Kael sighed.

  This defeat tasted more bitter than the others.

  He ran a hand through his hair, almost frantically, as if to chase away the sensation, to erase the weight of the final sentence.

  But he pulled himself together. Quickly.

  Because now, they were finally going to speak about the Immaterial.

  Dubium had already reset the chessboard without a word, as though everything had been planned from the beginning.

  Kael opened the new game with a safe, solid, almost textbook opening.

  Dubium poured two cups of tea once more. One for himself. One for Kael.

  “Now that you have a clear image of what time is,” he said, “we can speak about the Immaterial.”

  He took a sip, then added:

  “The Immaterial is not a place… but a non-place.”

  He made his move — a swift, sharpened response that cleanly broke through Kael’s overly cautious opening.

  Kael clicked his tongue, irritated.

  But it was not the move that bothered him.

  “A non-place?” he repeated, confused.

  He responded nonetheless, placing a piece firmly. He had managed to recover, to restore balance to the board — for now.

  Dubium answered, calm as ever.

  “A non-place is a space of transition. A parenthesis, if you prefer.”

  He played a slow, controlled move. Typically Dubium.

  Kael did not answer immediately.

  “A transition to what, exactly?” he finally said.

  He raised an eyebrow as he advanced a piece.

  “Because right now, honestly, I don’t feel like I’m ‘in transition’ at all. I feel like I’ve arrived. At my destination, even.”

  There was a slight edge of sarcasm in his tone.

  Dubium responded with an almost imperceptible nod.

  “You are not fundamentally wrong.”

  He made his move.

  “In a sense… you are indeed at your destination.”

  Kael leaned back for a moment, looking doubtful.

  “Alright… then where exactly am I?”

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  “If the Immaterial is only a point of transition as you say… then where am I?”

  He moved a piece slowly, without confidence.

  I’m sure he’s going to answer with a question…

  And, of course, Dubium played a strange move — a diagonal displacement with difficult implications.

  “How far does your historical knowledge extend, Kael?”

  Bingo, Kael thought.

  He studied the board for a few seconds, then played and replied:

  “Well… let’s say I come from a background not exactly known for its cultural refinement. So my knowledge of history? Zero. I know nothing about the history of the world.”

  Dubium took a piece, slid it slowly, then made his move — an unexpected shift Kael had not anticipated.

  His eyes remained on the board.

  “History has been written for a little over ten thousand years.”

  Kael interrupted him, stunned.

  “Ten thousand years?!”

  Dubium nodded, impassive.

  “Yes. That must sound like a lot to you.”

  He paused, then continued:

  “And those centuries are divided into several ages, according to the progress of humanity. There are four.”

  Kael took the opportunity to make his move.

  Dubium went on, his tone even:

  “The Age of Survival. The Age of Cities. The Imperial Age. And the one we now inhabit.”

  He paused briefly, played his move with a sharp gesture, then added:

  “The Age of Reversal.”

  Kael, who had been about to grasp a piece, froze.

  “That last one sounds rather ominous, doesn’t it?” he said, ironic. “Why is it called that?”

  He set his piece down — a bold move, full of audacity.

  Dubium replied in his usual neutral tone:

  “That is a good question. The sources are uncertain, but it is said that a man once prophesied the ages, and what was to unfold within them.

  We preserved the names… but their descriptions remain studied with the greatest care.”

  He made his move in turn.

  Kael asked:

  “Why does it stop at the Age of Reversal? Shouldn’t it go further?”

  He played a rather defensive move.

  “That remark is relevant,” Dubium said.

  “No one knows what age lies beyond the one we inhabit. It was not prophesied.”

  Dubium played his move, slightly hesitant.

  Kael replied:

  “That doesn’t sound good… if the prophet saw nothing beyond.”

  He played a move just as hesitant as Dubium’s, then sank back into the divan.

  “But I have another question,” he said.

  Dubium lifted his head toward him.

  Kael continued:

  “When exactly does history begin? At the creation of humanity by the Primogenes?”

  Dubium made his move, but Kael barely noticed, lost in thought.

  “Yes,” Dubium answered simply.

  Kael straightened slightly, played absentmindedly, and added:

  “There’s nothing before that? The Primogenes must have existed long before humanity, no?”

  “An excellent remark,” Dubium said.

  He played a more daring move, as though Kael’s question had inspired it.

  “There is no true answer to that question. Perhaps an eternity passed before the advent of humanity.”

  Kael did not move immediately.

  “But… there must be signs that something existed before, right? The world didn’t come into being at the same time as humanity?”

  At last, he played his move — without even taking the time to think.

  Dubium remained silent for a moment, then made a move that shook the entirety of Kael’s defense.

  Kael clicked his tongue again, slightly frustrated.

  “Are you going to answer me, or are you going to respond with another question?”

  He retaliated with an aggressive, risky move.

  Dubium did not reply at once. He tightened his grip on the piece he held — just slightly too firmly — as if speaking of these matters had, at last, fractured his usual calm. Then he released it and set it on the board with precision.

  Kael leaned forward, tense, restless. His eyes were fixed on Dubium, unable to conceal the mixture of excitement and anxiety rising within him.

  “Let us finish this game… and I will reveal everything.”

  The match was nearing its end.

  But it was another game — still invisible — that was about to begin.