“To win a war,” he said, pushing his king’s pawn forward two squares, “you don’t rely on emotion. You rely on foresight.”
I mirrored him, advancing my own pawn. “Foresight matters,” I agreed. “But patience wins more battles than brute force.”
The game unfolded beneath the stars.
At first, we played in silence—the soft click of wood against wood, the faint echo of laughter drifting up from below. Dmitri opened aggressively, knights developing fast, bishops slicing diagonals, king castled early behind a wall of pawns. It was a confident opening. Ruthless.
I answered carefully. I controlled the center, fianchettoed my bishop, refused to be baited into early exchanges. When he sacrificed a pawn to open a file, I took it—then another—pressing forward, sensing blood.
His brow barely furrowed.
I infiltrated with my rook, forked his pieces with a knight, then—clean, elegant—captured his queen.
I looked up at him, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “Even men who think they’re ten steps ahead should be careful,” I said. “Arrogance loses wars.”
He only leaned back, studying the board like a man admiring a painting.
Then he moved.
One smooth slide of his remaining rook along an open file I hadn’t protected—revealing a discovered attack from his bishop. Check. My king trapped. My queen pinned. Every escape square controlled.
The realization hit like ice water.
No matter what I did, I would lose both.
My fingers hovered over the board, heart thudding. I searched for a miracle. There was none.
“Sometimes,” Dmitri said quietly, satisfaction threading through his voice, “you let your enemy believe they’re winning. You give them momentum. Confidence.” His eyes lifted to mine. “You draw them in deep—until they’re overextended. And then you strike. Where it hurts most.”
I tipped my king over, the sound small but final. “You win.”
“Because I was already thinking beyond this board,” he replied, resetting the pieces with idle grace. “Before you ever saw the trap.”
He stilled, then met my gaze again—no smile this time. Only resolve.
“If I win this war,” he said evenly, “if the Orlovs fall—I will come find you in Greece.”
My heart stuttered. I forced a laugh that didn’t feel like mine.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said lightly. “I’ll probably be married to someone else by then. Someone safe. Someone new.”
I swallowed.
“I’ll start over. Properly.”
The air changed.
The softness vanished from his expression, replaced by something dark and absolute.
“That,” Dmitri said, voice low and unyielding, “is not going to happen.”
He reached into his jacket, fingers already closing around a cigarette. The metallic click of his lighter echoed softly as the flame bloomed, briefly illuminating the sharp planes of his face—eyes hollowed by too many sleepless nights, jaw set in quiet self-punishment.
“Please,” I said, before the cigarette ever reached his lips. “Don’t smoke.”
“You don’t like the smell?”
I shook my head.
