Chapter 56: 56 Clara vs Percival pt 2

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56: Clara vs Percival pt 2 56: Clara vs Percival pt 2 Clara moved her bishop the last minor piece remaining trying to create a barrier in front of her king, who was by now dangerously exposed.

It was a desperate defense rather than a genuine one, the kind of move made not because it might work, but because surrendering outright would have been worse.

Kairan, sitting against the wall with the other roommates, watched every move with the same cold attention he had shown the knife while slicing the first carrot that morning; he hadn’t fully grasped the rules of the game yet, but he understood the tension and recognized it anywhere.

Percival responded by advancing his rook pawn, further opening the lines toward the black king.

There was no cruelty in his playing style, only the same cold precision he had maintained throughout the match.

Peter, sitting next to Kairan, whispered, “That’s not a good sign, is it?” “I don’t know,” Kairan said.

“I still don’t quite understand the game.” “Me neither,” Peter admitted, “but the fact that Reginald is staying silent…

that looks like a bad sign to me.” Reginald watched in silence, his book still closed on his lap.

The position on the board spoke for itself.

Gregory, leaning against the wall on the other side, crossed his arms.

“Clara doesn’t usually make mistakes this early on.

She must be nervous.” “Or maybe Percival is simply better,” Victor said, without turning around.

“Don’t say that so loudly,” Samuel whispered, his eyes still fixed on the board and his knees pulled tight against his chest.

“What if he hears us?” “I can hear you,” Percival said, without looking up from the pieces, and Samuel blushed with embarrassment.

Clara moved her remaining rook to the second rank a last-ditch attempt to create some complications, a threat that might force Percival to slow down.

He didn’t slow down.

He saw the threat, assessed it in seconds, and responded by retreating his king to a safe corner.

Clara’s rook, now isolated, no longer had anything to threaten.

Samuel pulled his knees to his chest, his gaze darting frantically between the chessboard and Clara’s face.

“She’s going to lose,” he said quietly, as if saying it aloud might make things worse.

“Maybe not,” Gregory said, without real conviction.

Amara, sitting beside Kairan, whispered to him, “Do you understand any of what’s happening?” “I understand that a queen is worth more than a pawn,” Kairan said.

“The rest?

No.” “Me neither,” she admitted, leaning a little closer against his shoulder, as if sharing that admission made the tension more bearable.

Clara moved her last pawn an isolated passed pawn inching forward, the only real hope she had left.

Percival blocked it with another pawn, unhurried, and then moved his queen to a square that cut off every possible escape route.

“Checkmate in three moves,” Reginald said in a flat voice.

Kairan saw Clara’s expression change not an obvious collapse, but something subtler: a stiffening of her shoulders, her jaw tightening just slightly.

He recognized it.

It was the same look he had seen on warriors far greater than himself down in the Abyss the exact moment they realized a battle was lost, even while knowing they had to see it through to the end.

Clara played out the final three moves.

Percival responded to each with his usual precision unhurried, without a moment’s distraction, even though the outcome was already a foregone conclusion.

Peter stopped whispering.

No one said another word; Everyone’s eyes remained fixed on the chessboard as the final moves played out, in a silence heavier than any spoken word.

The final move saw Percival’s queen draw up alongside Clara’s king: trapped, with no way out.

The black king had no open squares left, no piece to interpose absolutely nothing.

“Checkmate,” said Reginald.

Clara sat motionless for what seemed longer than it actually was, her eyes fixed on the pieces as if replaying the entire game from the start.

Then she reached out and gently tipped over her king the silent gesture of conceding defeat when words are superfluous.

“Good game,” Percival said sincerely, without a trace of triumphalism in his voice.

Clara nodded a slight movement of her head but said nothing.

Reginald stood up, closing the book.

“280 wins the chess match,” he said, using the neutral tone of someone who had repeated the same formula hundreds of times.

“One-nil to 280.” In the small room, the silence that followed weighed heavier than any words.

Amara was the first to rise; she walked over to Clara and placed a hand on her back.

“You played well.” “I made the wrong move on the eighth turn,” Clara said, her voice steady but her shoulders slightly slumped.

“Everything else stemmed from that.” Peter tried to lighten the mood.

“One loss out of three isn’t the end of the world, is it?” Clara looked up at him, and in her gaze beyond the disappointment there was something akin to a silent apology.

“If he loses even one of the two,” she said, “we’ll be subjugated by tomorrow.

And it will be my fault for getting off to a bad start.” “It’s not your fault,” Lena said immediately, her tone firm.

“It’s a matter of arithmetic,” Clara said.

“One-nil.

If Kairan doesn’t win both, we lose the game.” Kairan looked at her for another moment.

Then he said, simply, “You lost a match.

You didn’t lose the game.” Clara stared at him, as if she hadn’t expected that answer.

“I’ll win them,” Kairan added stating it as a fact already accomplished, not merely a prediction.

Amara stepped closer to him, slipping her arm back through his.

“Are you sure?” “Yes,” Kairan said.

No one answered right away.

But something in the way he had said it without hesitation, without the slightest trace of doubt in his voice made it seem that, for a moment, even Clara (still shaken by her own defeat) truly believed him.