Kael stepped into the library, which didn’t really look like one at all.

  The first thing he noticed was the silence.

  A strange silence. A silence that somehow felt… loud.

  He moved forward slowly, but each step echoed across the black-and-white checkered floor, which shimmered faintly under the light.

  He looked up.

  “Wow…” he murmured.

  The building was enormous—far larger than it had appeared from the outside.

  Colossal bookshelves rose everywhere, lining the walls, filled with books of every color imaginable. The wood of the shelves was black, almost glossy.

  Tables were scattered here and there, along with deep, inviting couches.

  An upper level overlooked the main hall, though up there the books lined only the walls.

  Light flooded the space. It streamed through stained-glass windows, tinting the air with bluish, red, and golden reflections.

  The scent of old paper mixed with a cool draft lingered in the atmosphere.

  Kael kept walking. His footsteps echoed too loudly.

  Normally, he moved without making a sound. Here, he felt like every step triggered a small earthquake.

  He turned his head. No one near the entrance.

  He moved farther in. Still no one on the ground floor.

  Taking a risk he knew was forbidden—at least according to the plump woman from last time—he dared to speak out loud:

  “Is anyone here?”

  No answer.

  He went upstairs. No one there either.

  The books he glimpsed looked ancient, some written in languages he couldn’t even identify.

  He kept exploring, alone.

  Maybe the library is closed, he thought.

  He then began searching for the books he had wanted so badly.

  But without success.

  No signs. No visible classification. No labeled sections.

  “Great…” he muttered. “I don’t know how long I’ll be stuck here. I really need to read them before the Trial ends.”

  He went back down to the ground floor and resumed his search, shelf by shelf. Still nothing.

  Eventually, he returned to the center of the room and collapsed onto a dark brown leather couch, stretching out at full length.

  He let out a disappointed sigh.

  “Do you need help?” a male voice asked.

  A visceral reflex kicked in.

  Kael launched himself off the couch, flipping over the backrest in one smooth motion. He straightened up, hand flying to his belt—empty.

  “No sword… of course,” he muttered.

  Facing him, seated calmly on the opposite couch, was a middle-aged man.

  He was strikingly handsome. Dark brown hair slicked back, a clean, sharp face with precise features, and a piercing gaze whose exact color Kael couldn’t quite determine.

  He had an athletic build and wore a black vest over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, paired with matching trousers. A thin golden chain was attached to his vest.

  The man spoke in a rough voice, his tone neutral.

  “I seem to have startled you.”

  Between them sat a black-and-white checkered game board, its pieces neatly arranged.

  Beside it, a teapot and two cups.

  Kael collected himself, brushed the dust off his clothes as if nothing had happened, and replied, slightly irritated:

  “Startled me? Yes. You scared the hell out of me.”

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  The man inclined his head slightly.

  “My apologies. That was not my intention.”

  He gestured toward the couch with an open hand.

  “Please. Sit down—or lie back, however you prefer.”

  Kael sat again, wary.

  A faint shiver ran through his entire body. He ignored it and asked:

  “How long have you been here? I didn’t see you when I came in… and you didn’t make a sound.”

  The man, sitting perfectly straight with one leg crossed over the other, answered calmly:

  “You simply weren’t paying attention.”

  Without waiting for a response, he continued:

  “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  Caught off guard, Kael stammered:

  “Uh… yes. I’d like that.”

  The man leaned forward, gracefully took the teapot, and poured tea into both cups.

  Kael thanked him, raised the cup to his lips—

  —and his eyes widened.

  “It’s… good,” he said quietly.

  The tea invigorated him. Warmth spread through his body, as though every organ were suddenly reawakening.

  The man watched him closely and went on:

  “I noticed you were looking for something. I saw you pacing around, not finding anything.”

  “Yes,” Kael replied. “I was looking for math textbooks.”

  The man studied him with intensity.

  “Which ones, exactly?”

  Kael set his cup down.

  “Well… I’m looking for three books. They’re called Cause, The Perfect Shadow Theorem, and The Fibonacci Sequence and the Golden Ratio.”

  The man calmly brought his cup to his lips.

  “Those are rather demanding mathematical concepts for a high school student.”

  Kael smiled faintly.

  “That’s what the school librarian said. I skimmed through two of them without really understanding much. But… I don’t know. I feel drawn to those books.”

  He hesitated.

  “That might sound strange to you…”

  He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed.

  “It is not strange in the slightest,” the man replied.

  “Curiosity is the mortar of humanity. Very few individuals your age would take interest in such matters. On the contrary… I commend your discernment.”

  Kael answered:

  “I’m here… on vacation, let’s say.”

  “Where I come from, I don’t have access to this kind of knowledge. So I’m making the most of it. It might come in handy someday.”

  The man seemed thoughtful.

  “Wise and restrained… You are a remarkable young man.”

  Kael shrugged slightly, trying not to sound self-important.

  “Not to brag, but I hear that pretty often.”

  “Just rarely for good reasons.”

  The man leaned back into the couch, interlaced his fingers, and asked:

  “Do you know how to play chess, young man?”

  Kael blinked.

  “I don’t even know what that is.”

  The man did not look surprised. Nor amused. Simply neutral.

  “Chess,” he explained, “is an ancient game. Very ancient. A game of strategy, patience… and foresight.”

  “Two players. A board of sixty-four squares, black and white, and sixteen pieces each.”

  “Each piece follows its own rules of movement: rooks move in straight lines, bishops diagonally, knights in an ‘L’ shape, and so on.”

  “The king is the most valuable piece… yet also the most fragile.”

  He gestured toward the board between them. Black and white pieces were already arranged, ready to be played.

  “The objective is simple: to put the opposing king in checkmate. That is… to force him into a position from which he cannot escape.”

  “But to achieve that, one must see several moves ahead. Read the opponent’s game. Anticipate. Manipulate. Protect.”

  He paused, fixed his gaze on Kael, then added:

  “In short, it is a bit like life: one bad move, and everything you’ve built collapses.”

  Without looking at him, the man slid a piece across the black-and-white board.

  “Would you care for a game?”

  Intrigued, Kael straightened slightly.

  “Why not. It could be interesting.”

  “Very well,” the man said, a faint smile on his lips.

  He calmly reset the pieces, explaining as he did so:

  “We’ll play an introductory game. I’ll guide you through each move.”

  Kael nodded and leaned closer to the board.

  “Which pieces do I take?”

  “The white ones,” the man replied. “You’ll begin.”

  Kael picked up one of his pawns and made the first move.

  The man observed in silence, posture straight, fingers resting on his own piece, waiting for his turn.

  The game unfolded slowly. Kael, a novice, learned as he went. His opponent explained the basics, pointed out mistakes to avoid, simple traps, classical openings.

  At first, Kael played cautiously, hesitantly. Then, as the moves went on, he began to anticipate. To grasp the dynamics. To spot threats before they struck.

  He lost pieces—often.

  But he learned quickly.

  Minutes stretched into a near-sacred silence, broken only by the soft clicking of pieces being moved.

  The stained-glass light cast shifting shadows across the board.

  And the scent of tea still lingered between them.

  Kael eventually lost.

  He stared at the board, frustrated, and let out:

  “I was sure I was going to beat you… How did you do it?”

  The man did not answer directly. He slowly brought a piece back to the center of the board, then said in a calm voice:

  “You did well. It was your first game, after all.”

  “Very few succeed on the first attempt. Succeeding on the first try is often an illusion. The things that truly matter usually require falling once before standing.”

  “Can we play another one?” Kael asked, already starting to reset the pieces.

  The man replied simply:

  “Of course.”

  He poured Kael another cup of tea, and the game began again.

  This time, Kael changed his strategy. No more reckless attacks. He played cautiously, trying to lock down his lines, to protect every piece as if his life depended on it. He set up pawns like ramparts, reinforced his king, pulled back whenever a threat approached.

  The game dragged on, even more silently than the first.

  But in the end, he failed again.

  He stared at the board, sighed—frustrated, but not defeated.

  “I thought that strategy was the right one… Putting everything into defense seemed like a good idea.”

  The man did not respond immediately. He studied the board, then asked calmly, without judgment:

  “What was your mistake, precisely?”

  Kael remained silent for a few seconds. He leaned over the board, thinking.

  “I… I froze. I blocked my own pieces.”

  “By trying to protect everything, I ended up with no space left. I couldn’t move forward anymore.”

  He lifted his head, and the man slowly nodded.

  The man fell silent for a moment, eyes lowered to the board.

  Then, calmly:

  “Being overly defensive is not always a sign of prudence. Sometimes, it is simply fear in disguise.”

  Kael listened closely.

  “Paranoia and lucidity share the same starting point,” the man continued. “Doubt. The difference lies in what we do with it.”

  “When you close every door—even to what might help you—you end up alone, trapped inside your own fortress.”

  “And as you’ve seen: even a king, protected on all sides, can find himself with no escape.”

  He gestured toward the board.

  “Openness, in chess as elsewhere, is not a weakness. It is what allows pieces to breathe, to move, to create.”

  “Closing everything out of fear of being attacked is sometimes the surest way to lose—without ever being touched.”

  Kael nodded silently and moved a piece.

  The third game had begun.