"Well," Ashan said, and his voice was calm, unhurried, the voice of a man who had all the time in the world. "Let's begin."