Chapter 78: Chess Grandmaster [I]
The air inside the Noble Etiquette Club was thick with perfume, polish, and malice. Candlelight glittered from chandeliers above, refracting through crystal droplets so finely cut they might as well have been frozen tears.
The nobles at the long table leaned in like spectators at a bloodsport, except the arena was a velvet-draped hall and the weapons were porcelain teacups, book stacks, and sharpened tongues.
And now?
Now the weapon was chess.
The board was set upon a low table at the room’s center, carved from marble so white it glowed, its squares alternating with slabs of polished black onyx.
The pieces themselves were works of art: pawns shaped like miniature knights with silver inlays, bishops carrying delicate glass staffs, rooks fashioned into tiny fortress towers studded with gold.
The king wore a crown that glittered faintly in the light; the queen’s carved eyes seemed to judge.
Dorian rose from his chair like a monarch descending to execution grounds, golden hair gleaming, his cufflinks catching fire in the light.
He moved with the unhurried arrogance of someone convinced the world would part before him.
"Strategy," he purred, gesturing to the board. "The truest measure of nobility. Here, bloodlines are irrelevant. Here, only wit, foresight, and grace decide victory."
I slid into the opposing chair, folding my legs with deliberate ease. "So by your own logic, this duel is the only thing in this room that actually matters."
The nobles hissed at my insolence, but I caught a few smirks too—some entertained, some cautious, all watching.
Alaric hovered behind me, hands knotted together so tightly I worried he’d cut off his own circulation. "L-Loki, are you sure—?"
"Of course," I murmured, fingers brushing the smooth marble edge of the table. "I was born for this."
Nyx leapt lightly onto a nearby chair, curling into a loaf with his tail wrapped neatly around his paws. His molten gold eyes fixed on the board. "Finally, something worth my time. If you lose, by the way, I’m abandoning you."
"Duly noted," I said dryly.
Dorian settled opposite me, folding his hands before the pieces with practiced elegance. He smiled, all golden cruelty. "Black or white?"
"White," I said immediately. "I prefer to make the first move."
His smile didn’t falter, but I caught the faint twitch in his jaw. Nobles weren’t used to attendants taking initiative. He flicked his fingers, and a servant quickly rotated the board so my side bore the pale army.
The nobles whispered in waves around us, their words sharp as blades disguised by fans and goblets of wine.
"Bold choice.""He’ll humiliate himself.""Lord Dorian never loses. Not in this."
I ignored them all, studying the board as though it were the only thing in the universe. And in a sense, it was.
Because here, unlike in bloodlines or tea ceremonies, I had an advantage. Chess was a game of memory, foresight, and ruthless exploitation. A game of masks and traps. In other words: my native language.
I reached out, moved my king’s pawn two spaces forward.
The match began.
The first few moves unfolded with careful formality. Dorian mirrored me at first, testing, probing, setting up his pieces with the slow inevitability of a man playing an orchestra only he could hear.
He moved like someone used to victory, not with reckless aggression but with smug patience.
I, on the other hand, played like a man painting fire. My knight leapt early, my bishop cut diagonally into unfamiliar ground. The nobles murmured disapproval.
"Unorthodox."
"Sloppy."
"Childish."
I smiled faintly. Sloppy was the mask. Beneath it, each piece fell into place like teeth in a trap.
Alaric fidgeted behind me, leaning so close I half-expected him to collapse onto my shoulder. His whisper was hoarse. "You know what you’re doing, right?"
"Of course," I murmured. "Worst case, I throw the board at his head."
His strangled gasp was drowned by Nyx’s low chuckle. "I’d pay to see that."
Dorian’s golden smirk didn’t waver as he advanced a pawn with surgical precision. His eyes gleamed with the light of someone already imagining my defeat. "You play boldly—for a rat. Do you know what happens to rats who stand before lions?"
"They usually win," I said cheerfully. "Lions are terribly predictable."
The room rippled with shocked laughter and scandalized gasps. Dorian’s smirk tightened, but he recovered quickly, advancing his knight into striking range.
I countered, my rook sliding across the board like a guillotine blade.
Gasps again.
"Reckless!""He’ll collapse his own defense!"
But my rook pinned his knight into an awkward angle, forcing him to retreat rather than strike. His golden eyes narrowed the faintest fraction.
The game dragged on, tension tightening like a bowstring. The nobles leaned in closer with every move, wine forgotten, conversation dead.
The only sounds were the soft clink of marble on marble, the rustle of silk as nobles shifted in their chairs, and the faint scratching of Nyx’s claws as he cleaned his paw with disinterest.
Piece by piece, the board thinned. Pawns fell like soldiers into the abyss. A knight was cornered, a bishop sacrificed, a rook lost to gain momentum. Dorian played beautifully, but beautifully in the way of a noble: too rigid, too careful, too unwilling to risk looking foolish.
I thrived on risk.
When I gambled a bishop to lure his queen, the room gasped as though I’d just thrown away a crown. Alaric nearly fainted.
But three moves later, my knight swept in to claim a rook he hadn’t realized I’d trapped.
The gasps were louder this time. A few nobles leaned forward, eyes alight despite themselves. They wanted me to lose, but more than that—they wanted a spectacle.
And I was giving them one.
Dorian’s smile began to crack, just at the edges. He leaned forward, one golden lock of hair falling across his brow. "Clever. But cleverness is no substitute for pedigree."
"Funny," I said, sliding a pawn forward, "I was about to say the same about you."
Nyx snorted so loudly it might as well have been a laugh.
The duel stretched on. Sweat gathered at Alaric’s temple though he wasn’t even playing. He muttered under his breath like a man watching a tightrope walker over a pit of spikes.
"Don’t do that—oh no, why would you—oh, that worked? That worked! Loki, you mad—oh gods, don’t—"
I ignored him. My focus was sharp, cold. Every move Dorian made, I dissected. Every hesitation, I filed away. He played to impress the audience, to show them control. I played to win.
By the thirty-third move, he looked less like a lion and more like a cornered stag. His pawns were thin, his rooks limping, his queen harried.
And then came the moment.
He advanced his knight, smug again, sure he had me pinned. His move looked devastating, like a noose tightening around my king. The nobles leaned forward, already smirking, certain I was finished.
Alaric whimpered. "L-Loki—"
I smiled. Slow. Sharp.
"Check."
My rook slid into place with lethal grace, trapping his queen.
The gasp this time was a wave. Nobles surged to their feet, silks rustling, fans snapping open to hide mouths that were either smiling or gaping.
Dorian froze. His golden eyes locked on the board, disbelief flickering. For the first time, the smirk fell.
"Impossible," he whispered.
"Not impossible," I said softly, leaning back. "Just etiquette."
"Etiquette?"
"Yes." My smile sharpened. "Knowing when to let your opponent believe they’re winning, right up until you pull the rug from under them."
Nyx yawned. "Finally. Took you long enough."
Dorian made one last desperate series of moves, scrambling to salvage the board. His queen fell. His knight toppled. His king scrambled behind pawns that crumbled like paper.
And then—
"Checkmate."
My queen slid across the board, cornering his king with brutal elegance.
The room exploded.
Some nobles clapped in delight. Others shouted in outrage. Some simply stared, wide-eyed, as though they’d witnessed a hanging.
Dorian sat frozen, golden hair gleaming, but the light gone from his eyes. His lips trembled around words he couldn’t summon.
I leaned back in my chair, folding my hands. "Thank you for the game, Lord Dorian. It was... enlightening."
Nyx stretched, leaping lightly from his chair. "Well. That was amusing. Can we eat now?"
Alaric’s jaw hung open. He looked at me like I’d just rewritten the laws of physics. "You—you—Loki, that was—!"
"Etiquette," I said smoothly, rising to my feet. "Confidence. Poise. Grace under pressure." I gestured lightly at the board. "And the ability to turn lions into mice."
The nobles erupted again, divided, but one thing was certain: the club would never forget this night.
Alaric stood taller now, his chin high, his eyes steady. For once, he didn’t look like prey. He looked like someone who belonged.
And behind him, I smiled quietly.
Because I hadn’t just won a game of chess.
I’d declared war.
But already, I could see the whispers starting, seeds of schemes sprouting in the nobles’ eyes.
Winning the board was easy—holding the room would be harder.
And if Dorian was smart, he’d realize the game between us had only just begun.