Caleb slept poorly.
Not because the bed was uncomfortable — it wasn't — but because the silence in Denval's manor wasn't the same as silence elsewhere. It was too still.
When he woke, light filtered through tall curtains the color of ash-blue silk. He lay on his back for several seconds, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Pale stone. Smooth. No cracks. No beams. Whoever had built this place had certainly paid a fortune.
The room was large, clean, deliberately impersonal. No personal artifacts. No clutter. A guest room meant to make sure you remembered you were a guest.
Caleb sat up slowly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and noticed his boots had been placed neatly beside the chair, cleaned. His satchel rested against the wall, untouched but clearly repositioned. He exhaled through his nose and rubbed his face.
The events of the night before replayed in fragments — candlelight, polished wood, loud voices, Denval's eyes never quite leaving him even when someone else was speaking.
A salon wasn't a party.
It was an audition.
Caleb stood, stretched his shoulders, and crossed the room. The floor was cold under his bare feet. He reached the curtains and hesitated for half a second before pulling them open.
The view wasn't dramatic.
No sweeping vista of the city, no ostentatious garden. Just a controlled inner courtyard: stone paths, trimmed hedges, a small fountain that trickled softly without splashing.
Movement caught his eye.
Two guards at the far end of the courtyard changed shifts. Their movements were synchronized without being rigid. Professionals. Denval doesn't waste money, Caleb noted. He invests it.
Someone knocked.
"Come in," Caleb said.
The door opened just enough for a servant to step inside. A man in his forties, maybe, with neatly tied hair and a green-laced coat that marked him as senior staff.
"Good morning," the man said. "I trust you slept adequately."
"Enough," Caleb replied.
A flicker of approval crossed the servant's face. Not because Caleb had slept — but because he hadn't complained.
"Breakfast has been prepared," the man continued. "Lord Denval will see you afterward."
Not if.
Not at your convenience.
Caleb nodded. "I'll be ready."
The servant inclined his head and left, closing the door silently behind him.
Caleb stood still for a moment longer.
Breakfast was served in a smaller dining room off one of the inner corridors. No long table. No audience. Just a single place setting.
Bread still warm. Fruit sliced cleanly. Cheese. A cup of dark, bitter drink that tasted faintly like spiced coffee. Everything was excellent. Everything was measured.
He ate slowly, deliberately.
No one spoke to him while he ate.
No one needed to. But he could feel the presence of staff just out of sight, the way a server in a high-end restaurant somehow knows exactly when you're about to finish.
Caleb wiped his hands, stood, and waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
The same servant returned. "This way."
They walked.
The manor unfolded gradually, not with grand halls but with curves. Corridors bent gently, never offering a straight line of sight for more than a few meters. Doors were spaced unevenly. Sound died quickly here.
Caleb's brain catalogued it automatically.
Privacy. Segmentation. It was architecture meant to prevent accidents.
They stopped before a door that looked almost plain compared to the rest. Dark wood. No ornamentation.
The servant opened it and stepped aside.
Denval was already seated when he entered.
Not waiting for him in the theatrical sense — just… present. As if he had always been there and always would be.
The room was larger than Caleb expected but sparsely furnished. A wide table dominated the space, polished to a dull sheen. Papers arranged in orderly stacks. A decanter of wine. Three chairs on one side of the table, one on the other.
And, at the far end, a Tarnen board.
Already unfolded. Already set.
Denval didn't stand when Caleb entered.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.
Caleb sat.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Denval looked at him. Not rudely. Not aggressively. The way a man looks at a tool he's considering buying — weighing usefulness against cost.
"You stayed the night," Denval said finally.
"Yes."
"That means I decided you weren't a liability. Yet."
Caleb nodded. "I appreciate the distinction."
A faint smile touched Denval's mouth. "Good. People who understand distinctions tend to survive longer here."
Denval leaned back slightly, fingers steepled.
"I don't like wasting time," he continued. "And I don't like people who think they're cleverer than they are."
Caleb met his gaze. "Then we should get along."
Denval laughed. Short. Dry.
"Let's see."
He gestured toward the board with one finger. "Your game is spreading."
Caleb didn't deny it.
"In taverns," Denval went on. "Among soldiers. In artisan circles. I had three separate reports before breakfast."
He paused deliberately.
"That's fast."
Caleb chose his words carefully. "It fills a gap."
"It creates one," Denval corrected. "People stop doing something else when they start doing this."
"And that worries you?"
"It interests me."
Denval stood and walked slowly around the table, stopping beside the board. He picked up a pawn, turned it over, examined the burned symbol at its base.
"You marked it," he said. "Smart."
"Necessary."
"Messy, though. Soldiers already play variations. Bad habits form quickly."
Caleb frowned. "I can correct that."
"Can you?" Denval asked mildly. "Or will you chase it forever while it mutates faster than you can follow?"
That hit closer than Caleb liked.
Denval set the pawn down.
"Let's be clear," he said, voice firm but not raised. "I don't care if you intended this for war. Or politics. Or leisure."
He looked back at Caleb.
"What matters is that it teaches people to think systematically and strategically. Trade-offs. Sacrifice. Long-term positioning."
Caleb said nothing.
"That's not entertainment," Denval continued. "That's training."
"I didn't design it that way," Caleb said.
"No one ever does," Denval replied. "That's why it's often what is effective."
He returned to his chair and sat.
"Tarnen will be used," Denval said. "By nobles. By officers. By people with ambitions you won't approve of."
Caleb leaned back slightly. "And you're telling me this because…?"
"Because pretending otherwise is childish."
Denval's gaze hardened just a fraction.
"This city doesn't ask permission. Especially when the nobility take notices of an opportunity."
A pause.
"And right now, you are an opportunity."
Caleb exhaled slowly. "Then why not just take it?"
Denval smiled. This time, there was no warmth at all.
"Because I don't steal what I can bind and use."
He folded his hands on the table.
"Here are the terms."
Denval did not raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"Here are the terms," he repeated, resting his forearms on the table. "You'll listen first. You can react afterward."
Caleb nodded once. "Go ahead."
Denval gestured toward the two empty chairs beside Caleb. "Sit there."
Caleb hesitated for half a second, then moved. The placement wasn't random. He wasn't facing Denval anymore. He was positioned slightly to the side — close enough to be involved, far enough to be reminded this wasn't his table.
Denval turned his head toward the door. "Bring them in."
The door opened.
Two people entered.
The first was a woman in her late thirties, sharp-eyed, dressed plainly but well. No jewelry. No excess fabric. To the kind of person in her position it generally meant she was probably not superficial.
The second was older. Thin. Grey hair pulled back tight. A man who looked like he spent his days turning numbers into decisions and decisions into numbers for other people.
They didn't look at Caleb at first.
Denval didn't introduce them.
"You already know what Tarnen is," Denval said to them.
The woman nodded. "We've seen it played."
The older man added, "And misplayed."
Denval's mouth twitched. "Exactly."
He turned slightly toward Caleb. "This is Merien. He handles logistics and contracts. And this is Lysa. She handles problems before they become public."
Caleb inclined his head to both. Neither returned the gesture.
Denval continued, businesslike. "You are going to keep developing Tarnen. Structure. Rules. Variants. Teaching methods."
Caleb opened his mouth.
"—Without exclusivity," Denval cut in. "I'm not buying it. I'm not owning it."
Caleb blinked. That wasn't what he'd expected.
Denval saw the reaction and smirked. "If i had the ownership it would creates resistance. Having influence scales better."
Lysa finally looked at Caleb. Her gaze was direct. Assessing.
"You will not sell Tarnen to another noble house," she said flatly.
Caleb frowned. "That sounds awfully like exclusivity."
"No," she replied. "That's limitations."
Merien leaned forward. "Anyone who wants Tarnen goes through House Denval. That doesn't mean we say yes. It means we say when."
"And if someone teaches it without asking?" Caleb asked.
Lysa's lips curved slightly. Not a smile.
"Then we decide whether that person made a mistake and hurt the interest of our house."
Caleb swallowed.
Denval leaned back. "In return, you operate under my protection."
Caleb exhaled slowly. "Define what you mean by protection."
Denval didn't answer immediately. He reached for the decanter, poured wine into two cups, slid one toward Caleb.
"Protection means," Denval said, "that when someone tries to take Tarnen from you, they talk to me instead."
"And if they don't?"
"Then they regret skipping the conversation."
No drama. No threats. Just cause and effect.
Caleb took a sip of the wine. It was dry. Expensive. Forgettable.
"And the Church?" Caleb asked.
Merien answered this time. "They don't care about a game. They care about any behavior change in the common peoples."
Lysa added, "When soldiers stop gambling and start planning things, priests get nervous."
Denval nodded. "For now, Tarnen is just background noise. Interesting noise. But noise."
"For now," Caleb echoed.
Denval met his eyes again. "That's why you're here early."
Caleb leaned back in his chair. "So I stay under your roof, develop Tarnen, and don't talk to your rivals."
"Yes."
"And if I don't?"
Denval shrugged. "Then you leave today."
Lysa picked up the thread smoothly. "And tomorrow, someone else presents a simplified version."
Merien added, "And they'll say it was theirs first."
Caleb clenched his jaw. "You're telling me this like it's inevitable."
"It is," Denval replied. "The only variable is whether you're still attached to it when it happens."
Silence settled over the table.
Caleb looked at the Tarnen board.
At the burned mark. At the neat lines.
"And if I agree," he asked, carefully, "how long does this arrangement last?"
Denval didn't hesitate. "As long as you're useful. And as long as you don't try to be clever in the wrong direction."
Caleb snorted quietly. "You realize how that sounds."
Denval smiled. "Yes. That's intentional."
He leaned forward.
"Let me be clear, Caleb," he said, deliberately using the name. "As long as you develop this under my patronage, I protect you. You work. You experiment. You push."
A pause.
"The moment you try to take it somewhere else, pretend you don't need me, or start playing both sides—"
He shrugged.
"I stop protecting you."
Lysa leaned in slightly. "And when protection stops in this city, they close."
Caleb felt a cold weight settle in his chest.
"And if I accept," he said, "what do I get besides not being crushed?"
Denval chuckled. "Ambitious. I like that."
He tapped the board. "Access."
"To what?"
"People who matter. Things you are not supposed to know or access to knowledge the peoples dont generally have."
Merien added, "Resources. Artisans. Time."
Lysa finished, "And the ability to make mistakes once."
Caleb looked at her. "Once?"
She nodded. "Everyone gets one chance. If they learn."
Caleb let out a slow breath. "And if I don't?"
Lysa's expression didn't change. "Then you won't need a second."
Denval stood. "Enough theory."
He gestured toward the board. "Let's use it."
Denval placed his hand flat on the board.
"We're not playing to win," he said. "We're testing a situation."
He looked at Caleb.
"Your game allows it. As long as we don't do something stupid with the pieces."
Caleb nodded. "Then we define the roles first."
"Exactly."
Denval turned to Merien. "Go on."
Merien pulled a folded sheet from inside his coat. It was already covered in notes.
"We simulate a limited territorial advance," he said. "Not a full war. Just a push of an army inland."
He pointed at the board.
"Each side represents an organized force. Not individuals. Units."
He picked up a pawn.
"Pawns are regular troops. Infantry. They hold ground, they absorb pressure, but they don't amont to much."
He set it down and picked up a knight.
"Knights are mobile elements. Reconnaissance. Raids. Flanking actions. They take risks, but they generate information."
That made sense. Caleb inclined his head slightly.
Merien continued.
"Rooks are fixed positions. Forts. Bridges. Choke points. They aren't troops. They're constraints."
Lysa cut in, dry.
"You don't sacrifice them lightly. If a rook falls, the situation is already bad."
Denval gestured toward the center of the board. "And the queen?"
Merien hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"Command authority. But not a person. More like the peoples who take decisions."
Caleb spoke up calmly.
"So if the queen is pinned, the force slows down — even if it isn't destroyed."
Denval turned his head toward him.
"Correct. You're following."
Merien added,
"The king represents political stability. Not victory. Just the point beyond which everything collapses."
Lysa placed a bishop on the board.
"Bishops," she said. "Irregular elements. Mercenaries. Local allies. Sometimes magic."
She looked directly at Caleb.
"They don't follow clean rules. But they're useful."
Silence settled over the table.
The rules were clear.
Denval gestured once. "Begin."
The game moved slowly.
Merien played cautiously. Too cautiously.
He advanced his pawns as if every unit mattered on its own, protecting each one like its loss would be unacceptable.
Caleb watched without commenting.
Denval sacrificed early.
A knight pushed too far. Trapped. Lost.
Merien frowned. "That achieved nothing."
"It did," Denval replied. "I saw how you reacted."
Lysa added,
"And now we know where you refuse to commit."
Merien pressed his lips together.
Several turns later, he made the classic mistake.
He immobilized his queen.
Not surrounded. Not under direct threat.
Just… locked in place by his own decisions.
Caleb inhaled.
"If I may," he said, voice steady.
Denval raised a hand. "Speak."
"You're protecting command like it's sacred," Caleb said. "But in this model, it only has value if it acts."
Merien snapped back, irritated.
"So I'm supposed to risk it?"
"No," Caleb replied. "You're supposed to accept that sometime it's exposed."
Silence.
Lysa studied the board. Then looked at Denval.
"He's right," she said. "At this point, you don't have options anymore."
Merien stared at the position. Then nodded, slowly.
He sacrificed a pawn. Opened a lane. Freed the queen.
The game resumed.
Denval watched Caleb more closely now.
"You didn't try to win," he said. "You corrected a way of thinking."
Caleb shrugged. "It's not a duel. It's a experiment."
Denval smiled — genuinely this time.
"That's exactly why your game is dangerous."
They played on.
When the session ended, there was no clean victory. Just a frozen board. Tense. Plausible.
Denval stood.
"There," he said. "No maps. No shouting. No bodies."
He looked at Caleb.
"And I learned more in an hour than I would have in three council meetings."
Lysa closed the board.
"Now imagine," she said, "an average officer doing this every evening."
The weight of that settled in.
Denval extended his hand.
"You stay," he said. "You work with us. And you make sure this thing stays understandable… and controllable."
Caleb shook his hand.
"Agreed."
As he left the room, one thought was perfectly clear.
Tarnen was no longer a game.
It was an teaching method.
And now that they understood how to use it,
they weren't going to give it up.
Caleb did not go back to his room right away.
The corridor outside the meeting chamber was empty, but he could feel it. The manor didn't relax it's guard against him.
Neither did he.
He walked slowly, replaying the last hour not as a conversation, but as a definition of his futur.
Stay under Denval → protection.
Leave → imitation, dilution, isolation.
Resist quietly → attention without leverage.
There was no version of this where Tarnen remained "his" in the way he had imagined when he first burned the symbol into wood.
That phase was over.
He reached his room, closed the door, and leaned against it for a moment. Not to rest. Just to stop moving.
So this is custody, he thought.
Not chains. But still kind of imprisoned
A knock came barely two minutes later.
This time, louder.
"Come in."
Riva entered without ceremony.
She looked tired. Not physically — alert, controlled — but mentally, like someone who had spent the morning dodging conversations with someone she didnt like.
"They're talking," she said immediately after entering.
Caleb straightened. "Already?"
She nodded. "Soldiers. Officers. Not officially. But word's out that Tarnen was played upstairs."
Caleb frowned. "Upstairs?"
"In Denval's chambers," Riva clarified. "That detail matters."
He exhaled. "What kind of talk?"
Riva crossed her arms. "The dangerous kind. The kind where people don't ask what something is anymore — they ask who controls it."
Caleb sat on the edge of the bed. "Anyone specific?"
"Captain Varros," she said. "Logistics corps. He watched three games last night. Didn't play. Just observed."
Caleb grimaced. "Observers are worse than players."
"He asked me if Tarnen had fixed rules. If you could predict the outcome."
"That fast?" Caleb muttered.
Riva nodded. "He wasn't subtle."
Caleb stared at the wall for a moment.
"Did Denval authorize him?"
"Not directly," Riva said. "Which means he's letting it happen."
Caleb stood.
"Then I need to move first."
Riva raised an eyebrow. "Move how?"
Caleb paced once, then stopped.
"I standardize."
She blinked. "You what?"
"I define official variants," he said. "Applicable to the military."
Riva hesitated. "That's… giving them what they want."
"No," Caleb replied. "It's limiting how they get it."
He turned toward her.
"If I don't define Tarnen, they will. And they'll do it badly."
Riva studied him. "You're choosing to narrow it."
"I'm choosing to fence it," Caleb said. "Before it turns into something I don't recognize."
Another knock interrupted them.
This one was sharp.
A guard's voice came through the door. "Lord Denval requests your presence. Immediately."
Caleb and Riva exchanged a look.
"Already?" she muttered.
"Of course," Caleb said. "I just made a decision."
Denval wasn't alone this time.
The room held four people now. Lysa. Merien. A man Caleb didn't recognize — younger, military posture, eyes that measured distances instinctively.
Denval gestured Caleb forward. "Captain Varros. Logistics."
Varros inclined his head. "Greetings."
Caleb nodded. "Captain."
Varros wasted no time.
"Your game," he said, stepping closer to the board, "does it have specific use?"
Caleb didn't answer immediately. He looked at Denval.
Denval nodded once.
Let him speak.
"Yes," Caleb said. "If it's done deliberately."
Varros's eyes sharpened. "Good. Because right now, soldiers are using it wrong."
Lysa snorted. "That's not new."
Varros ignored her. "They're treating it like prediction. It's not. It's clearly something you can plan for."
Caleb felt a flicker of approval. At least one of them understood.
"I want an official doctrine variant," Varros continued. "Fixed roles. Fixed rules. So when two officers play, they're arguing about decisions, not rules."
Caleb nodded slowly. "I was about to propose the same."
Denval raised an eyebrow. "Were you?"
"Yes," Caleb said. "And I want control over how it's taught."
Silence.
Merien frowned. "That wasn't part of—"
Denval raised a hand. "Let him finish."
Caleb met Denval's gaze.
"I'll design three differents variants," Caleb said. "Strategic. Tactical. Irregular."
Varros leaned in. "Irregular?"
"Mercenaries. Magic. Unknown factors," Caleb replied. "You don't ignore those. You model them badly or you don't model them at all."
Lysa smiled faintly. "I like him."
Merien didn't.
"And who decides who plays what?" Merien asked.
Caleb didn't hesitate. "House Denval."
Denval's smile returned. Slow. Measured.
"And who designs the rules and the game?" Denval asked.
"I do," Caleb said. "Or you get a games that looks clean and doesnt work."
Varros laughed quietly. "That's fair."
Denval stepped closer to Caleb.
"This is you committing," Denval said. "No more ambiguity."
Caleb nodded. "Yes. But i want our arangement to only work for this game. Any other i idea i will came up with still belongs to me and if you are interested then we rediscuss terms for them. Individually."
Denval held his gaze for a long moment.
"Fine then. But you'll need space," he said finally. "And time."
He turned to Merien. "Allocate a workspace. One that's quiet."
Merien grimaced but nodded.
Denval turned back to Caleb.
"And Caleb," he added. "The symbol."
Caleb stiffened slightly.
"It stays," Denval said. "But you refine it. It looks too amateurish."
Caleb understood immediately.
"It no longer means 'my game'."he said.
Denval smiled. "Exactly."
Varros stepped back. "When can we test the first variant?"
Caleb thought for a second.
"Two days," he said. "If you don't rush me."
Varros nodded. "Done."
As they dispersed, Lysa lingered.
"You just put yourself in the middle of something you can't step away from," she said quietly.
Caleb met her eyes. "I know."
She studied him. "Good. People who don't realize that would already be dead."
That evening, Caleb sat alone at a small desk Denval's staff had prepared for him.
Clean wood. Blank sheets. Tools laid out with careful neutrality.
He didn't start by writing rules.
He started by writing his reflexion.
What information is available?
What is hidden?
What actions are allowed — and which are forbidden by its rules?
Tarnen wasn't about pieces.
It was about what players were allowed to consider, reflect on.
And as Caleb worked, one thing became clear.
If a game could teach people how to think about war…
Then something else could teach them how to think about magic.
Not by power.
By logic.
He paused, pen hovering above the page.
That was dangerous.
He smiled faintly.
Good.
That small spark he just had this evening in a small chamber sited at a desk would define his futur path even if at that time he didn't knew it.