Waves lapped against the hull. A gull shrieked in the distance. The ship creaked as it leaned with the wind, sails pulling them toward the open sea.
Her fingers grazed the wooden railing, as if the worn grooves could anchor her. Alexander glanced down, watching her hand, then followed her gaze out across the glittering water.
“I used to think I liked solitude,” he said eventually. “But I think what I really liked was silence that didn’t ask anything of me.”
“And now?”
“Now I’d rather share it with someone who understands it.”
Their eyes met briefly. He cleared his throat, chin tilting toward the direction of the cabins.
“There’s a board game downstairs. An old Tremorian strategy board calledStronghold. I used to play it with Aurell, Lord Reave’s eldest son, when we were boys.”
She turned. “Are you inviting me to play?”
A small smile touched his lips. “Only if you’re willing to lose.”
She lifted her brows. “Why do you think I’d lose?”
Alexander leaned an elbow on the railing, facing her more fully now. “Because you’ve never playedStronghold, have you?”
“No, but I’d never practiced medicine in Tremore either, and your people are still walking now, aren’t they?”
He laughed. The corners of his eyes crinkled, his blue gaze shining brighter. “Point taken.”
Then he offered his hand, palm up, the glint in his eyes shifting into a warm invitation. “Come. Let me show you how loud a Tremorian can be when he loses.”
She looked at his hand, then placed hers in it. His fingers closed around hers, warm and certain, and she let him lead her down to the empty dining hall where a table waited, bolted to the floor. On its surface sat a shallow wooden box lined with black and white tiles—polished smooth by age and use. They sat down facing each other. The game was unfamiliar, but Alexander was patient as he explained the rules.
It was deceptively simple: surround the opposing tiles, claim territory, and hold the center if she could. But the game valued boldness over subtlety—victory through domination rather than patience.
“Do you always go for the center so quickly?” she asked, moving a black tile to the edge of the grid. “It’s predictable.”
“It’s also effective.” He placed his next piece without hesitation. “Controlling the center gives you dominance.”
“So says the Alpha. But when you look at things differently, you might learn to see more than one path to victory.”
He laughed softly, a sound low and rusty. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“Everything is, with you.”
She glanced back at the board. He’d maneuvered his pieces into a familiar formation again—aggressive, orderly. A war map more than a pastime. She moved a piece into a corner he’d left exposed—not because she could win, but because it would force him to unravel what he’d just built.
Alexander shook his head. “You’re trying to distract me.”
She didn’t deny it. Instead, she tipped one of his captured tiles between her fingers. “Tell me something, then. You said this game is for strategy, yes?”
“Yes. Most noble households in Tremore use it to train their sons for war.”
“Why are you letting me win?”
“I’m not.”
“You could’ve cornered me three moves ago.”
A beat passed. He leaned forward, bracing one forearm on the table. “Fine. I’ll play earnestly, but with a new rule: for every tile I take, I get to ask you a question.”
She looked at him askance. “Is this another Tremorian strategy?”
