They say life is like a game.

Many times I’ve heard the thought finished: “and we are but pieces.”

Upon hearing this maxim for the first time, one might be tempted to ask a few questions.

“If life is a game, then what are the stakes?” one might say. “What are we playing to?”

“Is it the kind of thing that just keeps going until the beer runs out?”

Sometimes it feels that way.

When I first heard the phrase, I felt that if I were simply a piece on some vast, convoluted game board of which I could only see one small corner, then I should direct my question towards those who invented the saying.

If they say life is like a game, then are “they” the ones running the show?

But never mind all that.

Perhaps life is a game. If so, it’s certainly a poor one. An irrational mess with arbitrary laws, in the same breath rewarding and punishing all under the sun and nobody in particular. Even when everyone abides by whatever made-up rules are currently in vogue, a loophole might still be found. And technicalities are the death of games.

When this sort of thing happens, it draws attention. Other players notice the disturbance and come to watch, at first feigning disinterest, but inevitably they approach, drawn by the forbidden fruit, clustering like flies on a rotten peach. It often develops that those who didn’t start with any stakes become the most invested players, elbowing others aside in their mad, sugar-fueled frenzy. At last, when the flies are fat and happy, the spiders—patient, cunning, inexorable—arrive.

Only then do things get blown out of proportion. These players aren’t playing by beer rules. They play harder than that.

Let’s view a game board that’s beginning to exhibit some of these symptoms. We’ll go back in time some thousand years before our story begins, as history tends to inform the future direction of things.

- - -

In the East, in the country of Kalk, there are many legends.

The thief of the gods who climbs the sky in the hours of twilight and descends before dawn: Hirsku. Balevzi, the titanic ape who holds up the world. The gvaset: corpse-devouring monsters who stalk graveyards.

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Kalk today, war-torn and ravaged, is no longer the jewel of civilization that it once was, but these stories remain, passed down from one generation to the next. This cultural heritage that is kept secret from the wider world is preserved by only a few of the remaining ancient families as a result of the practice of Miras’memk.

Thousands of years ago, only the sultan could grant the right to practice Miras’memk. Noble families were entrusted with the legacy of a specific myth, branding their house insignia with its symbol and teaching its story to their children. The legend served as both a description of the house and as a model. Those bearing the name of Hirsku became a family of spies in service to the sultan. Those who took on the brand of Balevzi became architects, builders of all the palaces and temples of ancient Kalk. Even the unsavory gvaset were granted respect for the services they rendered as undertakers. Many myths were given human faces, adding a mystical prestige to the reputation of these families, which served to further glorify the house of the sultan, who was above all others.

But there is one brand amongst these myths that even the sultan, son of Heaven, did not dare dispense.

That of the Djinn.

In legend, the Djinn was described as a mighty spirit, a granter of wishes who could perform all manner of miracles provided one but ask. Even the wishes of gods were under its purview. In the stories, the wisher would get their wish—but they never achieved happiness. Fooled in some way by the duplicitous Djinn, they would lose more than they gained, eventually being driven to despair. The myth of the Djinn served as an obvious warning, one pervasive throughout all periods and cultures:

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Despite its reputation, there was one family that secretly took up the brand of the Djinn. This family was never a noble house and never served the sultan; nevertheless, over the years it became the richest family in all of Kalk. They were money lenders, smugglers, and assassins. And they were good at it. The underworld of the nation referred to as the “Diamond of the World” was reformed to serve their purposes. The Founder was a legendary figure, and many even took to calling him “The Djinn Himself.”

But all stories come to an end. The Founder, yet a mortal, died. Another took his place, but none of the successors thereafter were ever the equal of the first Djinn. Many held out hope that another like him would appear, but for a very, very long time, their wish was ignored. The clan, unable to sustain their position through reputation alone, was ground down by relentless time and their many enemies.

When the next Djinn finally appeared, their house had all but crumbled. It had been so long that few anticipated his return, and even fewer expected him in the form he adopted. Not even the most skilled of players predicted it.

- - -

I’m here to tell you that life is a game. It always has been. After learning that, many make it their goal to become a player. Nearly all die in the pursuit.

But just like in many games, sometimes the dice slip and roll off the table.

And sometimes, the pieces go missing.

-S