“Checkmate!”

The birch bottom of the piece tapped against the chessboard as Soleiman put it in place, it and the several others congregated about it smothering the form of the black king in an inescapable snare.

Qingxi sighed, the bandages about her mouth and nose expanding outwards with the strength of her wind.

“Good game,” he said, extending his right hand towards her.

Qingxi slapped it softly, hitting him once in the palm before coming back to deliver a gentle backhand to complete their special handshake– her fingers feeling the bite of the rough skin of his forever deceased arm in the process.

She adjusted herself in her wooden seat, lifting her back off of the backrest cushion that had been warmed to an uncomfortable extent by her residual body heat.

She rubbed her sleeve against her uncovered forehead, wiping away any stray drops of sweat that had broken free from the oven that was her hair.

“Hot, isn’t it?” Soleiman asked, himself temporarily getting off of his chair to get some circulation going through his pants.

“A little,” she replied. “Thinking gets my body heated.”

“Sure does,” he said. “Another round?”

“Always,” she said, retying the bandages that wrapped only around the lower half of her head as he got to resetting the pieces.

Pallas stood by, feeling the cold of the frosted window against her back and the cool of the kitchen’s tiled floor on her feet as she held her fingers in her hands.

Rumi stood in the middle of the room, the apron she donned kept impeccably clean of any stains, even as she got to dicing a set of bell peppers– to go alongside some already chopped up garlic and onions.

She worked with an incredible speed, the silvery knife she held in her right hand clacking against the board rhythmically as she slid the bell pepper along with her thumb. The guillotine of her blade fell again and again, each slice of the bell pepper somehow perfectly measured to be in line with the rest.

But Pallas wasn’t watching her. Her eyes were glossed over, her fingers moving slowly within her palms as she stared blankly at the tessellated floor.

Rumi caught sight of her in the corner of her eye just as she cut clean the last slice of the vegetable.

“Pallas,” she said. “Could you check if the milk’s curdling?”

Rumi picked up the other half of the pepper, adjusting it against the board as she readied herself.

“Pallas?”

“Oh?” she said, not a single other part of her body moving aside from her mouth. “Oh! Okay, sorry.”

Pallas hobbled on over, making her way to the wide stove that heated two pots and a pan all at once. She stood by the pot filled with milk, sweet fumes of translucent vapour wafting past her face as she peered into it in search of any milk solids.

None.

At least, that’s what she saw. Maybe there were some that had been fully submerged, or perhaps the fumes had obscured her vision.

Either way, she grabbed ahold of the pot’s handle, twisting it about–

She recoiled, hissing slightly as she flapped her hand about. The thing was deceptively hot, and even once she’d let go she felt as echoes of the searing pain reverberated from her fingers.

“Pallas!”

Rumi rushed over to her side, putting her hands on her shoulders as she pulled her away from the stove. She turned Pallas around, her hands falling to pull Pallas’ apart; Pallas moving her head back as the bow that sat atop Rumi’s headscarf poked her in the face. She cradled Pallas’ injured hand in hers, her fingers feeling the frightening cold of her skin.

“Are you alright, Pallas?” Rumi asked, leading her to the sink.

“Yeah,” Pallas responded, averting her gaze slightly as she heard the creak of the tap and the rush of warm water against her hands. “I just got a bit careless.”

“Alright, then,” Rumi struggled, as if still trying to decide what to say. “Just keep your hands under the water for a while, okay? That should stop any burns from forming.”

“Okay,” Pallas responded. “Aren’t we supposed to use cold water, though?”

Rumi froze in place, her hand just centimetres away from grabbing a hold of her knife. She turned to face Pallas, face frozen in a mix of perplexed concern.

“Warm?”

She swept over, her apron gliding along as she dipped her hands into the running stream drawn from tanks stored in the upper levels of the inn.

And, as one might expect from water stored in tanks in the winter, it was cold.

She paused for a moment, Pallas watching on with her hands obediently held in the running stream.

She dipped her right hand into the stream again, ensuring she had a good layer of water coating her pinky. Then, she moved on over to the pot of curdling milk, briefly touching her fifth finger against the hot metal.

Except, it wasn’t hot.

She tapped it again.

Still not hot.

She grabbed ahold of it, firmly holding onto the handle to give herself the full exposure.

And, really, it was only warm at best. Certainly nothing close to a temperature that would make her recoil in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Pallas asked.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Pallas?” Rumi asked.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I think so.”

Rumi turned the tap off.

“Are you sure you don’t want to rest a little bit?” she asked. “From what you told us I can’t imagine your fight with Isami being something you can just… walk off.”

“Mmm,” Pallas hummed, rubbing her head slightly, her skull throbbing at even just the recollection of the singular game she’d played. “Alright.”

“Alright…” Rumi echoed, nodding slightly as she continued to eye Pallas with concern. “Qingxi has a pair of mittens, you could ask her for those too if that’d help.”

“Yeah… I think I will.”

And as she stumbled her way out of the kitchen, fighting against her protesting legs with each step she made, Rumi went back to her stove– pulling the milk off the stove whilst checking on the sizzling bratwurst in the adjacent pan.

“Oh, Pallas!”

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

She stopped in the doorway.

“Could you tell them the appetiser’s almost ready?” she said. “Insalata Caprese with Hyakugyuuraku Cheese!”

Pallas nodded, slipping her way out of the kitchen.

Soleiman bore himself down on the chessboard, his eyes lasering down each individual piece as his mind raced to calculate every last possible move each one could take. His eyes landed on the bishop, standing alone in an isolated field, the walls of pawns on either side just distant enough that it was never in any real danger whilst still being able to retreat to the safety of its homefront.

The possible moves that singular piece could take were endless. Its paths radiating out diagonally from its current square, it could either retreat and reemerge in an attempt to reposition, join forces with the spearhead of pawns flanked by knights in the centre, or press the advantage on the enemy’s weakened flank to try and snag a rook.

Each move in and of itself had follow up moves of its own, each possibility branching out into several more– giving rise to an infinite tree of everything that could ever possibly happen to the piece.

And it was Qingxi’s turn to move.

“What will it be, Qingxi?”

The sands of the hourglass to their side slid down through the bottleneck, slowly filling the bottom layer.

Qingxi’s brows furrowed slightly, her hand hoisting the bandages now loosely wrapped about her mouth and nose.

“This.”

She made her move, and flipped the hourglass back over.

Soleiman’s eyes bulged a little.

“Hm?” she hummed.

“N…nothing,” he responded, easing away and covering his mouth with his hand as he looked away.

“Something the matter, Soleiman?” Qingxi smiled, leaning forward a little more.

“No, no, nothing at all,” he said, somehow leaning even further back into his seat. “I’m just… a little…”

“Didn’t see that coming?”

“No,” he sighed. “I’ll be honest I had a whole attack plan lined up. But what you’ve done has just completely thrown it out the window,” he added, laughing slightly in an attempt to hide the pain.

“That’s no good,” she said, easing up on him as he returned to the board. “You have to be versatile.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “I just got a little caught up.”

Pallas stumbled into the room, sliding into view behind Qingxi.

“Oh, Pallas!”

Qingxi turned around, raising a hand at her. To which Pallas responded by waving back– albeit weakly.

“You want to pause the timer?” Qingxi asked.

“It’s alright,” he said. “I’ll just keep thinking.”

Pallas struggled over to the table, resting her hands on it as she leaned onto it for support.

“You alright, Pallas?” Soleiman asked.

“A little cold, that’s all,” she said. “Qingxi, could I borrow your mittens, please?”

“Sure,” Qingxi responded. “Want me to get them for you?”

Pallas shook her head.

“Just tell me where it is.”

Pallas dug through Qingxi’s bag, slowly running her fingers through the various cloths and fabrics neatly packed into one of its two main compartments so as to not ruin anything. There were scarves, socks and even an old, hand-made chullo with special pointy bits to make space for her Chitite ears.

But no gloves.

“Qingxi,” she called out, her voice echoing into the dining room through the walls. “Where did you say it was again?”

“The small compartment!” She heard.

“At the very bottom of the front!”

Her eyes followed Qingxi’s instructions, and soon she unzipped the little section to reveal a pair of wool mittens, stuffed alongside cleaned bandages and leather gloves.

She rose from her squat, the muscles of her thighs and calves screaming out in rage as she did so.

Yeesh. How did the fight with Isami exert her more than the ones with the Protoataphoi, or with the Hashashiyyin?

She slipped the mittens on, wriggling her fingers in them to make sure they fit snugly.

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to stretch a little bit. She usually neglected her cool-downs, even if much to the displeasure of her mother. Who wouldn’t find it difficult to get themselves around to doing some boring old stretches after something as exhilarating– and exhausting– as a fight?

She slowly raised her hands above her, feeling as her laterals fought back every inch of the way up.

Maybe it was just her.

She hoisted herself up, lifting her shoulders as she reached for the ceiling above. Before promptly stopping, because it definitely hurt to stretch. Even a little bit.

Perhaps a walk would do her better. It was starting to get a little hot, anyway.

“How about that!”

One of black’s knights pounced into the chaotic clash of pawns, swinging its great halberd about in search of the pieces that cowered not too far from its reach.

Almost immediately, Qingxi moved, flipping the timer back before it even had a chance to settle.

White’s last remaining bishop streaked across the battlefield, slamming directly into black’s lines. And, though not a threat on its own, it had opened up the path for its fellows to begin breaking out of the quagmire of bogged-down foot soldiers.

Soleiman slammed his head onto the table.

“Prone to tunnel visioning?” she giggled.

“Sometimes…”

“Qingxi, Soleiman,” Pallas called, emerging this time from behind Soleiman. “I’m going to go for a walk, okay?”

“A walk?” Soleiman asked, turning in his seat to face her. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” she said, smoothing out the comfortable samue the inn had provided them with. “I think I need some fresh air.”

Qingxi rose from her seat, making her way around the table to her.

“Are you sure?” Soleiman asked, Qingxi placing her hand on Pallas’ forehead. “Won’t Rumi be done soon, though?”

…Would she?

Qingxi pressed her hand against Pallas’ forehead, lifting off and placing it back down again and again as she checked her temperature.

“She doesn’t have a fever,” Qingxi said, Pallas’ forehead being almost the exact same temperature as her hand. “Do you feel sick?”

“I’m fine, Qingxi,” she insisted. “Don’t worry,” she said, looking to placate Soleiman. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I just need to stretch myself out a bit.”

“...Alright, then,” Soleiman surrendered. “If you say so.”

Pallas placed her hand on the doorknob, twisting it.

“Take care, Pallas!” Soleiman said.

She nodded, pulling the door open.

“Don’t take too long,” Qingxi added.

She nodded again, slipping her feet into the tabi and the sandals arranged outside.

“See you,” she said, closing the door behind her.

“Is she okay?” Qingxi asked, turning back to face Soleiman.

“I hope so,” he said. “Probably just some post-fight soreness, right?”

“Mm…”

Cool water ran from the sink’s tap, the gradually rising sound of it pouring into a basin filling the kitchen– alongside the sizzle of the bratwurst and the soft boil of the pasta.

Once it was more or less full, she hoisted it from the sink, placing it atop the counter. She grabbed the nearby mould– filled with the curds of the milk she had heated, whispering soft, quick, ‘ow’s to herself as she placed it into the basin.

She gave it a moment to settle, her eyes checking it one last time before she hurried off to begin chopping up several tomatoes. She went one after the other, piling the vividly red slices up on a corner of the board. Once she was done with that, she bent over to retrieve four plates from the cabinets under the counter, arranging them in a neat little row.

She scooped up the tomato slices using the knife into her left hand, hurrying over to dump them in equal portions into each of the four plates.

“Insalata Caprese…” she said to herself, shuffling the slices to form a circle in each plate. “Just need the cheese to cool down, then we’ll get the oil.”

She began making her way over to the bratwurst– jolting midway in sudden realisation.

“The time!”

She rushed back over to the cutting board, gathering a bunch of thyme in her right hand before setting it down to be diced up into finer pieces.

She sprinkled the herb over each dish, nodding to herself in pride as she smiled.

“There we go.”

She gave the cheese one last tap, deciding with that one sensation to give it a little more time to cool down as she hurried over to dump the garlic, onions and bell peppers she’s chopped up earlier into the bratwurst’s pan– prepping it to receive the strained spaghetti later on.

She shuffled the vegetables within the pan slightly, hearing as their sizzles roared to life, their soft crackles and fizzles of steam on hot oil working in tandem with the gentle roil of the boiling pasta to send shivers down her spine.

And things were going alright.

Behind her, the window that poured the light of the late morning sky onto her back flickered slightly; the silhouette of a long, dark-haired Minervan passing by– casting a brief shadow in the process.