Fallen Eagle-Chapter 43: The Elusive Knight

Fallen Eagle-Chapter 43: The Elusive Knight

3rd Week of December, 1459
Theodorus reached his chamber that night spent and puzzled, the weight of the day pressed into his bones. Kyriakos had promised to show him something tomorrow, and he could tell from his tone that it was something that was precious to the jokester, a glimpse behind the layers of comical relief he hid behind.
He had come to his bedroom craving nothing more than a quiet night’s sleep and a chance to think, to start sketching out the proper details of the coming market days with the nomadic tribes. The true challenge started now, and he wanted to meet it rested.
What he hadn’t planned for was the ambush Demetrios and Stefanos had cooked up for him in his own chamber.
“Happy birthday!” they chorused together the moment he stepped through the door.
Theodorus yelped and jolted, his default response to sudden jump scares of this magnitude. It took a few heartbeats until his eyes adjusted to the warm candlelight and the familiar faces: Demetrios standing stiffly beside the small table, Stefanos hovering just behind him, both absurdly proud of themselves.
“You don’t have to act so surprised, my Lord,” Demetrios said, a soft, crinkled smile touching the corners of his eyes.
“But I am completely and thoroughly surprised, Demetrios.” Theodorus managed an awkward smile as he took the offered plate - a neat slice of custard tart, its golden surface glazed with honey and dusted with spice. “And you even brought a sweet.”
“Go ahead,” Demetrios encouraged. Stefanos was beaming from ear to ear, practically bouncing on his heels.
“Thank you, Demetrios, Stefanos.” Theodorus laughed a little too high, too thin, then lifted the plate with both hands as if it were something fragile and ceremonial. That the ceremony was for another person was ironic in an uncomfortable sort of way.
He ate slowly, bite by bite, the still-warm custard soft on his tongue, the crust flaking beneath his teeth.
“Well?” Stefanos couldn’t help himself. “What do you think?”
“It’s quite good, Demetrios, thank you.” Theodorus set the fork down with a faint clink, genuinely surprised once again. “I’m not usually much one for a sweet tooth, but the tart is divine.” He supposed it was the boy’s palate coursing through him.
“What do you mean, my Lord?” Demetrios asked, that smile of his pinching at the edges, a little forced now. “It’s been your favourite since you were a child.”
The statement hit Theodorus like a breaking wave. For a heartbeat, the room narrowed to the tart in his hand and the old man’s expectant face. Here he was, celebrating a dead boy’s birthday that wasn’t his. Eating his favourite sweet, one he didn’t even like.
His own smile vanished before he dragged it back into place by sheer will. “Ah, yes, of course. I just haven’t had it in a while,” he said lightly, the words scraping his throat raw. He tried to summon some cheer, to press it over the nausea tightening in his chest. The cruel irony that he actually
enjoyed
the food now only made it worse.
He was pretending to be a little boy sitting here celebrating his birthday, but it felt like presiding over his funeral with the boy’s closest friend and grandfatherly guardian. Someone who had treated him as his own child. It was too cruel. Too sharp a reminder of what he had to do - if not for history, if not for the countless lives tangled in the Principality’s fate, then at least for the boy whose body he had stolen. The boy he’d murdered by existing in his place.
“What is wrong, Demetrios?” Stefanos’s worried voice snapped him out of his spiral.
Only then did Theodorus realise Demetrios was no longer standing straight. The old man was bent over, shoulders shaking as he clutched at the edge of the table. The sudden breakdown took everyone off guard. Theodorus moved instinctively to care for the old man.
“Demetrios, talk to me.” He pleaded softly. He’d never seen the old man like this.
“I–I am sorry,” Demetrios managed, tears tracking down the lined planes of his cheeks to disappear into his beard. Pain and anguish were carved openly into his features. He looked, in that moment, like an old man adrift and alone on a vast, dark sea. “Y-You’ve grown into a fine young man, my Lord.”
He stepped forward and gripped Theodorus’s shoulder in a white-knuckled vise, his fingers digging in as if to anchor himself. His eyes were feverish, burning.
“A-Always remember that,” he choked. “And t-that I love you.”
He looked at Theodorus with an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through the careful mask and into the frightened, fraudulent soul beneath. Theodorus’s breath caught. He didn’t know how to reply. How could he? How did you tell a man that the boy he’d raised, scolded, comforted, the child whose first steps he’d probably watched under that hazelnut tree, was gone? And that everything before him now was a lie held together by borrowed memories and desperation?
He swallowed, but no words came.
Afterwards, Stefanos gently guided a still-sobbing Demetrios away, one arm around the old man’s back, murmuring reassurances as they left Theodorus ‘to rest’ for the next day and to finish his birthday meal in peace.
Theodorus stared down at the half-eaten slice of custard tart. Every bite from that pie now tasted of ash and accusation, clinging to his tongue like dust from a grave. He felt the weight of the will he’d inherited settle heavier than ever. The cold, unyielding burden of a promise made on another man’s deathbed, and on a dead boy’s stolen life.
The next day dawned under a low, colourless sky that mirrored the miserable mood Theodorus had carried through the night. Wet enough for rain to pour from the high heavens, not cold enough for the novelty of snow. Cold enough, however, that the downpour seeped through cloak and boots and left his hands numb on the reins and his hair plastered to his forehead.
Theodorus met Kyriakos by Suyren’s southern gate.
“Rough night?” Kyriakos asked, spotting Theodorus’s red-rimmed, sleepless eyes. Demetrios, standing behind him, mirrored him almost exactly. His face seemed to have aged years since the night before.
“My sixteenth birthday,” Theodorus forced an easy smile.
“Ah.” Kyriakos’s eyes widened in genuine surprise, then a lopsided, bitter grin bloomed on his face. “Not sure how to feel about showing you this on your birthday.” He rubbed the back of his head, his heavy overcoat protecting him from the worst of the deluge.
“Nonsense,” Theodorus assuaged him. “I’d be honoured to know. And to help if I can.”
Kyriakos’s mouth turned less brittle at that. He stepped into the saddle, wary of the grumpy stablemaster who watched from afar, looking for any excuse not to lend out his precious beasts in the rain.
“Let’s go then. We’ve a few miles ahead of us.”
The journey through the countryside was spent in silence. The falling rain raised the ambient noise just enough that casual conversation was not easy, and none of them seemed in the mood to force it.
After perhaps half an hour on a southward bend, they chanced upon a homestead in the distance: a large house at least a mile and a half from the nearest village. It was secluded at the top of a fairly steep hill, its sides covered by woods beaded with rain. A nearby vegetable garden clung to the slope, but Theodorus noted there were no animals penned and no fields tilled nearby. A rarity in a society where one had to be almost entirely self-sufficient.
“Here we are,” Kyriakos declared as they headed up the steep trail. “Home sweet home.”
They dismounted their horses under a small lean-to near the entrance, little more than a slanted roof and a few posts. The horses shook water off their pelts as soon as they’d dismounted, spraying them with a fresh shower before Kyriakos could tie them off.
A woman wandered out from the house at the sound of their approach. She had dark brown hair tied in a neat bun and was covered from head to toe in layered clothing.
“This is my mother,” Kyriakos said, introducing them with a small, stiff gesture. “Ma, this is Theodorus, a fellow aide.”
“You brought visitors up to the home, Kyriakos? Have you grown mad?” The woman’s face had an uncanny resemblance to Kyriakos’s, and Theodorus didn’t mean the upturned nose, or the barely-there freckles. He meant the large purple bruises that marred her face, differing tones of yellowing and dark violet spreading from cheekbone to jaw.
“Kyriakos, this is-” Theodorus began, tone startled.
“Crazy,” Kyriakos’s mother completed. “Your father can’t see visitors like this, you know how he’ll get.”
“Theodorus is a friend, Ma,” Kyriakos said firmly.
“Did your father do this?” Theodorus interrupted, the words out before he could soften them. Everyone seemed to be sidestepping the large elephant in the room. Kyriakos and his mother grew quiet.
“Then we have to-” Theodorus started.
“-do nothing. We can’t do anything, Theodorus,” Kyriakos said sadly.
“What? Of course we can.” Theodorus’s voice came out more impatient than he intended. The night had left him raw, and the carefully constructed calmness he projected felt weak and brittle for once. “I’ll go talk with him, or resort to force if necessary.”
His face was incandescent with rage as he took in the bruised faces around him. The pain in the room felt thick enough to choke on.
“You will not touch my father.”
“You will not touch my husband.”
The two spoke almost in unison, their answer instant, their faces hard and set like stone.
“What?” Theodorus blinked, genuinely taken aback by the backlash. He had expected fear, gratitude, pleading. Not rage.
Kyriakos sighed, shoulders sagging as he watched Theodorus’s expression. “Come,” he said at last, voice low. “It is easier to show you.” There was a painful resignation in the words, the sound of someone who had rehearsed this moment in his head and dreaded it every time. Hunched, he led the way toward the cabin.
“Dad, I’m home,” Kyriakos called as he stepped through the doorway, moving as if entering a predator’s den. Every motion was deliberate, careful. “Avoid sudden movements,” he added over his shoulder in a soft, almost apologetic tone. “They unsettle him.”
Inside, a man sat slumped in an armchair facing the window, his frame swallowed by worn cushions. He stared into nothingness, as still as a statue left too long in the rain.
Kyriakos approached from the side, keeping his footsteps slow and measured. “Father,” he called again, barely above a whisper. The man did not move to acknowledge him, not even when Kyriakos crouched at eye level and began murmuring softly in his ear, the words too low for Theodorus to catch.
As Theodorus rounded the corner and got a clear look at the man’s face, it finally clicked into place.
The man’s copper eyes stared vacantly through the glass, following a world only he could see. Slowly, they seemed to drag themselves away from the grey sky outside and track along Kyriakos’s outline, but were unable to focus on it. Drool pooled at the corner of his open mouth, glistening. Kyriakos wiped it away with a practiced motion, thumb brushing gently at his father’s chin.
The only sign that anything of the man remained was his hand, which gripped Kyriakos’s with desperate strength, fingers clamped as if the boy were the last rope keeping him from falling away entirely.
“How long?” Theodorus breathed, the question escaping before he could stop it.
“Over a decade now,” Kyriakos’s mother whispered from behind him.
“He hasn’t always been like this?” Theodorus asked quietly, trying to reconcile the broken figure before him with the anger and protectiveness in their voices.
“No.” The woman’s mouth twisted bitterly as she bit her lower lip. “It was after he returned from one of the battles they fight with the Italians. He was called up to go there - just a season or two, they said. He’d done plenty in his time.” Her eyes looked upon the old shell of a man with a forlorn smile, as if seeing the young man he had been when he’d left. “He never came back the same.”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; any instances of this story on Amazon.
“My father was a war hero,” Kyriakos said. He rose slowly from beside the armchair, relinquishing the task of wiping and whispering sweet nothings to his mother with a touch to her shoulder. “He was a terror with a blade. He was kind. He was worth double any other Nomikos that now sits in the castle.”
He clenched his fists as he led Theodorus outside, the door closing softly behind them, muting the sounds of their broken household. Rain pattered on the roof and the lean-to, a steady, indifferent drum.
“And as soon as he came back like this,” Kyriakos went on, voice hardening, “he became as discardable as a piece of unwanted furniture. Sent to live out here where they could hide him and forget about him. About us.” The last words came out edged with acid. “Out of sight, out of mind,” he added bitterly.
“How did it happen, if I may ask?” Theodorus said, keeping his tone gentle.
“Some said it was a blow to the head, others a bad fall.” Kyriakos shook his head, rain dripping from his hair. “I don’t know the truth, and it doesn’t matter.” Kyriakos’s fist thrummed against the old wood, a dry thud. “What matters is that they abandoned him. All the unity the House preaches amounts to
nothing
. They send a bit of coin each month and wait for him to die.”
So the regular “paid leaves” Kyriakos received weren’t indulgences or rewards at all, Theodorus realised. They were journeys home to deliver the monthly stipend and food his family needed. To tend to a man the House no longer wanted to see.
Theodorus pressed a hand to Kyriakos’s back. “Thank you for showing me this,” he said quietly.
Kyriakos met his gaze daringly, searching for the pity or insincerity he’d all too often seen. After a moment, his shoulders loosen a fraction.
Theodorus felt a grim, guilty sort of relief in seeing another’s burden laid bare. It was a reminder that pain was not unique to him, or to the boy whose life he had taken. They all had their burdens to carry. And if others could carry their grief and keep walking, then so could he. He
had
to pull himself together.
“This is why I want to win the end-of-season competition so badly. I need the money.” Kyriakos’s voice was low but fierce. The fact that it was also why he cheated at cards, why he watched every hand like a starving dog, he left unsaid.
“You need the money for your father?” Theodorus asked, though the answer was already written all over Kyriakos’s face.
“They say he has forsaken God, that it is permanent. But I know it has a cure. He is sick.” His jaw hardened around the word. “And I will get him the treatment he needs.”
He turned fully to Theodorus, rain dripping from his hair and lashes. “I know I’m being unfair. And that I’m using my grief to ask something of you, knowing it’s harder to say no. But I’m not above cheating to get my father the help he needs.”
He dropped to his knees in the wet mud. It splashed up his trousers, soaked through to his skin. He shivered from cold and emotion alike, shoulders hunched, hands fisted at his sides. “Please,” he said, voice cracking. “Help me win the competition. It is the last of the money I need. I’ve seen the way you train your troops, how they’ve transformed. I need an edge, or I’ll never win over Apostolos.”
Theodorus considered him in silence. It pained him to watch this family try to navigate the tragedy of caring for a broken mind in the fifteenth century, but so did the thousand other stories that lived out every day in this Principality. Kyriakos was about to find out that Theodorus was not above cheating to get his goals too.
“I’ll help,” he said at last. “But in exchange, I require your support.”
Kyriakos looked up sharply, hope and wariness flickering together in his eyes.
“I need allies in the castle, someone on the inside, if I want to rise to a position of importance and impress Lord Adanis.” Theodorus stated plainly, letting his naked ambition mask the deeper reasons behind them. “During my post I’ve come to realise how entrenched the Nomikos interests are in the castle, and already the new Hypostrategos moves to curtail me. I need allies and information. I don’t need you to act against your family - I have nothing against them. I just want a platform to catapult from to a new, more prestigious posting. And allies to help me do it.”
Kyriakos looked upon him in a new light, cataloguing the reasons and plans behind the request. Weighing it.
The moment snapped abruptly when a sound echoed from the cabin. A sharp, strangled cry of pain. Theodorus and Kyriakos moved on instinct, sprinting for the door, Theodorus only a step behind.
Inside, Kyriakos’s mother was pinned against the armchair, her husband’s frame pressed to hers with staggering force. He was mumbling incoherently, words chewing together into nonsense, his hands clawing at her shoulders as she tried to shield her face.
“Father!” Kyriakos lunged forward, grabbing his father around the torso and hauling him back. The older man thrashed with wild, terrified strength, copper eyes blazing without recognition.
“Theodorus, take her!” Kyriakos grunted.
Theodorus slipped an arm around the woman’s shoulders and steered her away from the flailing limbs. She was shaking, mumbling brokenly, “-my fault, it’s my fault-”
Theodorus guided her toward the doorway.
“I was cleaning his spit,” she whispered, voice frayed. “Got too close to that blasted wound. He’s… he’s sensitive. If anyone touches too close- he doesn’t know what he’s doing…”
Behind them, Kyriakos wrestled with his father, trying to pin his arms without hurting him. Demetrios and Stefanos, drawn by the shouting, burst in and rushed to help. Between the three of them, they managed to restrain the screaming man, speaking to him in soft, steady tones until the fight drained out of him and he sagged back into the armchair, chest heaving.
In time, Kyriakos’s mother regained some of her composure, breath evening out, hands no longer trembling quite so violently. Demetrios and Stefanos agreed to remain inside, to keep things steady and watch over the couple, while Theodorus and Kyriakos stepped back out into the rain.
“I’ll help you,” Kyriakos said quietly once they were alone, away from listening ears. “I’ve no choice.” His eyes gleamed dangerously.
Theodorus eyed him critically. “You mentioned finding someplace to heal him. Where will you go?”
“Europe,” Kyriakos answered without hesitation. “I’ve heard the Italians have care houses there. Proper places to heal the body. Maybe they can heal the mind.”
“That’s a big maybe,” Theodorus replied, not unkindly.
“It’s all I need,” Kyriakos said. “A maybe.” He looked back toward the small house on the hill, his expression tight. “Here, there is only certainty.”
His jaw was set, as if sheer stubbornness alone might bridge the distance between this muddy hillside and whatever hope lay across the sea.
“You should go to the Mamluks,” Theodorus said at last.
“The Muslims?” Kyriakos stared at him, genuinely taken aback.
“I’ve read they have proper care houses for the mentally ill there,” Theodorus went on, choosing his words carefully. “Professional facilities. More advanced than the European ones.”
“Why would they let a Christian infidel into them?” Kyriakos scoffed, shaking his head as if the very idea were ridiculous.
“They are pledged to help everyone in need,” Theodorus replied. “It’s a sacred duty there. Their rulers fund these charitable houses as acts of piety. Hospitals not only for the sick or the wounded, but to those with ailments of the mind. While it’s true they might ask for some coin as a donation to the institution, the treatment itself is free for all.”
Kyriakos narrowed his eyes, studying him. This was well beyond the scope of what any ‘learned boy’ here should know. Latin texts barely admitted that the Muslims had cities, much less working institutions worth admiring. And Theodorus was as far from a great university or scriptorium as a person could reasonably be.
“Think on it,” Theodorus said, keeping his expression carefully neutral. He knew he was crossing a line, revealing too much of a knowledge he should not have - but he couldn’t just say nothing. I’ve said my piece. You’ll make your own decisions.”
“Very well, Theodorus. I will think on it.” Kyriakos extended his hand, rain running down his wrist. “And thank you. I won’t forget your kindness.”
“Don’t forget it,” Theodorus said, clasping his forearm, “but don’t mention it.” He turned his gaze toward the distant mountain range that hid Suyren from sight. “Stay safe, Kyriakos.”
They parted there on the muddy slope. Theodorus and his small entourage mounted up and began the ride back toward the city, hooves squelching through the sodden earth, leaving Kyriakos alone with the small house, his mother, and the broken man within - alone with his impossible hopes and the thin shelter of their privacy.
4th week of December, 1459
“I have talked with the disparate tribes,” Ilnur ed, seated in his customary cushion near the yurt’s heart. The air inside was thick with the smell of felt, smoke, and tea. This time Theodorus had insisted on bringing local delicacies: flatbreads brushed with oil and sprinkled with salt, dried figs and apricots - simple fare, but strategically chosen to hint at the sorts of goods that might flow regularly with the new arrangement.
“And I have tracked down the others,” Nikos added. “It has not been easy. In the dead of winter, the paths are half-buried and the rest are mud.” He warmed his hands around a steaming cup of tea as he spoke.
“Have they been amenable to partake in the market day?” Theodorus asked.
“They will at least show up,” Nikos said. “They want to see what concrete offers are on the table. They will not bring their families, but they understand the danger of standing by and letting this chance pass.” A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he remembered the hard-bitten negotiations. “Despite this they took some convincing still.”
“Good,” Theodorus nodded. “We also have to discuss the specifics of how we’ll incorporate them into the Shepherd system, so everything is clear for the first January market day. What are the main concerns?”
“That they will be seen to side with the Theodorans,” Ilnur answered, folding his hands over his knees, “and barred from Khanate lands or, worse, persecuted by their fellow countrymen.”
“They already roam the lands and have enmity toward the Khanate, yet it lets them,” Nikos countered.
“Because they do not pose an active problem,” Ilnur replied. “ If they are seen as your open partners, that might change. They do not want to risk life and limb for Greeks.”
“They will for their own family,” Theodorus said. “We’ll hold off a few months on suggesting they become scouts,” He shifted his cup between his hands, thinking aloud. “That gives them time to see, with their own eyes, the benefits of aligning with the Principality. And it gives time for relations between the Mangup and Chufut-Kale to settle. Right now things are tense, but once the status quo is restored, the families will no longer be helping an enemy, but a loyal subject of the Khanate, working under their umbrella. Then they’ll have less to fear then.”
He let the argument hang for a moment before continuing.
“I also want to discuss how we can integrate them into early reconnaissance, to make the best use of their long forages,” he said, turning to Ilnur. “You mentioned they range a bit north of the Crimean peninsula and then west toward Lithuania?”
“Yes,” Ilnur replied. “They venture into the Lithuanian wasteland for the little and poor grazing there is there. It is mostly uninhabited - marsh, forest, scrub of little value. The Crimeans do not chase them there.”
“What we’re most interested in,” Theodorus said, leaning forward, “are the mountain passes south of Chufut-Kale. You mentioned many families live off the land there, despite the thin soil, lack of settlements, and heavy Khanate patrols in the area.”
He tapped a finger on an invisible map on the rug as he spoke, marking ridges and valleys in his mind.
“The families have learned to avoid roving bands,” Ilnur went on, picking up the thread, “and bribe the few that catch them. They know the less-travelled paths.”
“If we can mount a fast relay system between different families,” Theodorus said, “and post them near different passes, we can have advanced warning of any forces coming through. Even an hour’s notice, sent ahead by a good rider, can make all the difference against a
çapul
.”
“You don’t want to use smoke signals?” Nikos asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” Theodorus replied. “I don’t want to show our hand and announce that we have scouts inside their borders.” He set his cup down. “The moment they see organised signals rising from their southern marches, they’ll start searching for watchers. And once they start searching, they’ll discover that Tatar families are working in concert with us.”
“That is wise,” Ilnur added, “a lone horseman who knows the terrain can move faster than a
çapul
burdened with men and gear. He can cut across ridges, take animal paths, and slip through wooded ravines. There is no need for smoke. And the families would never accept the risk of discovery.”
“What remains,” Theodorus said, exhaling slowly, “is the rotation and deployment of the families we station.”
He gestured toward the heavily edited map of the northern frontier spread out beside them, its surface crowded with fresh ink and scraped parchment. It was a patchwork thing pieced together from long talks with nomad families, scraps of prisoner testimony, and stolen maps gathered after the victory at Kerasia.
In the dim light of the yurt, amidst incense, pelts, and winter cold, three men bent over that map and quietly plotted their next steps.
Hypatius swirled the knight piece under his fingertips, feeling the familiar weight of it, the smooth polish of its wooden contours, the finely carved lines of the horse’s arched neck. In all the game of chess, it was, he thought, the most elegant piece.
“The men tell me he is meeting with various nomads on the periphery of Nomikos lands, though he hasn’t yet shared the purpose or specific plans.” The lilting, suave tone drifted from an adjacent bench in the loggia, seeming to come from nowhere in particular.
Being an avid player, no one questioned it when he’d asked to have his mahogany chess table installed in one of the corners of the garden. It sat in one of the more shaded alcoves, half-screened by climbing greenery and potted shrubs, a place where the breeze carried birdsong and the faint scent of resin. It was out of view, but that was simply because he preferred the shade, of course. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that from here he could hold discreet conversations with his agents lurking in the lower corridors, on the far side of the vegetation.
“Gathering allies in the most unlikely of places,” Hypatius murmured, a faint smile brushing his lips. The captain was canny and unorthodox, employing radical methods throughout his short career - to great success so far. But fortune could just as easily favour the bold as could disaster. “Some might take offence at him colluding with our northern enemies of the Principality. Anything else?”
“Yes. The tithe.” The whisper came softer now, quicker. “It goes poorly. It won’t cover even two-thirds of the deficit that the Nomikos currently owe the Crown. And the deadline is fast approaching.”
Hypatius’s hand stilled on the light-brown knight, the piece resting between thumb and forefinger. “Curious that the Steward has not informed his Lord of this development.” He stared at it, planning out his own moves on the game board with the same detached care he applied to the rest of his life.
“Should we inform him, then?” the voice asked.
“Of course,” Hypatius said, a soft smile returning to his face. “I will let our Lord know that the tithe he has placed in the charge of that hapless Steward and his pet captain is on entirely the wrong path.”
“And the nomads? The alms he is taking from the feasts?” There was a rustle in the foliage, a shift of weight. “He is building a power base at the cost of Nomikos resources.”
Hypatius let his gaze drift out across the sunlit loggia. The white stones he had played on as a child were just as striking as they had been then, dazzling where the light hit them, cool in the shadows. His brother had preserved the magic of the place well. It reminded him of distant happy afternoons, of cherished games, and playful banter echoing through these same arches. He
hated
it.
“No.”
“No, my Lord?” The words sounded from the greenery, confused. “But would Lord Adanis not benefit from the information?”
“Yes,” Hypatius answered softly.
“Then why-”
“Do not question your place, Bastard.” His voice turned harsh and sharp in a blink, the word striking like a slap. “Merely do as you’re told, or your dreams of a sweet retirement in a villa of your own may die before they even begin.”
A heavy silence settled over the corner of the loggia, utterly at odds with the light chirping of the birds in the bushes and trees. Even the breeze seemed to hold its breath.
“Yes, my Lord.” Othon’s voice came at last, subdued, from the other side of the foliage.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, sound returned to the corner of the garden, and with it, Hypatius’s calmness.
“Sometimes the best move for the betterment of our great House is not the most obvious one,” Hypatius said softly, as if explaining the concept to a child. He tightened his fingers around the knight, feeling its smooth edges press into his skin. “Checkmate is often preceded by subtle positional moves.”
His eyes glinted as he placed the piece in the game he was playing with himself. He had, unfortunately, discovered over the years that the only opponent worthy of his talent was he himself.
“Leave. Keep a watch on our commander, and I’ll handle the rest,” he commanded Othon, who murmured a farewell and slipped away, fading from the corner as if he had never been there at all.
On the board, Hypatius methodically finished his game, guiding the pieces toward their inevitable conclusion. It ended, as it so often did, in a checkmate delivered by a sudden cavalry charge from the most beautiful piece of them all - the elusive knight.

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Chapter 43: The Elusive Knight