3rd week of February, 1460

  Sweat and perfume clung to the air of Zeno’s chamber, a thick film that lacquered the four walls with every sin they’d soaked up. Sins he’d committed plenty of in the last few weeks. Weeks of anger and plotting, dragging him closer to a choice he did not want to make.

  “What are you thinking about?” Markos called from the bed, voice lazy and pleased.

  Zeno sat at the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees and head bowed, brooding. “The privateer attacks,” he lied.

  “They have been successful thus far, no?” The way Markos said it made it sound like some dainty pastime the state had taken up to amuse itself. “Enough to fill the bellies of those who pushed for the initiative, if barely.”

  “You mean your master. He is the one who pushed it,” Zeno reminded him, glancing back out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t help but trace the outline of Markos’s body beneath the rumpled sheets. “I hope he is happy with the current state of affairs.”

  “Not at all.” Markos caught his gaze and shifted, the sheet slipping just enough to show more of him. He never missed an opportunity to weaponize his body against Zeno. “These have been small bites. Petty prizes. The crown has been holding back. It’s time to bring home a larger prize.”

  “What do you mean?” Zeno arched a brow.

  “You’ll learn soon enough.” Markos smiled that infuriating smile that made Zeno want to grab him by the throat and shake the answers out of him.

  Zeno rose from the bed, the cool floor biting at his bare feet, and began to dress. “It’s time for you to leave,” he said, voice slipping back into command. Markos shrugged off the brusque dismissal as if it slid right off his skin.

  “Already?” he asked, mock-wounded. “You’re always so quick to dismiss me after our carousing.”

  “We can’t be seen together.” Zeno snatched up Markos’s clothes and threw them at him, eager to be rid of the irritating, insufferable man.

  “Ah, of course. We mustn’t let them see our forbidden love.” Markos pressed a hand to his chest theatrically as he tugged on his shirt. Zeno snorted and turned away, busying himself with the simple task of buckling his belt.

  Love was not the word for whatever this was. It was a transaction, an escape. Anger traded for relief - tension reshaped into sweat, bruises and bitten shoulders. No talk of feelings or promised futures. Just a quiet understanding of what they were using each other for.

  Markos padded up behind him, arms snaking around Zeno’s waist. “Oh yes,” he murmured, “I wonder what they would say if they knew the perfectly pious Zeno spent his nights with another man. A slave, of all things.”

  Zeno shrugged him off with an instinctive jerk, every nerve suddenly aware of how exposed he was.

  “Your high Lord partakes in such impious barbarities,” Zeno said flatly. “I wonder how shocked they would be about that particular tidbit.”

  “He can do depravities you cannot even dream of, and the court would smile and wave it off if they knew. Never forget,” Markos reminded him, the words soft and cutting. “You are closer to a slave than you are to your uncle,” He leaned in as he said it, whispering the last part with malicious satisfaction.

  Zeno shoved him away with his shoulder, this time hard enough to make Markos stagger a step. “I could slit your throat, leave you in a gutter, and no one would bat an eyelash.” The promise sat there between them like a drawn blade.

  “Ah, but for that to happen, my dear Zeno…” Markos’s hand flashed, and a dagger spun between his fingers with an easy, practiced flourish. Zeno’s hand went instinctively to his belt and found the sheath empty.

  “You’d need your blade.” Markos tossed his dagger toward him almost lazily. Zeno didn’t dignify Markos with an answer. He caught and slid the dagger back into place, turned on his heel, and strode for the door, leaving the stink of sweat and perfume behind him.

  Zeno paced through the stone corridors of Mangup, boots scuffing faint echoes off the walls, eyes flicking to every doorway and shadow. He had become increasingly paranoid since agreeing to side with the rebellion. Every servant passing with a tray could overhear a name he wasn’t supposed to say aloud. Every courtier lingering a little too long could watch who he spoke to, and then speak to someone else.

  He’d become accustomed to living his life like a play, having to carefully manage his reputation for a number of years just to survive. But even if the act didn’t change, the stage now was much bigger, and the consequences for a poor performance more dire.

  He finally reached the study adjoining the Doux’s own. It belonged to the Doux’s aides and was the nerve centre of his operations. While nominally military officers in charge of the garrison, the aides were also expected to be clerks, quartermasters, and conspirators - juggling a wide range of tasks that came with the Doux’s plots and plans.

  Their latest operations revolved around the naval war in the Black Sea against the Genoese. It had been months since it began, and the privateers they’d hired had, in that time, scraped together only modest successes - small barges and lumbering transport ships on the fringes of the Genoese-patrolled sea lanes.

  Their strategy was simple, but effective: the privateers would hoist stolen Genoese flags to pass themselves off as friendly vessels before sliding in to intercept unsuspecting merchants. The false banners had come at a considerable expense, at least according to his uncle, as he had been the one to acquire them.

  All told, their little privateer 'fleet' amounted to fifteen semi-independent sea captains on the Principality payroll. Their advance fees had been paid, but how to satisfy the final sums was a problem looming large. The extraordinary tithes levied to fund the venture had faced delay and opposition, especially in the northern portion of the Principality.

  The eastern tithe was secure because Philemon had a vested interest in the venture, the south-west was likewise controlled by the Papadopoulos family, loyal to the crown and beholden to the Megas Doux, who was their patriarch. In the north, however, the frontier had long been the most neglected child of the crown.

  So long as payments to the Crimeans kept the steppe raiders at bay, the court in Mangup had been content to remember those people only when there was coin to be squeezed from them for other ventures, or to service the web of loans and tithes owed to foreign powers and merchants. Now, yet again, they were being asked to bleed for schemes that did not feel like theirs.

  The crown needed a big win to quiet that anger and offset the coming tide of financial burden.

  Zeno did not expect to step into the aides’ room and be told they had actually found one.

  “You won’t believe what has happened, my good fellow Zeno!” Remus Nomikos sang out the moment the door opened, as if he had been waiting perched on the edge of his chair for an audience. The man was a preening fop, his position as aide owed entirely to the fact that he was son to a brother of the ruling Nomikos Patriarch. “Three whole Genoese merchant galleys, fat with loot!”

  Zeno’s gaze sharpened. So this is what Markos meant. “What kind of loot?”

  “Furs, wax, hides, all sorts, my good Zeno,” Remus explained.

  Caffa was one of the key endpoints in the northern stretch of the Silk Road, and dealt with a variety of goods from the northern stretches of the steppe, where such commodities grew in abundance. Despite its infamy as mostly a slave market, many types of goods flowed through its markets, and to catch three galleys laden with loot… that represented a fortune for their small state, one that could change the balance of accounts overnight.

  “Let me see the report.” Zeno stepped further into the room, hand already outstretched. He wanted more than excited gossip, he wanted to confirm it line by line with his own eyes.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it? This war is finally paying dividends for our great Principality,” Remus said, licking his lips as if he could already taste the coin. Of course the fool didn’t see the repercussions in front of him. The Principality had been almost too successful. Losing three galleys to piracy was the sort of thing the Genoese would study very carefully. If there was one certain way to stir the Italian nest, it was to cut into their profits.

  “And it will look very favourably on us aides, who helped orchestrate the whole ordeal.” Remus was practically salivating at the prospect of twisting the victory into a ladder to climb higher.

  Zeno ignored him and reached for the report lying on the table, a rough account from the sea captain, all cramped letters and ink-blots. According to it, five of their privateer galleys had been cruising the trade lanes when they happened upon three Genoese merchant ships sailing together. The captain claimed it was pure chance: they had sighted the Genoese colours on the horizon, run up the false banners, and closed in like loyal escorts before revealing their true teeth.

  Zeno’s worry deepened with every line he read. Merchant galleys transporting such loot were known to travel with escorts for protection, and set routes agreed long in advance. And yet here they were, all three of them conveniently clustered together, and five of the Principality’s privateers just “happening” to be in exactly the right stretch of sea at exactly the right time.

  The picture became clearer when he saw who the sea captains were, or rather, the brief notation in a clerk’s neat hand that stood next to them: 'Under the guarantee of Lord Philemon of Makris'. As part of his agreement with the Crown to finance a portion of the privateers from his own purse, as the crown couldn’t afford a dozen sea captains even at the best of times, Philemon was entitled to a hefty share of any prize that would otherwise fall to the Principality.

  Zeno realized, with a jolt that tightened his throat, that his uncle must have had inside information on that shipment. He had steered his own captains into the path of the convoy and turned a state venture into a private heist to line his pockets under the polite guise of loyalty, earning some credibility and prestige for himself in the process.

  It made far too much sense. It explained the urgency with which Philemon had argued for the privateer initiative, and his eagerness to shoulder some of the initial cost himself. He hadn’t just wanted to hurt the Genoese, he’d already known where and when to strike to steal their goods from under their nose.

  Zeno’s hand clenched around the parchment. It was a cunning move, and a reckless one. The Italians wouldn’t take this lying down. They would dig, and count, and demand answers. They always did, when money vanished.

  At that moment, the door swung open and in stepped the Doux, fully decked out in the sharp crimson military attire of the Papadopoulos family.

  The aides hastened to salute, hands snapping up with crisp, practised precision. It was a skill any who worked for the Doux learned early in their careers, or they found themselves replaced by someone quickly.

  “I’ve heard the news,” the Doux rumbled, as always skipping over greetings of any sort. “I want to know the details.” His gaze settled immediately on Zeno. The Doux knew very well who held the answers more often than not.

  “A sizeable haul, and a blow to the Genoese,” Zeno began. His mind raced as he weighed what to hide and what to reveal. He was helping the rebellion now, but the Doux was sharp when it came to reading a man’s words before they even came out of his mouth. It was a fine line to walk to lie to someone so astute in reading people. So he didn't. “And all of it going directly into Philemon’s pockets.”

  The Doux’s eyes narrowed. Suspicion sharpened his features. “Explain.”

  Zeno didn’t hesitate. This was one of those moments where sharing everything was the safer choice. The information was plain to see and the Doux would no doubt find it when he read over the report himself. “All the sea captains are beholden to Philemon,” he said. “And they just ‘happened’ to gather in the very stretch of sea the convoy would pass through.”

  “Give it here.” The Doux practically snatched the report from his hand, broad shoulders drawing taut beneath the crimson armour. Zeno could tell something was churning by the way the man held himself coiled, ready to tear into whoever had arranged this. His eyes tracked each line on the parchment with unnerving intensity.

  “Sir,” Zeno ventured, sensing the shift in the room. “Is something the matter?” One of his functions as Philemon’s spy was to feed his uncle information on the Doux’s every move. To do that, he had to prod and pry. But more than that, he wanted to know what exactly had put the Doux in such a state.

  The Doux didn’t turn, but Zeno could feel the tension rolling off him like heat from a forge. “They have called a war council meeting,” he said at last, the words edged with distaste. “Philemon isn’t satisfied. He wants to launch another attack on the Genoese. This time an even bigger one.”

  “Bigger?” Zeno said aloud.

  “Genoese military frigates,” the Doux replied, voice tight with the barely restrained fury of a man who would not let something so foolhardy pass unchallenged.

  The stakes were growing higher. This wasn’t merely piracy dressed up as policy anymore. This was the edge of open war.

  The stillness of the season had settled quietly around the leafless oak, muting every sound. The wind that swept down from the Theodoran mountains seemed to pause here, and the grass that should have been a soft green ring around the trunk lay hidden under a white blanket of pure snow. Pure as the young lady sitting beside Theodorus. Pure as the young lady he was manipulating.

  “I swear it’s true, she was foolhardy and brutish for a lady!” Cassandra laughed, the sound bright and careless as it spilled out into the open air, losing itself in the vast view before them. The mountains rose like jagged teeth against the pale sky, the river at the bottom of the valley a silver thread meandering lazily along. It was the sort of view that stole breath and words both. “She once pushed me so hard I nearly flew from the swing.” Cassandra gestured toward the object in question, dangling from the sturdiest branch of the oak.

  “I’m sure that is only because my lady is as light as a feather,” Theodorus said, matching her tone, his smile easy. “I’ve heard angels are prone to growing wings and taking flight from time to time.” He jested from where he sat on a woollen blanket he’d spread over the snow, tucked in the oak’s long shadow.

  Cassandra snorted mid-bite, crumbs scattered in her dress as she picked at the assortment of snacks they had laid across the blanket. The timing of the comparison - while she feasted on the various treats - was not lost on her. “You are a rogue, Captain.”

  “I’ve been called that on occasion, yes,” Theodorus replied with exaggerated modesty. “Only as a compliment, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, certainly. I’d expect no one would ever have anything bad to say about your personage.” Cassandra pressed a hand to her brow and fake-swooned.

  “You wound me, my lady,” Theodorus said, miming a hand to his heart. “I take such affronts personally, I assure you.” He rose in one fluid motion and, in the same gesture, hauled Cassandra up with him. She yelped in surprise, her feet briefly leaving the ground. His body moved with a smoothness and strength that still felt new to him, the muscles responding exactly as he willed. For the first time since he’d arrived in this time, he felt entirely in control of his own limbs.

  “What are you doing?” Cassandra began as Theodorus guided her, not ungently, toward the old swing. Up close, the rope was slightly frayed and stiff with disuse, the wooden seat weathered and pale. It looked like it hadn’t carried anyone’s weight in a long while.

  “May I?” Theodorus asked, gesturing toward the seat.

  Cassandra swallowed, gaze lingering on the swing instead of on him. From her stories, he knew how much this spot, this simple piece of wood and rope, meant to her. Her shoulders tightened, hesitation written plain across her face.

  “I wish to test your theory of flight,” he said lightly.

  The joke coaxed a small, reluctant smile from her. Cassandra eased herself onto the swing with careful grace.

  Theodorus placed his hands on the back of the swing and pushed gently at first, caressing it into motion rather than forcing it. The ropes creaked in protest, then settled into a slow rhythm. Cassandra’s body gradually relaxed with each arc, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. Before long, she was leaning into the motion as they traded easy banter and aimless remarks. Above them, the sun traced its slow path towards the horizon, the light softening to gold.

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  “I must confess, Captain,” Cassandra said at last, after a stretch of companionable silence broken only by the swing’s creak and the faint hush of wind. “I had missed the simple joy of swinging your worries away.”

  “You’ve not used it in some time?” he asked.

  “No.” Her voice dipped quiet, the word almost lost to the breeze. “Not since she passed away,” she confessed.

  Theodorus had learned by now that when Cassandra turned inward like this, it was best to leave space between his questions, lest she snap shut like a clam.

  “I confess I was scared of even touching it,” she went on, eyes fixed on some point ahead only she could see. “I only come here once per year, in truth.”

  “Does it pain you to come here?” Theodorus asked, choosing his words with care. Part of him simply wanted to understand her better, to see the shape of the wound she carried. Another, darker part murmured that he was only drawing her deeper into the web he was spinning.

  He hated himself, in these moments, for knowing both were true.

  “No,” Cassandra blurted, hurrying to assuage him, since Theodorus had been the one to suggest the location of their outing. Then, in the next breath, she softened. “Well… in truth, perhaps. I always thought that swinging here, on this tree, would make the memory of the loss more real.” She tilted her head back, looking up into the sky, into the golden clouds above. “Every time I come here, I’m reminded more clearly of her. And that hurts, I guess.” She fell quiet, pausing as she was wont to do when thinking things through. “But perhaps reliving the good moments outweighs the pain.”

  She turned her head just enough to glance at him over her shoulder, offering a weak, beautiful smile. “Thank you for showing me this, Captain.”

  “Not at all, my lady,” Theodorus replied, trying to keep the strain from his voice. On impulse, he suddenly pushed harder on the swing. Cassandra shot higher into the air with a startled yelp, skirts fluttering. He controlled her descent with careful hands.

  “I see you’re not an angel after all.” he said lightly.

  “No, I am not!” Cassandra complained, cheeks beet red as Theodorus steadied the swing and helped her down.

  As she stepped aside, Theodorus’s gaze snagged on a folded envelope lying half-buried in the snow; it had fallen out of the swing. Cassandra noticed his line of sight and hurried to scoop it up, cradling it to her chest.

  “Is that the reason for the once-per-year visit?” Theodorus asked, putting the pieces together.

  Cassandra held the envelope tightly, as if it were the most precious thing in the world, then nodded, her copper hair slipping forward to hide her expression.

  “It is.” She brushed away the bits of snow and dirt that had clung to the edges.

  “Just a little something I swing over to the other side. I suppose I’m hoping that if it’s on her birthday, God will grant it wings and let it fly.”

  Theodorus didn’t know what to say. The simple faith of the gesture lodged in his throat. So he stood stock-still, as if any careless movement might tear the moment apart.

  “I quite enjoyed this date, and the ‘picnic’ idea, Captain,” Cassandra said. She turned hastily, eyes fixed on the trampled snow between them rather than his face. “So, I-I would be very pleased to further our acquaintance, if you so desire,” she managed, her voice cracking as she thrust the letter into Theodorus’s hands. Then she spun away and made a hasty retreat across the clearing, nearly tripping over her own feet in the snow.

  Theodorus stared down at the envelope, his eyes wide at the weight of the trust she had given him. He opened it carefully, almost reverently, as he unfolded the page and read the lines of the poem contained within.

  “My lord.”

  Demetrios stepped into the clearing, his pace agitated, steps quick in the snow. “I have urgent news, we must move quickly.” He faltered as he took in Theodorus’s expression and the parchment in his hand.

  Theodorus folded the letter back along its creases with deliberate care and slipped it inside the envelope once more. He crossed to the swing and, with ritual care, nestled it between two of the wooden planks, back where it belonged. Only when it was done did he speak, his voice smaller than usual. “Yes?”

  “Lord Adanis has just received a high-priority letter in his study.”

  Theodorus turned fully at that.

  “Its seal was a goblet,” Demetrios said, lowering his voice to a fearful whisper. “It is the Makris house seal.”

  Theodorus’s mind stalled, the relevance and significance striking all at once. “The rebellion?” he asked, his voice gone tight.

  “He has received such letters with frequency over the last few months. And I've learned one of them arrived during the New Year feast.”

  “When he had to excuse himself from the most important celebration of the year,” Theodorus murmured. He had not missed that detail then, and he did not now. His mind spun with the possibilities, the peace of the clearing already feeling very far away.

  “Right before the nomad mercenary deal he tried to spin under our noses,” Demetrios said, the implication clear without needing further words.

  “Before he began his military build-up and the moneylending spree,” Theodorus breathed. He tightened his grip on Demetrios’s forearm. “How did you find out about this, my friend?”

  “I told you I had been cultivating a contact.” Demetrios tried to smile, but it was a thin thing, badly at odds with the gravity of what he was saying. “If you cast enough lines into the sea, sometimes you catch a fish.”

  “This is a big fish, my friend,” Theodorus replied. His mind was already racing ahead. “We must send word to the Doux immediately, and start our own plans to-”

  “-Escape. We have to escape,” Demetrios’s fingers clamped around his forearm in return, almost as if he needed the support to remain standing. “We need to start planning to leave Suyren and return to the capital, or better yet, the Sideris estate.”

  “What?” Theodorus stared at him, genuinely taken aback.

  “This is becoming too large, my lord,” Demetrios said, eyes wide. “If Lord Adanis is a big fish in our small pond, Philemon Makris is a shark.” Theodorus noticed then how the old man’s hand was shaking. “I have seen what he can do and what he is capable of, my lord. He is not a man to be trifled with.”

  “Men like that can be planned around. Evaded,” Theodorus began, but Demetrios shook his head sharply.

  “Men like Lord Adanis will try to kill you for endangering their work,” the servant said. “Men like Philemon will hunt you down if you prove even a slight inconvenience. And if you are not within easy reach,” his breath was shaky, “he will go after your family. And I do not mean he will kill them." His expression darkened. "There are fates worse than death.”

  Theodorus had never seen the old servant so plainly afraid of another man. Demetrios spoke Philemon’s name as if it conjured a storm.

  “We stay, Demetrios,” Theodorus said at last. He placed a steadying hand on the man’s shoulder. “Men like that are a blight on our Principality. Nowhere we run to will be safe while they sit untouched. There is only one way to survive such men.”

  “What, my lord?” Demetrios whispered.

  “Tear them out by the roots.” Theodorus’s face was set, the decision hardening in his eyes like cooling steel. His slow information gathering, the building of connections. It had all culminated in this damning piece of evidence. They were starting to untangle the coming rebellion, and its conspirators.

  …

  As the pair exited the oak garden, Theodorus’s mind was already on the next step. “I need to get in touch with some of the hunters of the Nomikos forests,” he said abruptly.

  The request was so out of left field that Demetrios nearly stumbled. “What? Why, my lord?”

  “There is another thread in the grand tapestry that is fraying at the edges, Demetrios.” Theodorus’s gaze was alight. “ I must untangle it fully.”

  They passed from the white hush of the garden into the shadow of the loggia. As Theodorus’s eyes adjusted, he spotted a man seated in a secluded corner.

  “Ah, Captain Theodorus,” Hypatius called from his nook, seated at his wooden chess table. Pieces were already arranged midway through a game. “What a surprise, seeing you here again.”

  Theodorus was instantly on guard. “These surprises have been frequent, yes,” he allowed.

  “Please.” Hypatius gestured to the opposite chair as though the idea had just struck him. “You had promised me a game. I tire of only playing against myself.”

  “This is a bit sudden, I confess, my lord. Perhaps next week?” Theodorus angled his body as if to continue walking. The invitation struck him as too coincidental, and he loathed the idea of giving Hypatius the initiative on any board.

  “Urgent business to attend to?” Hypatius’s gaze slid past Theodorus to Demetrios, weighing, measuring. There was too much knowing in his eyes.

  “Not so. You are right, Hypatius. It is nothing that cannot be solved in an hour or so,” Theodorus decided aloud, turning back with an easy smile. He would humour the man, if only to distract him. “It would be discourteous to deny you again.”

  Theodorus leaned back slightly toward Demetrios, his tone light, his expression amicable, as if they were merely discussing some trivial detail. “Send Stefanos to the capital at the earliest opportunity,” he murmured. “Make sure he is unseen leaving, and back before dawn.”

  Demetrios’s lips twitched as if at a private jest, but the lines around his eyes were too tight if one looked closely. He bowed and moved away.

  Hypatius followed the servant with his gaze for a heartbeat, curiosity flickering, but Theodorus drew out the chair and sat down at the table, stealing the nobleman’s attention back to the chequered board between them.

  “You told me you had played before, Captain,” Hypatius said as he arranged the pieces neatly in front of him. His long fingers moved with a practised ease, setting each carved figure just so. “I trust I don’t have to explain the rules to you?”

  “Humour me. It has been a while, and I might be rusty.”

  Theodorus began ordering his own pieces. He had, unsurprisingly, ended up with the black set - dark-stained wood against Hypatius’s pale ivory. No doubt a calculated choice. The match had not yet begun, and the first moves had already been made. Ambushing Theodorus in the garden, giving him the black pieces… Hypatius understood that true strategy was not simply a matter of tactics on the board, but of quietly stacking the odds in your favour before the game even began.

  “I hope you won’t use that excuse for the game,” Hypatius said with a small laugh. Theodorus did not bother to answer.

  “Each player may move only one piece at a time,” Hypatius continued smoothly, tone light, as if they were not fencing behind every word. “Pawns can move only forward one square, or two from their first rank, and they may capture only diagonally. Bishops move along the diagonals, rooks along the ranks and files. The queen along both lines and diagonals. Many consider it the most powerful piece in chess.”

  Theodorus did not miss the subtle hint.

  “You don’t?” he asked.

  Hypatius smiled and picked up one piece in particular, placing it near the centre of the board in a demonstration jump over another.

  “I find the knight the most intriguing piece of all. Players often forget it can reach squares even the powerful queen cannot. One simply needs to know how to use it.” He watched Theodorus intently over the rim of the board. “What is your favourite piece, Captain?”

  Theodorus smiled. “This one.” He held up a small, plain shape between thumb and forefinger and moved it two squares forward.

  Hypatius’s eyes narrowed. “A pawn? It is the weakest piece.”

  “And the one with the greatest potential,” Theodorus replied. “I find that the mark of a good commander is to bring the best out of every little piece at his disposal, while a mediocre one concerns himself only with how to make his finest pieces shine.”

  Hypatius’s jaw clenched at the insinuation, the muscles tightening for just a heartbeat before his expression smoothed.

  “White has first move, Captain.” He tapped lightly on his own knight. Being one move ahead allowed a player the initiative and, more importantly, the right to decide what sort of game would be played. “Your turn.”

  “I have already moved, Hypatius.” Theodorus smiled, letting the use of the man’s given name land as its own quiet challenge. He gestured to the pawn he had slid forward two squares. Hypatius frowned slightly as he mirrored the pawn advance.

  The next few moves unfolded quietly, sensibly, in familiar shapes. Theodorus watched the positions crystallise and realised that Hypatius was a standard player of the Italian game - a sharp, aggressive opening that in his own lifetime had been studied for centuries, though here it was cutting edge.

  One of the understated advantages of black was that it allowed you to glimpse the patterns in your opponent’s play before you fully committed to your own. It allowed you to get to know the man across from you. And Theodorus intended to use that to its full advantage.

  “You have studied this opening,” Theodorus observed.

  “I like to come prepared.” Hypatius’s grin showed a hint of teeth. “Which is why I wanted to know more about your recent military escapades, Theodorus. I heard you sieged down a fort in barely a fortnight. Impressive.”

  Theodorus continued to make quiet, unassuming moves, developing a knight, tucking a bishop into place. “That is because I did not siege down a fort, but the fort’s defenders.”

  “Oh?” Hypatius nudged a piece into position.

  “I assaulted their minds, not their walls. The two often follow each other very closely.”

  “Sleep deprivation, I have heard,” Hypatius remarked, his tone almost idle as his forces took shape. “A shadow encampment set just beyond their sight, fires at all hours. Impressive. Almost as impressive as the wagon forts you utilised in the ambush against the Tatars.” His play was sound, fundamental, crisp - no wild flourishes, just patient pressure.

  “You have done your homework,” Theodorus said.

  “I did say I like to come prepared, Captain.” Hypatius's smile had a sharp edge to it.

  “I myself unfortunately lack your foresight and diligence in that respect,” Theodorus said, fingers light on the bishop as he developed the piece to an attacking square. “I have no knowledge of how exactly you increased the revenue of the Nomikos landholdings in your years as its steward. I’ve merely heard they achieved remarkable success.”

  “The same way I revamped our armoury inventory, Captain.” Hypatius’s smile widened at the reminder of how he had taken Theodorus’s armoury proposal and used it to his own benefit. “I saw opportunities, and I took them.” As he spoke, his knight leapt forward in a sharp, sudden move that cut into Theodorus’s position. The gloves were off.

  “And you used your connections to streamline the process. I confess I was most impressed,” Theodorus replied, his tone humble as he nudged a pawn forward, deliberately ignoring the knight’s looming threat.

  “Are you saying you could not have done better in my position, Theodorus?” Hypatius’s eyes glittered. As always, they did not miss an opening when it presented itself.

  “Our positions are not equal, Hypatius. Why pretend they are?” Theodorus gestured lightly to the board, to white already claiming the centre while black still unfolded. “The world is inherently unfair, and some people start one move ahead of others. Though they like to pretend otherwise, so they can feel better about themselves and claim themselves superior.”

  Hypatius snorted at the dig. “And the people who start one move behind like to use that as an excuse for their failures, unable to see the faults in their own play.” His knight jumped again, this time landing in a vicious fork that threatened both Theodorus’s king and rook. “Check,” he called.

  Theodorus hesitated, then slid his king out of danger, the move forced. Hypatius immediately scooped up the rook, the high-value piece vanishing into his hand. He placed it beside the board with slow, deliberate satisfaction, savouring the capture. Theodorus, in turn, eased another pawn forward, still refusing to take the now-exposed knight.

  “You won’t resign, Theodorus?” Hypatius asked, laughter dancing in his eyes at the blunder.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “The game is as good as lost.” Hypatius gestured lazily over the board. “And you had that ‘non-urgent’ matter to attend to, remember?” The words made it clear just how much he had seen through Theodorus’s earlier excuse.

  “If anyone is losing this match, I’m afraid it’s you, Hypatius,” Theodorus said mildly, watching as Hypatius finally pulled the knight back to safety, rescuing his precious piece from its overextension. Now there was no easy way to capture it.

  “Surely you jest,” Hypatius laughed - only to watch Theodorus’s advanced pawn snap up one of his right side pawn defenders.

  “The problem with players who are used to playing from high up,” Theodorus said as Hypatius retaliated and captured the attacking pawn, “is that they miss the quietest moves from those down below.”

  He slid a second pawn up the flank, supported by another behind it, creeping down the right side of the board like an unnoticed column of infantry. Hypatius frowned and captured; Theodorus immediately recaptured with his last pawn there, and suddenly there were no more defenders left - just a single, stubborn pawn, far advanced and only a few steps from the far rank.

  “They have plenty of ways to curtail those pesky pawns when they make troublesome moves, though.” Hypatius brought a rook across the board to block its path, the heavy piece slamming down onto the file like a barred gate.

  Theodorus responded by sliding his last remaining rook into position behind the pawn, anchoring it. Hypatius swung his queen over to bear down on the same square, and Theodorus answered in kind, pulling his own queen into the fray. Piece after piece gravitated towards that one file, the board narrowing around a single, insignificant wooden soldier.

  “Look at how much you have to commit to defend against a measly pawn,” Theodorus observed as Hypatius shifted another piece, the movement quieter now, more cautious. The pressure had begun to turn.

  Theodorus brought his bishop out along a long diagonal, the carved figure coming to rest where it menaced the rook guarding the promotion square. “I thought I had told you,” he said softly, “the mark of a good commander is getting the most out of every little piece at his disposal.”

  Hypatius hesitated. The rook was trapped. If he captured the pawn, he would be taken in turn by Theodorus’s knight. If he moved away, the pawn would step forward and become a queen. Either way, he was gone.

  “The mark of a mediocre one,” Theodorus finished, “is only focusing on the flashiest moves.”

  Hypatius glared at him with such venom that the sounds of the loggia seemed to drain away. His eyes went flat and icy, all earlier amusement stripped clean. His jaw locked tight his fingers curled around the edge of the table until the knuckles blanched, as if he were imagining Theodorus’s throat in their place.

  “The game isn’t over yet,” he ground out, sacrificing his rook for the pawn.

  “Don’t worry, I have plenty of time,” Theodorus assured him, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “As I said before, I have nothing of pressing importance to do.” He winked.

  Hypatius’s snarl deepened, the line of his mouth tightening as he moved a piece with more force than necessary, the carved base scraping the wood.

  Theodorus took the chance to press the advantage - not on the board, but on his opponent. “Do you know how a player with the black pieces can win, when he is surrounded by white pieces on every side,” he asked, tone almost scholarly, as if tutoring a slow child, “when all he has are pawns against bishops and rooks?”

  “Shut up,” Hypatius spat, eyes fixed on the position, brow furrowed in concentration. His next move came only after a long, tense silence.

  “By changing the rules,” Theodorus went on softly, “and turning the most worthless pieces of all into the most valuable.”

  “I said shut up.” Hypatius’s voice was rough now, stripped of its earlier amusement as he fought to hold his crumbling defence together.

  “By shattering the board,” Theodorus finished with quiet finality.

  He nudged another pawn forward.

  The small, unremarkable piece slid into the narrow space between Hypatius’s queen and king, biting at both at once. The most worthless figure in the game of chess suddenly threatened the two most valuable, and came out on top. Lines Hypatius had relied on collapsed in a heartbeat, and what had looked like a slow grind to victory turned into a disastrous defeat.

  Hypatius slammed his fist onto the table.

  The aged wood cracked under the blow, a few pieces toppled and shattered, scattering like broken teeth across the board. His eyes bored into Theodorus with a loathing so raw it could have flayed skin. Theodorus met the stare without flinching.

  “The game is over,” Hypatius declared, voice low and shaking with barely contained rage.

  Theodorus rose with unhurried grace and gave a small, courteous bow, as if they had just concluded a polite diversion rather than a veiled duel. “Thank you for the lesson, my lord,” he said lightly. The faint smile on his lips was one of quiet triumph as he turned and left the corner of the loggia.

  Hypatius remained where he was, consumed in the shadows of the late afternoon.

  He stared down at the ruined board, at the cracked surface and the scattered pieces, and began to set them back into their squares one by one, replaying lines in his head, searching for the exact moment the tide had turned. He picked up his white knight, cracked and chipped from the outburst, thumb running along the splintered edge as if it had personally betrayed him.

  “The one-armed servant left through the postern gate,” Othon’s voice came from the shadows across the foliage. “Quiet and quick. The man we had following him says he’s headed toward the capital.”

  Hypatius’s grip tightened around the broken knight until the wood creaked. “Double the men watching his servants,” he said, anger coiling under each word. “Next time one of them sends a message, I want to read it.”

  “And the messenger?” Othon asked.

  Slowly, a cruel smile unfolded across his face.

  Theodorus believed himself to be ahead of him, the clever black player turning pawns into threats. But in the game that truly mattered, the one that extended far beyond carved wood and chequered squares, he was still white. Still one move ahead.

  And now he knew that if he wished to bring down the black king, he would have to start with his pawns.

  “Kill him,” Hypatius said. He was done underestimating even the smallest piece on the board.

  Othon’s footsteps faded as he withdrew, leaving Hypatius alone in the quiet loggia he had hated as a boy, when older men and elder brothers made moves on a board they didn't let him play, and took from him pieces they were never meant to take.

  Now he would take them back. And finish this game in the only way it could end. In a brilliant checkmate.

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