The morning cold was already biting at my fingers as I helped my father stack the last bundles of firewood.The lengthening shadows of the season warned of the approaching winter.There was no hurry in the voices, but there was haste in the hands.
My father carried the logs with ease — strong arms, a body hardened by years of labor.
— Hold it steady, Torren. We don't want gaps in the stacks — he said, adjusting the pile.
I nodded, shifting the bundle I balanced in my arms.
With a simple cart, reinforced axles, and side ramps, we could carry three times the load in half the time.But… now is not the time for such ideas. Not yet.
The seasons had their own rhythm, and the village turned steadily with them.
After we finished, we cleaned our hands quickly and headed toward the square.The air carried the familiar scents of fresh bread, cut wood, and the first fires lit for the day.People moved about in their busy routines, yet always greeted each other with gentle nods.
As I passed, I greeted Brenor, the old farmer.
— Good morning, Master Brenor.
— Good morning, Torren. Ready for the cold? — he replied with a brief smile.
— As ready as we can be — I answered politely.
A few steps ahead, children chased straw wheels, laughing and running while adults exchanged goods at small improvised stalls.
I was starting to memorize faces, postures, small gestures.Each person had their place in this silent board.
I continued toward Yorn's house.
Beneath the shade of the large tree, the old man was already waiting, the Rekal board laid out, the pieces set in their starting positions.Beside him, his wife Marta arranged a small basket on the rough table.
— Torren, my boy — Yorn greeted me with his calm smile — punctual as always.
— Good morning, Master Yorn. Good morning, Lady Marta.
Marta returned a brief smile as she placed a small tray nearby.
— I brought some bread and honey. You shouldn't face these battles on an empty stomach.
I nodded in thanks, accepting the slice.The game was already starting, as always, without ceremony.
The pieces slid calmly across the board, the dry sound of wood filling the short pauses of silence.
For a while, we played without much conversation, each studying the other's moves.
Then, almost unintentionally, my words slipped out:
— I heard some men talking at the square… they said nearby villages have been attacked by bandits recently.
Yorn paused his move for a moment.
— Indeed.Small groups take advantage of unpatrolled routes.Where gaps exist between the pieces, opportunists always appear.
My eyes followed the board.The gaps, the open lines.I spoke as if thinking aloud:
— In Rekal, they would be the unprotected flanks...Spaces where no piece guards the advance.Without vigilance, emptiness invites risk.
For a moment, silence lingered.
I felt the weight of my own observation — perhaps too mature for a village boy.Quickly, I forced a smile and tried to soften my words:
— It's just… how it seems, looking at it.I probably don't understand much about these things.
Yorn simply smiled faintly, though his eyes lingered on me for a moment, quietly watchful.
We played for a while longer, in a comfortable silence.With each match, I saw the patterns.Not only in the game, but in how Yorn tested me — with subtle questions, hidden traps disguised as casual moves.
And slowly, I sensed that he was studying me.
Just as I studied the world.
As we gathered the pieces at the end of the game, Yorn spoke with a quiet smile:
— Few your age see beyond the moves, Torren.Seeing the entire board… that takes time.
I simply met his gaze and nodded respectfully, saying little.
Deep down, we both knew the lessons were not only on the board.
The cold tightened its grip as the day drew to a close.As I walked home, the aroma of burning wood and fresh bread followed me.
Winter would not wait.Nor would men.
And I continued, slowly filling my own board.