That night, the house was quiet.
Only the ticking of the old hallway clock and the soft rustle of wind against the windows broke the stillness. Seven-year-old Alexei should have been asleep, wrapped in blankets, lost in the harmless dreams of childhood.
But something was different.
A faint glow spilled out from beneath the door of the drawing room—a flickering amber light that danced like fireflies. Curious, Alexei slipped from bed, the floor cold beneath his feet, and crept silently down the hall.
The door was slightly ajar. Through the narrow opening, he saw his father.
He sat hunched over the chessboard, elbows tight to his sides, eyes locked in concentration. A single torch lamp cast long shadows across the room. The rest of the house felt far away—as if this place, this moment, existed outside of time.
Alexei didn't say a word. He crouched beside the doorframe and watched.
His father moved no pieces. He only stared. His lips moved silently, tracing invisible ideas. His hands hovered above the board, trembling slightly as if the weight of the position was something physical. A war was frozen mid-battle on the squares before him—knights poised to leap, a queen on the edge of sacrifice.
It wasn't just a game. Not to him.
Alexei could see it in his eyes. This wasn't about winning or losing. It was something else—something sacred. A secret world alive on the checkered battlefield.
His father whispered, almost too soft to hear: "Tal would've done it... without blinking."
Alexei leaned closer, breath held. A piece of the mystery was being passed down, unknowingly, like an inheritance written in silence.
That night, Alexei didn't speak. He didn't move. He just watched.
And in that quiet room, with the torchlight casting shadows like ancient ghosts over the chessboard, something stirred inside him—something bright, and dangerous, and beautiful.
He didn't know the rules. He didn't know the names of the pieces. But he knew one thing with certainty:
He wanted to know everything.
The King of Sacrifices
Alexei, unable to resist the pull of the glowing board any longer, crept into the room and spoke in a small voice.
"Dad, what have you been staring at for the past five minutes?"
His father didn't flinch. His eyes remained locked on the chessboard, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"This game is called chess, Alexei," he said softly. "And this position... it's from one of the most famous games ever played by a man named Mikhail Tal."
Alexei stepped closer, drawn by the hypnotic dance of pieces frozen mid-conflict.
"Who's he?"
His father finally looked up, eyes gleaming in the low torchlight. There was something reverent in his expression—like he was talking about a myth, not a man.
"Tal was a genius. He made moves no one else dared to make—wild sacrifices, strange attacks, things that seemed like madness. But they worked. Time and time again."He paused, tapping gently on the board. "That's why they called him the King of Sacrifices."
Alexei stared at the position. It looked like chaos to him—like someone had set up the pieces without any order. Yet his father saw something else. Something deeper.
"Did he win?" Alexei asked.
His father nodded. "Almost always. And when he didn't... well, he still played like fire."
There was silence for a moment. Only the soft hum of the torch filled the room. Then his father spoke again, quieter now.
"To play like Tal, you can't be afraid to lose. You have to give up something… sometimes everything… to see the beauty of the board."
Alexei didn't understand all of it. But he understood enough.
He sat down beside his father, the torchlight flickering between them, and looked at the game with new eyes. That night, the board wasn't just a game anymore. It was a doorway.