That night, sleep came slowly.
Alexei lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the ghost of the position etched into his mind—the sharp angles of the queen, the knight crouched like it was ready to pounce. His father's words echoed.
Alexei found himself seated at a grand chessboard, far larger than the one in the drawing room. The board stretched out into darkness, lit by a single spotlight overhead. The surrounding space was void—endless black, like he was floating in some dream-bound theater of thought.
The pieces were already set. But they weren't wood or plastic. They pulsed faintly, like they were alive—shifting ever so slightly, like soldiers waiting for orders.
A man sat across from him.
Shrouded in shadows, only fragments of his face were visible: the edge of a smirk, the gleam of eyes that burned like embers. He wore a black coat with a high collar, and when he moved, he didn't seem to touch the floor.
He raised a hand and gestured toward the board.
"Your move, Alexei."
The boy's heart pounded. How did he know my name?
He looked down. The position—it was the same one from earlier. The same puzzle his father had studied for hours. Except now, it was his to solve.
He reached forward, trembling, and moved his knight.
The man nodded. A slow smile curled on his lips.
The game grew faster, wilder. Knights flew into impossible forks. Bishops sliced through ranks like blades. Queens were given up recklessly—and every time they fell, the stranger across the board smiled.
The world around him pulsed. His head throbbed. He couldn't stop playing. He didn't want to stop.
One final move came to him—a sacrifice. The kind that didn't make sense until it did.
Alexei reached for his queen. The piece was warm in his hand.
Checkmate.
The man leaned forward, his face coming into focus just for a moment. A sharp jaw. A faint scar beneath one eye. Eyes that had seen too much.
"You see now, don't you?" he whispered."This game isn't just played on a board. It plays you back."
The board shattered like glass.
Alexei shot up in bed, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat.
The morning sun poured into the room, warm and real. But on his nightstand—resting where nothing should have been—was a single white knight.
Its base was warm.