The morning crept into the artisan quarter like a tide washing through narrow streets, carrying with it the sounds of tools, carts, and impatient apprentices. Caleb had risen before dawn in his small chamber, the straw mat still itching against his skin. He hadn't slept much; the weight of what Riva had sketched for him clung to his mind like a beacon.
The board. The pieces. The promise.
It wasn't just about carving shapes anymore. It was about the first impression, the refinement that nobles demanded, the way presentation could decide whether a game became a curiosity or a legacy.
He left the inn with the satchel at his side, still carrying his rough prototype. The streets were already alive—merchants pulling shutters open, bakers sliding bread from stone ovens, children running barefoot, shouting in accents and tones he still sometimes struggled to understand. But he was getting better. The priest's blessing still lingered like an invisible tether: words around him had begun to align into sense, and though the cadence was strange, he could now bargain, ask questions, and, more importantly, listen.
The artisan ring was brighter in daylight. Windows glittered with polished brass and glass, banners hung from upper balconies. Every shop whispered competition. It was not enough to be good; one had to be memorable.
Riva's workshop, by contrast, remained humble. The shutters half-open, the smell of pine and varnish spilling onto the cobblestones. Inside, she was already at work. A plank of walnut stretched across the table, lines chalked across its surface.
"You're early," she said without turning.
"So are you," Caleb answered.
Riva gave a snort. "You want nobles to notice you? Then you'd better learn their rhythm. They sleep late, feast late, waste late. But their craftsmen—" she tapped her knife against the wood—"work before the sun even touches the roofs."
Caleb stepped closer, watching her hands. Each motion was sharp, exact, the product of decades of muscle memory. He envied it. His own pieces had been born of desperation, each stroke uncertain, each pawn an uneven cousin to the next.
"I thought about what you said," he began.
She didn't look up. "About what?"
"The set. It has to be more than symmetrical pieces. It has to feel inevitable. Like it was always meant to exist."
That got her attention. She paused, knife still pressed against the wood, and raised an eyebrow. "Inevitable?"
"Yes. A noble won't risk their reputation on a novelty. They need to believe this is part of their culture. That owning it makes them wiser, richer, more… connected."
Riva leaned back, folding her arms. "You speak like a man who's seen courts."
"I've studied them," Caleb said carefully. True enough—though in another world.
Riva considered him, then returned to the plank. "Fine. Then help me make inevitability out of pine."
They worked through the morning. Caleb held tools awkwardly, his fingers unused to the grain of proper wood. Riva corrected him without pity, her hands quick to snatch the knife when he threatened to ruin a cut.
"Not like that. See? You let the blade follow the grain, not fight it. The wood will tell you where it wants to go."
"It feels alive," Caleb muttered.
"It is," she said simply.
They shaped pawns first—simple, repeated forms. Caleb's mind wandered as he carved: in every piece, he saw not just a soldier but an idea. Uniformity, discipline, ranks of identical figures marching across a field. He realized, with a shiver, that it looked… military.
That mattered.
"Riva," he said slowly. "Do soldiers here play games?"
"Cards, dice, wrestling matches when they're bored. Why?"
"What if this game—" he held up the pawn, still crude but sharper now—"wasn't just for nobles? What if the army used it?"
She barked a laugh. "The army? You think grunts want to sit around a table pushing blocks of wood?"
"Not for leisure. For strategy. Look—" He grabbed the slate, sketching quickly: lines for the board, symbols for pieces. "Every move is about territory. Supply lines. Sacrifices. Commanding weaker units to protect stronger ones. It's not entertainment—it's training disguised as play."
Riva frowned. "That… sounds dangerous."
"Why?"
"Because if you give commanders a new way to think, they'll use it. And the first to learn will crush the rest."
Caleb stared at her, struck by the weight of her words. In his world, chess had been just that: a tool of kings, a reflection of war, strategy bound in wood. If he introduced it here, he wasn't just bringing a game. He was planting an idea.
By noon, his fingers ached, blistered and raw. Riva handed him a cloth and a cup of water.
"You're not bad," she admitted. "For a dreamer."
He wiped his hands. "And you're not bad for a skeptic."
She smirked. "Careful. Flattery's expensive."
They laid out the nearly finished pawns and rooks, each one cleaner, smoother than Caleb's originals. It wasn't perfect, but it was progress. Riva's skill gave them weight, dignity.
"We'll need to test the board," she said.
Caleb blinked. "With who?"
"Clients. Neighbors. Anyone who's willing to sit for an hour. If it fails in the streets, it'll fail in the halls."
So they tested.
A pair of curious boys wandered in first, their clothes patched, eyes wide. Riva waved them over. "Sit. Play."
Caleb explained the rules slowly, carefully, demonstrating with pawns and knights. The boys struggled, fumbled, argued. One tried to stack pawns into a tower until Riva smacked his ear.
But then—one of them made a capture. His eyes lit with recognition. He saw the exchange. He understood.
The game became real.
By the end, both were leaning over the board, shouting moves, invested in a battle neither had known existed an hour before.
Riva folded her arms, watching. "Not bad, dreamer. They care."
Caleb's chest tightened. For the first time, he saw it: this wasn't just a plan or a hope. It was happening.
Later, when the boys left, Riva grew quiet. She packed the pieces with unusual care, then set them aside.
"You know they'll steal this, don't you?"
Caleb frowned. "Who?"
"Anyone with power. Nobles. Commanders. Even other craftsmen. The moment they see this has value, they'll claim it."
Caleb hesitated. "So what do I do?"
"Move faster," Riva said. "Make your mark before they do. Once it spreads, your name has to be tied to it—or it'll vanish from you forever."
He sat back, thinking. She was right. History didn't remember inventors; it remembered owners.
And he wasn't about to be erased.
The afternoon light bled gold across the artisan quarter, slanting through the open shutters of Riva's workshop. Sawdust sparkled in the air like drifting motes, the smell of resin clinging to every breath. Caleb flexed his fingers again, wincing at the blisters forming across his palm. Each ache was proof he was moving forward, but it reminded him too of his limits.
He was no craftsman. He never would be.
But he didn't need to be.
His skill was elsewhere—in systems, patterns, persuasion. And in this world, he realized, those talents were rarer than sharp knives.
A shadow crossed the doorway. Riva looked up, frowning.
"Afternoon, Jerrik," she said.
The man who entered was broad-shouldered, with a leather apron streaked in soot. His arms carried the smell of iron, his beard flecked with ash.
"Your hammering kept me from napping," he grunted. Then his eyes landed on Caleb, on the board spread across the bench. "What's this?"
"A game," Riva said simply.
"Game?" Jerrik stepped closer, curiosity fighting with disdain.
Caleb rose. "Would you like to try?"
The smith squinted at him. "Does it pay me?"
"It teaches you," Caleb said. "About command. About sacrifice."
Jerrik's expression softened—just slightly. Pride, Caleb thought. The pride of a man who knew command of iron, if not of men.
They set up the board. Caleb explained again, his words smoother this time, the rhythm of teaching falling into place. Jerrik listened, skeptical, but when the first few moves unfolded, his brow furrowed with thought.
He played slowly, cautiously. Caleb guided him through traps, showed him the weight of choices. When Jerrik lost his queen to a knight's fork, he cursed loud enough for passersby to glance through the shutters.
And yet—he leaned in.
By the end, though beaten, he scowled not with anger but with hunger. "Another round," he demanded.
Caleb smiled. "Tomorrow. You'll think about it until then."
The smith grunted and left, muttering. But Riva noticed the light in his eyes.
"You just hooked him," she said.
"That's the point," Caleb replied.
They sat together as the sun dipped lower, reviewing the set. Riva ran her hand over the half-carved board, thoughtful.
"You understand something most don't," she said. "You don't care about the pieces. You care about the players."
Caleb looked at her. "Exactly. Pieces are just the bait. The real power is how people change once they play."
"And you think nobles will care?"
He leaned forward. "Nobles live for reputation. For tools that make them appear sharper than their rivals. If one lord believes this game gives him an edge in politics, in war, others will scramble to learn it."
Riva chuckled. "You speak like you've seen a war council."
"I've studied enough to know how people think when the stakes are survival."
She tilted her head. "And what's your stake?"
Caleb paused. He wanted to say survival, to keep the truth close. But something in her gaze pushed him further.
"Legacy," he admitted. "I don't just want to live here. I want to be remembered."
The words hung heavy in the workshop. Riva didn't mock him this time. She only nodded.
Evening approached, and Caleb insisted on walking the streets again. Riva closed up, but not before handing him a small cloth bundle.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Food. Bread and dried meat. You'll need it if you're planning to wander like a stray dog."
He smiled faintly. "Thank you."
She shrugged. "Don't thank me yet. You'll owe me when nobles come knocking."
The streets beyond the artisan ring grew louder as day bled into dusk. Musicians plucked strings in the corners of taverns, vendors shouted last bargains, lanterns flickered against stone walls. Caleb moved through it quietly, ears open, eyes sharper than ever.
Every gesture mattered. Every robe color. Every servant's badge. He studied how wealth moved, how messages passed from hand to hand. He wasn't simply walking—he was learning a language of power written not in words but in motions.
And beneath it all, a thought simmered:
He had a tool now. A game sharp enough to cut.
Curiosity tugged him into a crowded tavern near the lower ring. The smell of ale and sweat struck him instantly, along with the roar of dice clattering on a table. Soldiers in worn uniforms cheered and groaned, wagers slapped down in coins and bread.
Caleb froze.
This was it. The very audience he had wondered about. The army.
He stepped closer. A group of three soldiers noticed him, squinting at the satchel.
"You lost, stranger?" one asked.
"Not lost," Caleb said evenly. "I came to offer a different wager."
That got their attention.
He found a corner table, unrolled the board, set out the rough pieces. Laughter rose around him—until he moved the pawns, explaining.
Slowly, the laughter died.
One soldier sat. Then another. Soon, a crowd gathered. The first game was clumsy, full of mistakes. The second sharper. By the third, voices rose in argument, hands slapped the table, and suddenly, the tavern was alive with something new.
Not dice.
Not luck.
But thought.
Riva's warning echoed in his head: The army will use it. The first to learn will crush the rest.
Caleb felt a chill. But he didn't stop them.
Because he knew—this was the seed.
Late that night, Caleb returned to his small room. The bread was gone, the satchel lighter with the board still tucked inside. His mind whirled too fast to sleep.
He lay staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of the city outside.
Pieces and pawns.
Nobles and soldiers.
Legacy and theft.
He thought of Jerrik's hungry eyes, of the soldiers shouting in the tavern, of Riva's careful sketches.
It was spreading. Already.
And that frightened him more than anything.
Because once an idea spreads, no one owns it.
Unless he moved faster. Unless he marked it—not in wood, not in coin, but in memory.
And to do that, he needed more than craftsmen.
He needed allies.
He needed an entrance to power.
His mind returned, again and again, to the words of the messengers outside the noble quarter.
Lord Denval. Collector of games. Keeper of novelty.
A man whose halls might hold the future of this board.
Caleb closed his eyes, whispering the name like a prayer.
Not to the gods. Not to fate.
But to himself.
Because tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that—he would find a way to cross that guarded arch.
He would put this board in Lord Denval's hands.
And when he did…
Everything would change.