Victor sat slouched in a wooden chair, his dismembered, severed arm wrapped in thick bandages that disappeared beneath a cloak far too clean for a battlefield survivor. More bandages crisscrossed his torso and neck.
His red hair stuck out in unruly angles,. His eyes were half-lidded, bored, distant—yet sharp in the way predators often were when pretending to sleep.
Between him and his opponent, a barrel had been flipped on its side and repurposed as a table. On it rested a polished 19×19 board. Black and white wooden soldiers littered its surface, arranged in a quiet massacre.
Victor's side dominated the board.
Across from him sat Ser Rickert.
Stocky. Heavyset. In his early forties. A man whose clothes screamed traveler but whispered wealth. Rings too fine for a road knight. Boots too clean. Fingers soft, meant for goblets and ledgers, not hilts.
Yet he was a knight.
One of the thinking kind. Or so he liked to believe.
Rickert chewed on his nails, eyes darting across the board, sweat beading at his temples. His knee bounced uncontrollably.
"Anything wrong, Ser Rick?" Victor asked lightly, voice lazy, almost kind.
Rickert's jaw tightened. He inhaled through his nose, forcing the frustration down like bile.
"…Have you ever played this game before?" he asked at last.
Victor nodded his head side to side.
"No," he said casually. "Of course not. You explained the rules to me about an hour ago."
Rickert stared at him.
Then he stared back at the board.
Then at Victor again.
The board was a slaughter.
Encircled groups. Severed connections. Entire territories swallowed whole. Rickert's forces were fragmented, panicked, boxed in with no breath left to take.
"You're lying," Rickert muttered.
Victor hummed. "If I were lying, I'd tell you I'm bad at games."
Rickert let out a humorless laugh and leaned back, running a hand down his face. "That's… that's not how this works."
Victor leaned forward slightly, interest flickering.
"From what you told me, Ser," he said, tapping a stone with one finger, "a little over two hundred stones are usually enough to decide a match. Theoretically, anyway."
He picked up a black piece.
Then another.
Then another.
With precise, effortless motions, he placed them one after the other, each move collapsing an entire section of Rickert's formation. White pieces were defeated, rendered meaningless.
"Theoretically," Victor continued, "there are infinite branching formations. Infinite responses. Infinite futures."
The final stone clicked into place.
Silence.
The board was decided.
Rickert's shoulders slumped. "You're telling me," he said slowly, eyes narrowing, "that you calculated infinite possibilities?"
Victor leaned back again, folding his arms, bandages creaking softly.
"Of course not."
Rickert blinked. "Then how—"
"I didn't calculate everything," Victor interrupted calmly. "I calculated you."
Rickert stiffened.
"Your opening was conservative," Victor went on. "Your midgame followed tradition. You prioritize stability over aggression. You don't sacrifice unless the rules say it's acceptable. And when pressured…" He smiled faintly. "You retreat into patterns you already trust."
Rickert stared at the board, then laughed—a rough, bitter sound.
"So I never had a chance."
"You had one," Victor replied. "If you'd broken your own habits."
Rickert shook his head, still chuckling. "You are one… genius hypocrite."
Victor wasn't offended, but he still asked:
"Hypocrite?"
"You are a genius," Rickert said. "Yet you rot away, forcing yourself to become someone you aren't. You're not a soldier, Victor. You are a general."
Victor considered this.
"The best generals, are those who charge in the front..."
Rickert studied him. "Who told you that? Your father?"
Victor shook his head.
"No, a random soldier in a border town."
The smile that followed was faint.
And unreadable.
Bootsteps echoed down the corridor.
Rickert stiffened before the door even opened.
Victor didn't look up.
The door creaked, then swung inward.
Prince Arthur Drogan stepped inside.
Rickert stood up. Not swiftly, not slowly, either.
"Your Highness."
Arthur waved a hand, dismissive. "Uncle, you're still so... traditional."
Rickert sat.
Arthur's gaze slid to the board.
"…Oh," he murmured. "How unfortunate."
Victor finally looked up.
Their eyes met.
"Hello," Arthur said. "Victor. Are you recovering well?"
"...Yes," he didn't care enough to him 'Lord', he wasn't a citizen of Drogan, and he didn't respect it enough anyway.
He stepped closer to the board, fingers hovering over the pieces but never touching them.
"You dismantled a trained knight after, what I assume was, only one explanation of the rules. Impressive."
"You know," he said lightly, "The Empire values minds like yours."
Victor's gaze sharpened.
"No," he said.
Arthur blinked once. Then smiled wider. "I wasn't finished."
"I was," Victor replied.
Silence.
Rickert swallowed.
Arthur straightened, unfazed, shrugging softly.
"Very well. You're still joined at the hip with Ophelia, I see. I don't mind. But if you ever reconsider…" His red eyes glinted. "The Empire's doors are always open."
"I won't reconsider," Victor said, standing. "And you should reconsider your own hypocritical words before calling someone else a hypocrite."
He walked past Arthur.
Footsteps echoed long after he was gone.
For a moment, Arthur simply watched him leave.
Then he turned to Rickert.
"What was that about calling him a hypocrite?" Arthur asked mildly. "I don't recall doing so."
Rickert swallowed hard.
"Uh… I wouldn't know, Your Highness."
__________________________________________________
The night outside the guild hall was quiet. Lanternlight pooled along the stone paths, warm and unassuming, blurring the sharp edges of the world. Somewhere distant, a bell chimed the late hour. Somewhere closer, laughter leaked through wooden walls and shuttered windows, muffled and tired.
Alaric walked beside Adam.
The boy's steps were careful. Not quite a limp, not quite stable. Bandages peeked out from beneath his clothes when the light hit him just right. Fresh and clean. Still wrong on someone so young.
"So," Alaric said, after a stretch of silence that had gone on too long, "the beds inside aren't terrible. We've slept on worse in the desert."
"Mm," Adam replied.
Alaric nodded to himself, as if that had been a full conversation.
They walked a little farther.
"The stew today was… good, right?" Alaric tried again. He realized soon that he didn't even have a standard for how a proper soup tasted.
"Yeah," Adam said. Restrained.
Alaric didn't push.
How could he?
The boy had watched his village burn. Watched it with his eyes as a devil in human form floated above. And then the running. The fighting. The injuries that stacked one after another like debts Adam never asked for.
All because he had met Alaric.
The thought gnawed at him, sharp and relentless.
If he hadn't passed through that place.
If he hadn't escaped Sassafras's cave early.
If he hadn't existed there, in that moment.
If he wasn't selfish in wanting to see Adam's village.
Alaric's hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.
They reached a small bench tucked beneath a crooked old tree at the edge of the courtyard. Its leaves whispered softly in the breeze, brushing against one another like secrets.
Alaric gestured. "Want to sit?"
Adam nodded and lowered himself first, carefully, like glass might shatter if he moved too fast. Alaric sat beside him, close enough to feel the boy's presence, far enough not to crowd him.
They sat in silence again.
Then Adam tilted his head back.
The sky was clear tonight—wide and endless. Stars scattered across it like careless brushstrokes.
"…That one's the Shepherd," Adam said quietly, pointing upward. "The elder said it watches travelers so they don't get lost."
Alaric followed his finger.
"And that cluster there, those are the Sisters. They're supposed to argue all the time, but still never leave each other."
He paused, swallowing.
"There's more, but… I don't remember all the names."
"That's okay," Alaric said softly. "You remembered some. That's enough."
Adam hummed, eyes still fixed on the sky.
Alaric watched him from the corner of his vision. Too thin. Too tired. Carrying memories no child should ever have to catalog.
"How are your injuries?" Alaric asked, keeping his voice gentle.
Adam shrugged. "They're… getting better."
Good. The word should have been relief.
Instead, it felt like a knife twisting deeper a fresh wound.
Getting better didn't erase what had been done. Didn't rewind broken bones or burned homes or nights filled with screams and the tears of a child.
It didn't fix the simple, unforgivable truth that Adam had been hurt again and again while Alaric kept walking forward, breathing, surviving.
Voices erupted within his mind, saying:
You drag people into your storms, a voice inside him hissed.
You leave destruction in your path.
You call yourself a protector, and children pay the price.
Alaric stared at the ground, jaw tight.
If he were better. Stronger. Smarter. Quicker. If he didn't hesitate. If he didn't exist at all—
A sudden roar of laughter cut through his thoughts.
Music followed. The clatter of mugs. Voices raised in song and cheer, raw and alive.
Alaric blinked, pulled sharply back into the present.
Adam turned his head toward the sound.
They stood, moving slowly toward the back of the guild hall. As they rounded the corner, the night opened up into firelight and noise.
Adventurers crowded around long tables, tankards raised high. Someone was already off-key, singing something triumphant and dumb. Victoria stood near the center of it all, arm slung around a laughing mercenary, her face flushed, eyes bright. Ophelia's group was there too—smiling, talking, celebrating like this might be the last warm night they'd ever get.
Festive.
And bittersweet.
Alaric stopped beside Adam.
"Do you… want to join them?" he asked.
Adam didn't say anything. He just nodded. Small and shallow.
Alaric let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and gave a faint smile. "Alright then."
He hesitated, then added, almost sheepishly, "You can't drink any ale, though. Well, neither can I."
Adam glanced up at him.
For just a moment, something like amusement flickered in his eyes.
And that—more than the firelight, more than the noise—was enough to make the night feel a little less heavy.