The city changed in the morning light.
What had been noise and chaos the day before now felt like a system — vast, layered, pulsing with routine. The shouts of merchants had rhythm. The carts moved in lanes. Even the beggars had territories.
Caleb moved through it quietly, cloak drawn, board folded and tucked into his satchel. His clothes were still rough, his face still unknown. But he walked with purpose now.
He had questions.
He needed answers.
And above all — he needed craftsmen.
The first few he approached shook their heads. One old man laughed outright when Caleb showed him the wooden pawn.
"You want nobles to play with that?" he scoffed. "Might as well serve wine in a bucket."
The second was kinder, but too busy. The third wanted coin upfront.
Caleb kept going.
He asked where to find fine woodworkers. Someone pointed him uphill — toward the artisan ring, a district that brushed the edge of the noble quarter but didn't quite belong to it.
He walked until his feet ached, until the streets turned from mud to cobblestone, until he saw windows filled with carved statuettes, lutes, and miniature towers of ivory.
This was the place.
But he didn't belong here.
Not yet.
He passed a sculptor chiseling a bust from white stone. The man barely glanced at him.
A shop with silver-inlaid boxes. Another with shelves of polished wooden animals. Every window looked like a promise.
But no door looked open to him.
He reached one of the smaller shops — older, less refined, but full of tools. The scent of cut pine and varnish seeped from the open shutter.
Inside, a woman stood bent over a worktable, carving with swift, precise strokes.
Caleb cleared his throat.
She didn't look up. "We're not hiring."
"I'm not looking for work," he said.
That got her attention.
She straightened, revealing a face lined with age and sun. Sharp eyes, steady hands.
"What then?"
He stepped forward and pulled the board from his satchel. Unrolled it carefully. Set down the pieces, worn and uneven.
"I need someone who can make these better. Cleaner. Balanced."
She studied the pieces. Picked one up between thumb and forefinger. Turned it in silence.
"A game?" she asked.
He nodded.
"You made this?"
"Yes."
She set it down. "Rules?"
He explained — briefly, clearly, moving pieces as he spoke. Her eyes didn't leave the board.
When he finished, she grunted. "Not bad."
"That's not enough."
She looked up. "What do you want?"
"I want nobles to play this," he said. "In halls, at feasts, in front of crowds."
She raised an eyebrow.
"And I want you to make the first set that could be sold."
The woman didn't smile. But she didn't laugh either.
"You pay?"
"Not yet. But if you help me, I'll make sure your name is remembered with mine."
She crossed her arms. "That a promise?"
"That's a wager," Caleb said.
She considered him. Then — finally — extended a hand.
"Name's Riva," she said.
Caleb shook it.
And just like that — a new piece was on the board.
Riva led him deeper into the workshop.
It was narrow, packed with tools, shavings, strips of raw wood leaning against every wall. The smell of oil and resin was thick in the air.
"Sit," she said, pointing to a stool. She took another across from him, pulled a slate from the wall, and laid it between them.
"Show me the full set."
Caleb unpacked each piece, lining them up carefully.
"These are rough," he admitted. "I made them by hand, with a knife and whatever wood I could find."
She snorted. "That's obvious."
"But I need them to look like they belong in a noble's hand."
Riva nodded, picking up a bishop. "You want balance. Consistency. Shape that says importance without shouting."
"Exactly."
She tapped the slate. "You want a standard set?"
"Yes. Identical sets. Easy to teach. Easy to display."
She began sketching. The pieces she drew were sharper, more elegant — still recognizable, but refined. A rook with sharper angles. A queen with a crown formed by three ridges. The pawn simpler, cleaner.
"I can do this," she said. "Good wood. Light finish. A set like this would cost silver."
"I don't have silver."
"Of course you don't." She tapped the chalk. "But you have this."
"And I can sell it," Caleb said.
Riva looked up. "You have connections in the upper rings?"
"Not yet. But I will."
She studied him again. Measured. Noticed the rough clothes, the firm eyes, the way he hadn't flinched once.
"You really believe in this, don't you?"
"I'm not trying to believe," he said. "I'm building something that doesn't exist yet."
A long pause.
Then: "I'll make you two sets. One you keep. One I show."
Caleb blinked. "You'd promote it?"
Riva grinned — just a little. "I know a few collectors who love novelty. If they like it, word spreads."
He hesitated, then added, "I'll need the board too. Not just the pieces. It has to look complete. Refined."
She raised an eyebrow. "A proper playing surface?"
"Yes. Something they can unfold in front of guests and be proud of."
Riva nodded slowly. "That changes things. Wood inlaid, maybe. Hinged. Something that closes like a box?"
"That sounds perfect."
She tapped the slate again. "Then I'll make it all. But it's still a gamble."
Caleb smiled. "I know."
But for once, he felt like the odds were shifting.
Riva didn't speak for a while.
She just kept sketching, refining lines, adding thickness here, reshaping curves there. The image on the slate grew sharper, more professional. The kind of thing one could imagine on a noble's table.
Then she stopped.
Turned the slate toward him. "There."
Caleb studied it. The board was clean. Foldable. The pieces uniform, distinct. Regal.
He nodded slowly. "That's it."
Riva leaned back. "You know," she said, "I could just make this myself."
Caleb looked up.
"You already showed me the rules. The movements. The board. Everything."
Her voice wasn't threatening. Just… curious.
"I've got clients," she went on. "Patrons who trust me. I could claim it's mine. Change the names of the pieces. Alter the grid slightly. Who'd know?"
Caleb didn't flinch.
"Would you?" he asked.
Riva shrugged. "If I was desperate enough. Or greedy enough."
"Are you?"
She tilted her head, as if honestly considering it. Then: "No. But I've seen people who are."
Caleb nodded. "Then let me give you a reason not to."
"Oh?"
"I'm not a craftsman. I don't carve. I don't polish wood. But I think in systems. I see how things move. And this game—" He tapped the board sketch. "—is just the beginning."
"You want to build more?"
"I will. And not just games. I'll make something that lasts. Something that spreads."
Riva leaned forward. "And you want me to be part of it?"
"I want you to be the first who said yes."
She studied him.
Not the clothes. Not the hands.
The eyes.
Then she nodded, once. "You're lucky I hate thieves."
"So do I," Caleb said.
And that was the end of it.
Caleb returned to the streets with new eyes.
Every banner, every crest, every carefully stitched robe became a map. A code. He studied how people moved through the artisan district — who carried silk, who gave orders, who had guards, who didn't.
The nobles didn't buy from the street.
They sent others.
Servants. Valets. Personal scribes.
And those, Caleb realized, were the people he needed.
He watched a well-dressed boy carry a package from Riva's district up a wide marble stair, disappearing behind an arch guarded by men in white armor. The noble quarter. Beyond that point, people like Caleb didn't belong.
But the messengers came and went.
He tailed one — not closely, just enough to follow the route. Another came down carrying wrapped cloth. Another waited at a shaded bench, reading.
Caleb sat nearby. Listened.
They talked. Quietly, but not cautiously. One complained about waiting hours for payment. Another mentioned a noble's obsession with imported games from the south.
Caleb's pulse stirred.
Games.
He leaned closer. "Sorry," he said casually. "Did you say games?"
The older one eyed him. "Yeah. Lord Denval's collection. Has a room just for them."
"Imported?"
"Mostly. From the coast. Or from the Academy."
"Ever seen anything new interest him?"
The man grunted. "He buys what entertains his guests. That's the only rule."
That was enough.
Caleb thanked them and left — but not before memorizing the name.
Lord Denval.
One man. One door.And maybe, one way in.