CHAPTER ONE
CASSIA
Itell myself this is enough. That safety is worth the silence.
It’s a lie I almost believe.
A lie I convince myself to play along with, if only for the people who have sacrificed much to keep me hidden all these years. If not for them, my life would look very, very different.
The knight on the board taunts me as I weigh my options. Each move unfolds in my mind like pages in a well-worn book—familiar paths with predictable endings. The dark and light squares have been my battlefield for as long as I can remember; it’s one of the few places I’m allowed to wage war.
“Your move, Cassia,” my father mutters, his voice patient but tight with the knowledge of what’s coming.
Three potential paths sit before me, but only one leads to victory in five moves. I chew on the worn flesh of my cheek as I consider each option once more, prolonging his misery. Perhaps my methods are unkind, but these small rebellions are all I have to live for.
I slide my bishop diagonally, capturing his rook.
A breath leaves father as his shoulders slump, finally grasping the direction of the game—the inevitablecheckmate I set in motion. His king is already dead; the execution just hasn’t happened yet.
“I concede,” he says, tipping his king with a resigned flick. “That’s three in a row, dove.”
I smile, not humble in the slightest, warmth radiating through my chest. “I could have won two plays sooner, but I wanted to see if you’d notice a trap.”
That’s the thing about chess…I do not play to win. I play to witness the moment my opponent realizes their collapse is inescapable, because I’ve been several steps ahead the entire time. It would be easy to defeat them quickly. To save them the effort of trying.
But I do not wish to conquer just this one battle. I crave to win every one after that, as well. I want my enemy to know who I am before we even step into the ring—already anticipating how fucked they are.
And that sort of reputation is not cultivated by taking the easy way out.
“Of course you did.” His head shakes, exasperation softening into pride. “Your memory gives you an unfair advantage. You’ve memorized every possible scenario by now.”
“Not every scenario,” I counter, resetting the pieces with practiced grace. The smooth ivory figures—yellowed with age—click against the wooden board. Satisfying. “Just the ones you favor.”
What I don’t say: I have memorized twenty-three opening strategies he cycles through, documented the exact pressure of his fingers when he’s about to sacrifice a piece, tracked the subtle shift in his breathing when he thinks he’s discovered a weakness in my defense. Chess isn’t about the game; it’s about the player. And I’ve studied my father for twenty-six years, so it should not still come as a surprise to him that I win every time.
Well, nearly every time.
The man wouldn’t continue playing with me if I didn’t relinquish the game here and there.
A thud from the outer walls snaps the thought in half—dull scraping accompanying it. Every nerve in my body awakens as I stiffen. The map of our house flares in my mind on instinct: three steps to the hallway, seven to my parents’ room, three more to the hatch and then down a set of stairs. Father and I listen, breaths held as we determine the rhythm of footsteps. Too slow for a patrol and too uneven for armored Enforcers. A cart rattles past, close to the front window, and a man laughs, the ice in my chest easing a fraction. Not tonight. They won’t find me tonight.
It takes monumental effort to force my fingers to unclench from the table and refocus on the board as I pretend my heart isn’t still climbing through my throat.
Father says nothing.
In his defense, what is there to say?
The floorboards creak outside the sitting room, followed by the distinctive rhythm of my mother’s steps. She appears in the doorway with a wooden tray balanced between steady, lithe hands, steam rising from three bowls. A clip holds back her strawberry hair, allowing her flushed cheeks proper space to breathe.
“Dinner,” she announces, voice as warm as the stew she’s carrying.
My father rises to assist her, adjusting the tuck of his button down before grabbing the tray and setting it on the small table in the corner. The scent reaches me—root vegetables and herbs from our modest garden, and the protein of some preserved meat. My stomach tightens, angry with the lack of sustenance I’ve granted it today, demanding I dive into my bowl with the grace of a wild animal.
“Perfect timing,” I say, abandoning the chess pieces. “Father just conceded.” My tone adds theagainI choose not to voice.
Mother’s eyes crinkle before she utters my insinuation. “Again?” She knows we can never play just one round. “Pierce, at some point you need to accept that she’s better than you.”
“Never.” His reply is blunt and monotone, but the smile pulling at his lips betrays him.
