This time, however, instead of a battlefield, a diagram appeared. Valtherion immediately recognised the game; it was Go.
The stones appeared as faint motes of light, black and white, hovering above the board until commanded by thought. Valtherion felt the ring warm, responding to his focus.
The man placed the first stone.
A simple opening. A quiet claim of territory.
Valtherion mirrored it, choosing a balanced corner approach. He felt confident - Go was familiar, even comforting compared to the chaos of the battlefield.
But the man did not play like a tutor. He played like a predator.
His stones spread with unsettling fluidity, forming shapes Valtherion recognised but could not counter quickly enough. Influence radiated from every placement, subtle and suffocating.
Valtherion tried to secure a corner. The man invaded it effortlessly.
He attempted a ladder. The man broke it with a single, elegant stone.
He tried to build a wall. The man slipped behind it, turning strength into weakness.
Valtherion's breathing grew shallow. He could feel the board tightening around him - not through force, but through inevitability.
The man's voice was calm.
"Go is not about fighting every battle. It is about choosing which battles matter."
Valtherion tried to salvage the right side, forming a desperate enclosure. The man cut through it with surgical precision, splitting Valtherion's group in two.
The stones flickered. The board dimmed.
Defeat.
Valtherion exhaled sharply, shoulders tense. He had lost - cleanly, decisively.
The man did not gloat. He simply nodded once.
"You play with courage. But courage without patience becomes noise."
Valtherion lowered his gaze, jaw tight. He hated losing - but he hated stagnation more.
"Again," this time it was Valtherion's turn to request a second game. He was competitive, at least when it came to strategic games; he did not enjoy losing, not at all.
"Valtherion! I told you not to wander off! Greetings, Mar!" Luther's voice was heard, but the black-robed man gave him a sign not to speak further, keeping his identity a mystery to Val.
"Relax, Luther. I am simply playing a game with the youngster. You have my word, it is pure entertainment. Observe!" The black-robed man said, calming Luther, who seemed a bit stressed from the whole endeavour.
The board reset. The grid glowed softly, waiting.
Valtherion inhaled, steadying himself.
Go isn't about fighting; it's more about breathing.
The man opened aggressively this time, claiming early influence across the top. Valtherion did not mirror him. He played lightly, loosely, refusing to commit too early.
The man pressed. Valtherion yielded.
The man expanded. Valtherion drifted.
The man invaded. Valtherion ignored it.
The man's brow twitched — the first sign of irritation.
"You are playing too passively," he said.
Valtherion placed a single stone on the lower left.
"No," he thought. "I'm playing quietly."
The man attempted a large framework. Valtherion slipped a stone into its heart — not to fight, but to breathe inside it.
The man cut. Valtherion connected.
The man surrounded. Valtherion lived.
Slowly, subtly, the board shifted.
The man's influence weakened. Valtherion's groups strengthened. The territory he had ignored earlier now blossomed into quiet, stable control.
The man tried a late invasion. Valtherion sealed it with calm precision.
The stones flickered. The board dimmed.
Victory.
The man stared at the grid for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to Valtherion. A faint, almost youthful smile touched his lips.
"I lost," he said softly. "Truly well played. You learned the essence of the board remarkably well. Tell me, young man… what is your name?"
Valtherion felt heat rise in his chest — pride, relief, accomplishment. He straightened instinctively.
"My name is Valtherion Mograine, sir." He bowed lightly, aware now that the man before him held a rank high enough to command someone of Luther's standing.
The black‑robed man stroked his chin, studying him with a thoughtful, almost calculating calm.
"Valtherion," he said at last, "you have a rare mind. I would enjoy more games like this." He gestured lightly toward the War Table. "How about becoming my private Page? You would come here after your classes. We would play, discuss strategy… and on occasion, you might deliver a few letters for me. Nothing more. No ceremonies, no public duties."
Valtherion opened his mouth — ready to politely decline, to protect the quiet life he cherished — when a firm hand landed on his shoulder.
A familiar voice answered in his stead.
"Marshal, he gladly accepts."
Valtherion froze. Luther stood behind him, posture straight, expression respectful yet unyielding.
"I train him personally," Luther continued. "This arrangement will allow him to practice every day. However…" He lowered his voice slightly. "…I would prefer to keep his identity discreet. His father wishes him to remain low‑profile. Would you grant him a mask along with the token? It would help preserve that anonymity."
The Marshal's eyes glinted — not with surprise, but with interest. A slow smile formed, one that held both amusement and approval.
"A mask and a token," he murmured. "Very well. If the boy is to serve me privately, anonymity will suit him."
He looked at Valtherion again — not as a child, but as a mind worth cultivating.
"Welcome, Valtherion Mograine," he said. "My Page."
-------------------
"Uncle… why did you accept for me?" Valtherion asked the moment they stepped out of the War Office's marble corridor. His voice was tight, almost strained. "Who even was that man? Am I in trouble?"
Luther walked beside him, holding a golden token in one hand and a half‑mask in the other - the Veil of Service. Its polished surface caught the lantern light, reflecting a soft, cold gleam.
"Relax," Luther chuckled, waving off the panic. "It's a blessing, not trouble. Your father would be proud — truly proud. Now you won't need tutors for strategy and all that blah‑blah. You'll learn from the best."
He lifted the token first.
"Look. This grants you access to the Imperial Palace. Anywhere the Marshal's Page is allowed to walk, you can walk."
Then he raised the mask.
"And this… this is the Veil of Service. Only pages of high‑ranking officials wear it. Each Office has its own mark — this one belongs to the Imperial Marshal."
Valtherion nearly tripped.
"The Marshal?" he whispered. "That was the Marshal?"
Luther nodded, amused by the shock.
"He commands every Imperial Army," Luther said. "Every legion, every battalion, every regional force. He outranks generals, governors, even most nobles. Valtherion, I'm sorry I had to accept for you — but listen carefully."
He stopped walking and turned to face him fully.
"If you had declined, your name would've gone straight into the Imperial Council's documents. You'd be marked as a 'young talent of interest.' And trust me — you do not want the Council sniffing around you. They'd drag you into politics, into debates, into noble games. You'd lose your peace, your privacy, everything."
Valtherion swallowed hard.
Luther sighed, then suddenly hooked an arm around Valtherion's neck, pulling him into a rough, affectionate headlock.
"And besides — how dumb can you be to decline Severin Halbrecht, the Imperial War Marshal?" Luther laughed, ruffling his hair until Valtherion sputtered. "Do you want to lose your head?"
Valtherion groaned, but a small smile tugged at his lips despite himself.
Soon, they left, and they were now in one of the many imperial gardens as they were nearing a mansion. This was where he would meet his godmother.