The tavern smelled of smoke and sweat, but Caleb had learned to breathe past it. It was a different kind of air than the noble quarter — sharper, rougher, alive with the pulse of voices that carried no polish but plenty of truth.
He sat at a corner table, the game board spread between mugs that hadn't been touched. The pieces were set in formation: pawns lined like soldiers, rooks standing like stone towers. The soldiers across from him — two men and a woman in patched uniforms — leaned forward as though every square on the board carried the weight of coin.
"Again," one of them grunted, pushing his captured knight back across the table.
"You'll lose faster this time," another said, smirking.
Caleb smiled faintly. "Then prove it."
The pieces moved. Slowly at first — cautious steps, tentative patterns. But soon the rhythm sharpened, the air tightening with each capture. A pawn traded for a pawn. A rook sacrificed to pull open a flank. Shouts rose from the other tables, gamblers abandoning their dice and card games to watch this new contest.
By the time the game ended — the woman boxed in with no move left — the room roared with laughter, curses, and disbelief. Someone slapped Caleb on the back, hard enough to make him cough.
"You play like a general," the woman said, narrowing her eyes but not without respect.
"I play like a man who's lost enough times to learn," Caleb replied.
He reset the pieces. Already another soldier was pulling up a chair. Word spread quickly here. Too quickly.
And that was the problem.
Outside, the night air carried the tang of wet stone and distant smoke. Caleb wrapped the board in cloth and slipped it into his satchel, walking back toward the artisan quarter. His boots scuffed against the cobblestones, every step echoing the thoughts running through his head.
The game was spreading. Too fast for comfort.
He had wanted attention, and now he had it — but not the kind he could control. Soldiers learned quickly. They improvised rules, argued strategies, argued loudly enough that other taverns across the district had begun scratching rough boards onto tabletops with chalk or knives.
Already, the game was mutating. Already, it was slipping from his hands.
By the time he reached Riva's shop, the shutters were closed and only a faint candlelight flickered inside. He knocked softly.
She opened the door a crack, frowning. "It's late."
"I know," he said. "But we need to talk."
Riva sighed, let him in, and bolted the door behind him. The smell of wood shavings and oil filled the narrow workshop. Half-finished pieces rested on the bench, a board still clamped in place where she had been sanding the inlay.
"You look like a man who's either won too much or lost everything," she said.
"Both might be true." He set the satchel down, unfolded the cloth, and revealed the board. "It's spreading. Faster than I expected."
Riva leaned against the table, arms crossed. "That's what you wanted."
"No," Caleb said firmly. "I wanted it to spread under my name. Not as some nameless tavern game people brawl over between mugs of ale. If I don't mark it now, someone else will."
She raised an eyebrow. "Mark it how?"
He hesitated. His mind returned to the shop in the noble quarter, to the curator with copper in her hair, to the blank vellum card pressing against his sleeve.
"With a name," he said quietly. "And with proof that name belongs to me."
Riva tilted her head, studying him. Then she reached across the bench, picked up a pawn she'd finished carving earlier, and pressed it into his palm.
"Then stop talking like a beggar," she said. "Decide what you're calling it. And carve that name into the world before anyone else does."
Caleb closed his fist around the pawn. The grain of the wood bit into his skin.
A name.
It sounded simple. But in this city, names were heavier than steel.
The next morning, Caleb returned to the temple. The same robed priest greeted him in silence, leading him down the cool stone hall into the chamber where the basin still glowed faintly with memory.
"You return quickly," the priest said.
"I don't have time to waste," Caleb replied. His voice sounded steadier than he felt.
The priest studied him. "You have the look of a man chasing something that runs faster than he can."
Caleb stepped closer to the basin. "I need words. Not just to speak — but to claim."
The priest's eyes narrowed. "You would bind your creation to this tongue?"
"Yes."
"Dangerous," the priest murmured. "Names are not decorations here. They carry weight. Too much weight, sometimes. Choose poorly, and you will find yourself bound to a shadow you cannot shake."
Caleb swallowed. "Then help me choose well."
The priest dipped his fingers into the basin. Symbols stirred across the dark surface, curling like ink in water. "Tell me what you want this name to carry."
Caleb hesitated. He thought of the tavern soldiers leaning forward over the board. He thought of the artisans frowning in concentration. He thought of Riva's sharp words: make it inevitable.
"Order," he said slowly. "Stability. Together. Humanity."
The priest's eyes flickered at that last word, but he said nothing. Instead, he moved his hand in a slow spiral over the basin. The symbols shifted, rearranged, forming lines that pulsed once before fading again.
"There are many words," the priest said. "But some are not yours to claim. Too old. Too sacred. Too dangerous."
Caleb leaned forward. "Then give me one that is."
The priest considered him for a long time. Finally, he touched the basin again, and a single symbol remained. A spiral intersected by a square.
"Tarnen," the priest said. "It means the one who arranges. The one who shapes."
Caleb whispered it once, then again. "Tarnen."
"It will fit you," the priest said. "But once the city calls you that, you cannot take it back."
Caleb looked down at the pawn still in his hand, its rough base uneven but firm. He thought of the soldiers shouting, the artisans whispering, the nobles yet to be reached.
"Then let it fit," he said.
The priest nodded once. "So be it."
The word clung to him as he left the temple.
Tarnen.
It echoed in the shuffle of boots on the stone street, in the whispers of merchants calling out their wares, in the rhythm of his own heartbeat. It wasn't his name — not Caleb, not the boy who had woken in a strange forest gasping for air. It was something else. A mask. A title. A banner waiting to be raised.
He adjusted the satchel on his shoulder, the board heavy inside, and started down toward the artisan ring.
Riva was bent over the workbench when he entered, her knife rasping clean lines into a rook. She didn't look up.
"You're walking like a man who just stole fire from the gods," she said.
Caleb dropped into the chair opposite. "Not stole. Borrowed."
That made her glance up. "From who?"
"The priest," he said. "He gave me a word. A name."
Her knife paused mid-stroke. "And?"
"Tarnen."
Riva repeated it softly, tasting the sound. "Tarnen." Then she set down the rook. "It suits you. Too well."
Caleb frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You're already halfway to believing it's yours. That's dangerous."
He leaned forward, palms flat on the table. "I don't have a choice. The soldiers are already playing. The taverns are picking it up. If I don't claim it now, someone else will. I need to be Tarnen before the city decides what Tarnen means without me."
Riva studied him in silence for a long moment. Then she slid the finished rook across the table. "Then mark it. Properly. You want inevitability? Carve the word into the wood itself. Make it impossible to play without seeing you."
Caleb picked up the rook. The grain was smooth, the base polished flat. He imagined the symbol — the spiral cut by the square — burned into its surface. The mark of the one who arranges.
"Yes," he said quietly. "That's how it begins."
By afternoon, they had a system.
Riva carved the pieces, her hands swift and sure. Caleb worked beside her, clumsy but determined, learning how to steady the blade, how to listen to the grain. When the forms were finished, he took a heated brand — a tool borrowed from the smith Jerrik — and pressed the mark onto the base of each piece.
The hiss of burned wood, the faint curl of smoke — it was a ritual. Each time the symbol appeared, Caleb felt the weight of it settle deeper.
By evening, two full sets were marked. Not perfect, but unmistakable.
"Tarnen," Riva said, turning one of the knights in her hand. "Now they can't forget the name even if they try."
"They'll try," Caleb muttered.
She smirked. "Then we'll make it harder."
That night, Caleb returned to the tavern.
The soldiers were waiting for him. Dice clattered ignored in the corner. Someone had scratched a crude grid into the table with a knife. But when Caleb laid out the polished board, when he placed the marked pieces on their squares, the room quieted.
"What's that?" one man asked, pointing to the base of a rook.
"A name," Caleb said. His voice was steady, though his pulse hammered. "Tarnen. That's what this game is called. That's what you're playing."
The word passed from mouth to mouth. Tarnen. Tarnen.
It was clumsy at first, mispronounced, mocked in jest. But it spread. Within minutes, men were shouting it across the tavern. By the time Caleb left, even the barmaid was using it as she told them to clear their mugs.
He walked out into the night with the taste of victory sharp on his tongue.
The game had a name now. And names, he was beginning to understand, could move faster than armies.
The following days blurred into a rhythm.
Morning with Riva, carving and marking pieces.
Afternoon in the artisan ring, watching couriers, memorizing routes.
Evening in taverns, soldiers and workers shouting over the board.
Everywhere he went, he seeded the word. Tarnen. He said it plainly, firmly, every time he explained the rules. He corrected those who mispronounced it, until even the drunkest soldier said it clearly.
And soon, he began to hear it where he wasn't.
Two men in the market arguing: "That's not how the knight moves in Tarnen!"
A boy in the street scratching a crude board in dust: "Come on, let's play Tarnen."
A smith leaning on his hammer, muttering: "Lost two pawns and a rook in Tarnen last night."
Caleb felt the weight of it each time. The city was speaking his word.
But Riva's warning echoed too: once a name spreads, it can be stolen.
One evening, as the light drained from the sky and lanterns flickered alive, Caleb found himself standing outside the narrow shop with the hourglasses and the stone cube.
The copper-haired woman greeted him with the same calm brightness in her eyes. "You remembered to breathe," she said.
"I remembered your advice," Caleb replied, stepping inside.
She nodded at the satchel. "So? Did the steward throw your petition into the gutter?"
"I haven't given it yet," Caleb admitted. "But the city knows the word now. Tarnen. It's spreading."
She tilted her head. "Fast?"
"Too fast," Caleb said. "I need to make it heavier before someone else does. I need Denval to hear it from me first."
The woman tapped the black cube with one finger. "Names are like corridors. Once people walk them, they're difficult to close. But remember: not all corridors lead where you want them to."
Caleb exhaled slowly. "So how do I choose the right one?"
"By deciding what you want to find at the end."
He thought of soldiers shouting, of Riva's steady hands, of nobles sipping wine over their polished debates. He thought of order. Stability. Together. Humanity.
"A place at the table," he said finally.
The woman smiled faintly. "Then make your petition. Deliver it with care. And play the game as if you've already won."
The next morning, Caleb sat at Riva's bench with the vellum card spread before him. The quill trembled in his fingers as he dipped it into ink.
Name: Tarnen.
Title: The game of arrangement and strategy.
Purpose: A gift to the House of Denval, to be considered for his collection.
At the top, he pressed the bronze seal into wax — the knot mark given by the curator. Not a lie. Not a boast. Simply proof that someone had bothered to do it properly.
Riva leaned over his shoulder, reading. "Looks cleaner than you."
"Thanks," Caleb muttered.
She chuckled, then grew serious. "You're sure about this?"
He met her eyes. "If I don't move now, I'll lose the board before I ever sit at the table."
Riva nodded slowly. "Then go. But don't forget — names weigh more than boards. Carry it wrong, and it'll crush you."
Caleb folded the card carefully, slipped it into his sleeve, and adjusted the satchel on his shoulder.
The path ahead was clear.
Not safe. Not simple. But clear.
Today, he would walk the corridor.
Today, he would knock on Denval's door.
The city woke slow, but the noble quarter never truly slept. Even at dawn, its streets whispered with quiet footsteps, servants carrying baskets wrapped in silk, guards rotating shifts with spears glinting under the pale morning sun.
Caleb adjusted the satchel at his side, the polished board resting inside, heavier than any weapon he'd ever carried. In his sleeve, the vellum petition pressed against his skin like a hidden promise.
He climbed steadily toward the archway. The air shimmered again with that faint enchantment — the illusion of perfection. He forced himself to look through it, to see the seams, the banners frozen mid-flutter, the shadows too precise. He stepped beneath it without hesitation.
The guards' eyes followed him but did not move to stop him. His robe still carried the foreign silhouette he'd stitched together days ago. His stride carried the weight of a man who knew exactly where he belonged. Confidence wasn't armor, but it was the next best thing.
He found the courier crossroad he had mapped in his mind. Three paths, three streams of information. Messengers hurried with lacquered cases, some bearing the crest of Denval's falcon — wings spread around a broken spear.
Caleb waited, posture calm, as though he were merely part of the street's design.
Minutes passed. A young steward emerged from Denval's gate, his green-laced coat brushed spotless. He carried no parcel this time, only a narrow ledger under one arm.
Caleb stepped forward, timed to intersect him at the corner. The steward nearly collided, pulling up short.
"Forgive me," Caleb said smoothly. Then, with deliberate care, he drew the vellum card from his sleeve and held it flat across both palms.
The steward blinked at it. His eyes dropped to the wax seal, the clean vellum, the careful script. He took it, as etiquette demanded.
"For House Denval," Caleb said. Not begging. Not offering. Stating.
The steward studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head. "I will see it placed."
Caleb bowed slightly — enough to mark respect, not submission — and stepped back.
The steward walked on, card in hand, vanishing into the courtyard gate.
Caleb exhaled, forcing his shoulders to stay steady. His move was on the board now.
All he could do was wait.
Waiting was its own kind of torment.
He returned to Riva's shop, set the board on her bench, and told her what he had done.
"You actually gave the card?" she asked, voice sharp.
"Yes."
"And you didn't get thrown into the gutter?"
"Not yet."
Riva grunted, clearly unimpressed but unwilling to argue. She turned back to her carving, though her hands moved faster than usual. "Then you'd better prepare for someone to notice you — or for no one to, which might be worse."
Caleb sat, elbows on knees, staring at the marked rook in his hand. "If Denval refuses me, the game will still spread. But it'll spread without me. I'll lose it."
"Then make sure he doesn't refuse," Riva said simply.
Her certainty steadied him more than she knew.
The answer came two days later.
A knock rattled the workshop door just after noon. Riva wiped her hands and opened it to reveal a boy in livery, no older than twelve, clutching a folded card with the falcon crest pressed into wax.
"For Tarnen," the boy said, voice carrying rehearsed formality. He thrust the card into Caleb's hands before sprinting away.
Caleb unfolded it with trembling fingers.
Lord Denval requests the presence of Tarnen at his salon this evening. The hour of twilight. Entry by the south garden gate.
He read it twice. Three times.
Riva leaned over his shoulder, snorted. "Well. Seems your corridor opened."
Caleb swallowed. His throat was dry.
This was it.
Twilight brought a different kind of life to the noble quarter. Lanterns glowed warm in the manicured gardens, shadows soft against marble walls. The air smelled faintly of roses and wine, carried on the laughter of nobles walking in pairs toward salons whose windows blazed with light.
Caleb wore the robe he had stitched himself, adjusted and straightened until it seemed deliberate rather than patched. The satchel hung at his side, the polished board within wrapped in black cloth.
The south garden gate loomed ahead, guarded by two men in white armor. They crossed their spears as he approached.
Caleb produced the card.
The guard studied it, then studied him. After a long pause, the spears lifted.
Caleb stepped through.
The garden path curved gently, lanterns hung from branches, shadows spilling across perfectly trimmed hedges. Music drifted faintly from within the manor — strings, delicate and precise, the kind of music that filled silences without demanding attention.
At the end of the path, a steward waited. Older, gray at the temples, his coat green-laced and pressed sharp. His eyes were sharper still.
"You are Tarnen?" he asked.
"I am," Caleb said.
The steward looked him over, gaze lingering on the satchel. "Follow me."
Caleb did.
The salon was not large. That was its power.
Twenty nobles at most, seated in a loose circle around a low table laden with wine and fruit. Candles glowed in crystal holders. Every robe was silk, every ring gold or gemmed. The air hummed with polite conversation, words layered with wit and precision.
Lord Denval sat near the head of the circle. He was not tall, but his presence filled the space — a hawk-nosed man with sharp eyes and a smile that carried both welcome and warning. His robe was midnight blue, embroidered with falcons in silver thread.
The steward announced him. "Tarnen."
Every gaze turned.
Caleb stepped forward, keeping his stride measured, his shoulders square. He bowed — not deep, not groveling. Just enough.
"My lord," he said. His voice carried, steadier than he expected.
Denval studied him for a long moment, then gestured to an empty chair. "Sit. Show us why you have been whispered of in my halls these last days."
Caleb set the satchel on the table, unwrapped the board, and unfolded it with slow, deliberate care. The polished wood caught the candlelight like water. The pieces clinked softly as he placed them in formation, each marked with the spiral-square brand.
Whispers stirred. Interest. Curiosity.
Caleb looked up, meeting Denval's gaze.
"My lord," he said. "This is Tarnen. The game of arrangement and strategy."
The first moves were slow, deliberate. Denval himself did not play at first; instead, he gestured for another noble to try. A portly man with rings on every finger leaned forward, skeptical but amused.
Caleb explained the rules with simple words, careful gestures. The nobles murmured to one another as the pieces moved. Laughter at mistakes. Gasps at sudden captures.
By the third game, they were leaning forward. By the fifth, they were arguing strategies.
And then Denval himself stood. "Enough watching," he said. "I will play."
The circle hushed.
Caleb reset the board. His fingers trembled only once.
Denval's first move was bold — reckless even. Caleb countered calmly, every motion deliberate. The game stretched, tightened, every capture drawing a sharp breath from the room.
At last, with the board nearly empty, Denval leaned back, his king trapped, his smile sharp.
"Well," he said. "You are either a genius or a dangerous man."
Caleb inclined his head. "Perhaps both, my lord."
Laughter rippled through the salon. But beneath it, Caleb felt the weight settle. He had placed his piece on the board of power.
And the game had only begun.