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“You play like someone who doesn’t trust the board,” he said.
She arched an eyebrow. “Or like someone who knows the board is lying.”
An exhale, not quite a laugh, escaped him.
They played mostly in silence. The only sounds were the dull scrape of pieces. Every time his hand brushed the board near hers, that same pulse of static, a soft prickle that raced up her arm. He didn’t notice.
“Your mother taught you?” he asked after a while.
Her jaw tightened. “She taught me to play to win. Not to enjoy it.”
Lysander studied the board, then moved another piece, cornering hers. “And did you?”
She looked up. “Once.”
The piece was lost, but she didn’t move to reclaim it. The game wasn’t about victory, not anymore.
When he claimed another of her counters, she leaned back, crossing her arms. “You think too far ahead.”
“That’s the point,” he said.
“It’s also the flaw.” Her eyes met his, sharp and deliberate. “You assume the enemy will play by the same rules.”
He said nothing, his hand stilling over the board. “And you don’t?”
“I never play the same game twice.”
The air between them hummed.
“Then I should stop underestimating you.”
She smiled faintly. “Maybe you already have.”
The game ended without a victor. They played another game, and another. The hours slipped by unnoticed. The only interruptions came when Lidiya arrived with food. She’d set down a tray of bread and soup, never speaking, eyes darting once to the board before leaving again.
Lysander won most. Each defeat scraped against Idonea’s patience. She told herself it didn’t matter, but each time he claimed another piece, bitterness flared beneath her ribs.
“Again?” he asked, setting the board anew.
She nodded, jaw tight.
The game unfolded in silence. His strategy was unyielding, while hers was born of instinct and spite.
When she lost again, she exhaled through her nose, steady but sharp. “You make it look easy.”
He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Practice. Years of it.”
She moved another piece, though the game was already lost. “Why did you join the Order?” she asked.
She thought he’d ignore it. He leaned back in his chair, studying her.
“I was an orphan,” he said at last. “Like many of us.”
Idonea’s gaze softened despite herself. “I’m sorry.” She meant it.
He reached for one of the pieces, turning it absently between his fingers. “I was ten when my mother died,” he said. “For a time, it was my sister and me. Then slavers found us. Took her, and left me for dead. The Order took me in after.”
He didn’t mention his arm, and Idonea wondered if it was from the slavers, or a daemon.
