The First Game

When I arrive at the church, the air shifts. Lighter. Calmer. Like the outside world’s noise fades at the threshold. A peaceful illusion, really—but one I can use.

The building is modest—tall wooden doors, old carvings of saints weathered by years of wind and reverence. Even the faded angels above the arch seem tired. Still, it holds power. Not the divine kind—the kind that shapes people. Faithful people are easy to sway.

The scent of incense and melted wax hangs in the air, soft and warm. I can hear faint laughter, children's voices, somewhere deeper inside.

I push the door open. It creaks like something ancient resisting change. As I step in, light from the stained-glass windows paints the stone floor in reds, blues, and greens. A rainbow beneath my feet. I walk slowly, letting the silence stretch. It’s the kind of silence people respect.

I take a seat near the altar. The wood creaks beneath me. I lean back just enough to seem relaxed, but not disrespectful.

This kind of silence… it’s different. Softer. Not like the cold void I cherish, but peaceful enough to use.

Soon enough, I hear the faint rustle of fabric. A young sister approaches—petite, plain robe, hair tucked neatly beneath her coif. Her hands are rough. Probably does more sweeping than praying.

She stops beside my bench and tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle missing half its pieces.

“What do you want, little one?” she asks, voice gentle but lined with curiosity.

I meet her eyes, steady and calm. “I want to meet Father Eldric.”

She smiles faintly, fingers folding together like she’s hiding a secret. “Oh, Father Eldric isn’t here right now. He went into town this morning. He should be back by evening.”

I nod once. “No problem, sister. I’ll wait.”

That makes her pause. Her eyes flicker across my face, searching for something. Children don’t wait. Not unless they want something.

“You came all this way just to see him?” she asks, voice lighter now, like she’s testing me. “That’s unusual. Most children your age avoid the Father unless they’re dragged here.”

I let the faintest smirk tug at my lips. “I’m not most children.”

She chuckles. It’s soft and brief. Her guard lowers a little.

“And what will you do while you wait?” she asks, brushing a bit of dust from her sleeve, trying to seem casual.

I glance toward the back, where the sounds of laughter and squeals still leak through the walls. “Where are the children? I’d like to play with them.”

Her expression softens again, surprised maybe. She didn’t expect that. Compassion is a useful tool—when worn correctly.

“They’re in the garden,” she says, smiling now, more warmly than before. “Just behind the chapel. You’ll find them there.”

“Thank you, sister,” I say with a respectful nod, standing up slowly. My cloak shifts across the bench, the silver coins in my pouch barely making a sound.

She watches me as I walk away, probably wondering what kind of boy asks for blessings and chooses to wait.

But she won’t find the answer in scriptures.

Because I’m not here to pray.

I’m here to study the flock. To know the children. To feed them kindness—before I claim their loyalty.

The garden door creaks open under my hand. The sun is warm on my face. And the game begins.

Orphans. You can find them in any church, anywhere in the world. The forgotten, the abandoned, the overlooked. But if you look closely—if you search just right—you might find something precious.

Diamonds in the rough.

The garden hums with energy as I step outside. The sun casts a warm glow over the grassy yard, and laughter ripples through the air. A group of children is scattered across the space, their clothes a patchwork of wear and tear, their faces smudged with dirt but alight with life.

The moment I appear, the activity slows. Some of the children pause mid-play, their wide eyes flicking toward me with curiosity, while others ignore me completely, too absorbed in their games to care about the newcomer.

Perfect.

I let my gaze sweep over them, assessing. Children are easier to read than adults—there’s no filter, no walls. They show who they are without realizing it.

It’s time to see if there are any diamonds in my field.

A boy, maybe nine, stands near the center of the garden. His posture is tall, almost puffed up, and he commands the space like it belongs to him. His hair is wild, his clothes a little better kept than the others. He shouts at another boy, who’s about his age, waving his arms as if giving orders. Leader type, I note. Confident, loud, but there’s a sharpness to him, like he’s testing everyone around him.

The boy he’s shouting at seems less inclined to follow. This one has a defiant look in his eyes, his arms crossed as he stares back. His clothes are rougher, his movements slower but deliberate. He doesn’t respond to the shouting; instead, he turns away, kicking at the dirt.

Rebel. Won’t follow orders, but he’s not reckless. Reserved, calculating.

In the corner, a tiny girl sits on the grass. She’s no older than five, her chubby hands busily stacking small stones into a crooked tower. Her face is scrunched in concentration, completely oblivious to the world around her. She doesn’t even glance at the boys arguing nearby.

Focused. Quiet. Independent.

Not far from her, I notice a pair of children—a boy and a girl, maybe seven and six. The boy keeps glancing around, his sharp eyes scanning the garden like he’s on alert. The girl sits beside him, drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick. He taps her shoulder occasionally, and she responds with a small nod, her expression calm but distant.

Are they siblings?

I watch closely. The boy’s gestures are protective, his body angled slightly in front of the girl, like a shield. She doesn’t speak or look at me, even when her brother does. He signs something to her—a quick motion with his hands—and she nods again.

Sign language? Deaf?

The pieces click together. She’s not ignoring me—she doesn’t hear me. And the boy… he’s her voice.

At the far end of the garden, leaning against the wall, is a boy about ten years old. His arms are crossed, his gaze steady and unblinking. He watches everything—the arguments, the games, the movements of the others—with a sharpness that stands out. He hasn’t joined any group, hasn’t spoken, but his eyes linger on me a little too long.

Observer. Detached, but aware. Dangerous if underestimated.

I take a slow step forward, letting my boot crunch against the gravel path. Not by accident. It’s deliberate. Sound draws focus. Leverage begins with attention.

Heads start to turn. Curiosity blooms like weeds in their young eyes—untamed and instinctive.

“Hey!” I call out, my tone light, inviting—just enough confidence to sound safe, just enough charm to sound fun. “Who wants candy?”

There it is. The spark.

The boy I marked earlier—the loud one, the self-declared leader—steps forward instantly, that cocky grin tugging at his lips like he owns the offer. “Candy? What kind?” he asks, voice puffed up with authority he hasn’t earned.

“Good ones,” I say smoothly, pulling a small pouch from my cloak pocket. I let it jingle, the soft clatter of hard sweets inside catching their ears like music. The sound of reward. The smell of something they never get enough of—choice.

The effect is instant.

The little one—maybe five—abandons her precious rock tower, her legs waddling as she toddles toward me with star-wide eyes. Her tiny fingers curl and uncurl, reaching.

The twins exchange a glance. He signs something quick, efficient. A code only they know. She nods once. Sharp little things.

The rebel doesn’t move. Arms crossed. Standoffish. But I see his gaze flick to the pouch. He’s interested. He just wants to look like he isn’t.

And at the back—yes. One more. Older. Quiet. Watching everything.

He doesn’t blink.

Perfect.

“You want some?” I ask casually, the smile still on my lips. It’s easy. Effortless. Practiced. “Come on, it’s a game. Winners get candy. Losers…” I shrug. “Well, you don’t want to lose, do you?”

That hooks them.

The leader boy bounces on his heels, already thrilled by the idea of competing. “What’s the game?” he asks, his tone sharp and eager.

I keep my stance relaxed—half-lowered lids, casual grin. But inside, I’m already marking which of them plays to win… and which play to belong.

They crowd in loosely, circling me like a pack around a fire. The pouch swings in my fingers like bait on a line.

“Alright,” I begin, letting the moment breathe. Letting desire simmer.

“Here’s how the game works. I pick one of you to be the leader. They do a movement—any movement in sequence. Everyone else copies it. But if you mess up, even a little…” I raise a brow. “You’re out. Last one standing wins the candy.”

“Easy,” the leader boy says, stepping forward. “I’ll go first!”

I raise a hand smoothly, stopping him. “Not so fast,” I say, my voice steady, deliberate. “You’ll get your turn. But first…”

I look at her—the tiniest one. Still staring up at me like I’m a magician, or maybe a god. Her cheeks are round, smudged with dirt. Her hands twitch with excitement.

“You,” I say, pointing to her. “You’re the leader.”

She gasps. Her little feet carry her into the circle before her brain catches up. The others eye her—some snickering, some confused. But no one protests.

I kneel slightly, lowering myself to her level—not to belittle, but to connect. I speak softly so the others have to lean in, too.

“Alright, little one. Show us what to do.”

She scrunches her face in thought, her nose twitching like a rabbit’s. Then she claps her hands—twice. Big, slow claps.

Around the circle, the kids mimic her.

Then she grins, emboldened by the attention, and adds a foot stomp.

Again, they follow. Some too fast, some off-beat.

But it’s working.

The game has begun.

And so has the selection.

Not for the candy.

For something bigger.

“Got it!” the leader boy calls out, puffing up as he mimics the little girl’s spin and claps with theatrical ease. Of course he gets it right—he’s been waiting to show off since the moment I arrived.

The older kids follow suit, though one of them mutters with a bored shrug, “This is too easy.”

He’s the type who gives up early unless there’s a clear prize he can grab fast. Lack of patience. Not a good trait for someone I might need later.

I keep watching—quietly, calculating.

The little one keeps going. Clap. Stomp. Spin. Her movements are uneven, but she doesn’t hesitate. That part impresses me more than anything. She’s not here to perform. She’s just in the moment. Focused.

Her hands miss the beat after a while—clapping twice when it should’ve been one. She pauses, blinking at her own mistake, and I see the second she realizes it.

The circle breaks into laughter.

“Out!” the leader boy shouts, pointing at her with a wide grin. There’s no malice in his tone—just the thrill of winning, of being right.

She stares at him for a beat, then huffs and waddles back to her grassy spot without a word. No tantrum. No tears. Just that stubborn little frown as she plops down cross-legged.

But I catch it—the faint curve of her lips as she sits.

She knows she lost… but she doesn’t feel defeated.

I narrow my eyes, just slightly. There’s something in her. Not strength. Not yet. But the seed of it. Resilience. Quiet and buried—but it’s there.

These children… they’re more than mouths to feed. More than background noise in the church.

They’re pieces.

And I’ve always known how to play the board.

“Alright, your turn,” I say, pointing a finger toward the self-declared leader boy. I keep my tone easy, almost playful—but underneath, I’m watching him like a hawk.

He struts into the circle like it’s a battlefield, chest puffed out and chin high. “Watch this!” he declares, voice full of pride, already performing before he’s even begun.

He starts off strong—three loud claps, two stomps, and a jump. Simple. Flashy. Easy to mimic.

The circle follows with scattered enthusiasm. A few kids giggle through it. Others focus hard. I watch the motions ripple like a wave across the garden.

Then the boy speeds up, throwing in rapid claps and a twist that looks more like a dance move. Two of the smaller kids stumble on the timing—one spins the wrong way, and the other just freezes mid-move.

“Out!” he shouts, grinning wide, a king knocking pawns off the board. He’s enjoying this way too much.

Across the circle, the rebel boy snorts under his breath. “Show-off,” he mutters, arms still crossed, but his eyes don’t leave the leader’s feet. He doesn’t stumble. Not even once.

Now that’s interesting.

The leader keeps going, more desperate for attention than strategy. His movements get bigger, bolder—slaps to the chest, exaggerated arm swings, a hop that nearly knocks him off-balance. He’s trying to win the game with flair.

And that’s when it happens.

He fumbles. Claps when he should’ve stomped. His eyes widen for a split second before he tries to cover it with a laugh.

“Ha! You’re out!” the rebel calls, his voice sharp with satisfaction. That smirk on his face? That’s not just victory. It’s revenge.

The leader boy groans dramatically, throwing his hands up as he trudges back. “Fine, whatever. I’ll win next time.”

I chuckle under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “Next time, try leading a little less and thinking a little more.”

He glares at me for half a second… but says nothing. Because deep down, he knows I’m right.

And I make sure he sees the candy pouch still tucked in my belt.

Control the prize, and you control the players.

I point to the rebel next, giving him a nod like I’m granting permission rather than asking. “Your turn.”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t puff up like the others or grin like he’s already won. He just steps forward—calm, steady, focused. There’s no show in his movement, just intent.

He taps his foot twice.

Snap. Snap.

Then shifts his weight from one leg to the other in a subtle sway.

Simple, but clever. Controlled chaos.

A trap.

The kids hesitate. Two of them copy the rhythm wrong—one snaps too early, the other forgets the leg shift. They’re out before they realize it.

Even the leader stumbles.

“Hey!” the leader barks, glaring. “You’re making it too tricky!”

The rebel doesn’t even flinch. His tone is low, cool, and final. “That’s the point. If you can’t keep up, you’re out.”

He turns slightly, looking right at me, as if checking to see if I noticed.

I did.

I lean back, arms crossed, a small smirk playing on my lips. The others may be here to play. He’s here to win.

I like that.

He continues the sequence, barely moving—each gesture tiny but exact. His precision weeds out the weaker ones, one by one, until only two kids remain. When one of them claps instead of snapping, he just stops and walks away, no victory pose, no grin.

No need.

He knows what he is.

He returns to the edge of the circle, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. I see how the others look at him now—some annoyed, some impressed, a few intimidated. Good. Fear is useful. Respect is better.

He’s the type that plays long games.

I watch him carefully, cataloguing every move.

This one has value.

The siblings step forward next. The boy takes the lead, pushing his sister gently to the center before standing beside her like a quiet shadow.

He claps once, then waves both hands, then stomps. Simple movements. Measured. Intentionally easy.

He’s not trying to win.

He’s making sure she doesn’t lose.

I narrow my eyes, watching closer.

He glances at her every few seconds, subtle but constant—like he’s scanning her every breath, ready to intervene the moment something slips. The others mimic his motions without issue. No one drops out. But that’s not the point of this round, is it?

“Trying to keep things fair?” I ask, low enough that only the boy can hear.

He doesn’t answer. Just nods once, slow and sure. His face stays neutral, but his eyes flick toward his sister again.

Her turn.

She hesitates as I gesture to her, chewing her lower lip like she’s unsure. Then she looks up at him. The moment their eyes meet, he raises his hands and signs something—quick, practiced, invisible to anyone not paying attention.

Reassurance.

She smiles. And steps forward.

Her movements are soft—like music played at half-volume. She taps her fingertips together, slow and gentle, then lifts her arms above her head and turns in a small circle.

No one messes up. The others watch her with interest—maybe out of kindness, maybe because the challenge dropped a level.

But I’m not watching the rest of them.

I’m watching him.

He’s not copying her. He’s tracking her.

Every small shift. Every pause. Every uncertain glance. His body is loose but coiled, like if she so much as stumbles, he’ll catch her before she hits the ground.

Protective. Loyal.

Not to the game. Not to the prize.

To her.

“Interesting…” I murmur.

She finishes with a shy smile and scampers back to her place in the circle. He follows without a word, walking one step behind her—not leading, not commanding. Guarding.

They’re a package deal.

And I’ve always liked buying in pairs.

Finally, the quiet one—the observer—steps forward.

“I’ll go,” he says.

His voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath. It’s not a request. It’s a decision.

He steps into the center of the garden. Sunlight slices across his face, catching the sharpness in his eyes. He stands with a posture too calm for his age—like he already knows who’s going to win.

His first movement?

Just a slight tilt of his head.

The group blinks.

Was that part of the game?

Then he taps his fingers against his thigh. Barely a sound. Barely a gesture. He shifts his weight and takes a single step back.

Subtle. Almost invisible.

Two kids stumble immediately, mimicking the wrong order. The leader boy groans, throwing his hands up. “That’s not fair!”

The observer doesn’t flinch. “Pay attention,” he says evenly.

No irritation. No gloating.

Just fact.

Then the sequence continues—clean, efficient. A small hand flick here. A breath pause there. No wasted motion. Each mistake from the circle is quiet, clean. He’s not showing off.

He’s hunting.

One by one, they fall. His game is designed to eliminate, not entertain. He watches everything—not just the bodies but the eyes, the focus, the doubt.

When the final kid falters, he stops. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t cheer. Just lifts his head and looks at me.

Direct. Clear.

And then—

“You’re not just here to play games,” he says quietly, stepping close, his voice low so no one else hears.

I let my lips curl. Just slightly.

“And you’re not just here to follow the rules,” I reply, my tone smooth and measured.

His mouth twitches. Not a smile—just the barest flicker of amusement. But he says nothing else and walks back to the circle.

This one… he understands.

The other children laugh, some groaning as they divide the candy. The girl who built the stone tower is already stacking her prize like bricks. The rebel boy trades his with the siblings. The leader sulks—grinning anyway—and the game starts all over again with calls for a rematch.

I watch from the edge of the garden, arms crossed. The sun casts my shadow long across the grass, cutting between the children like a line no one notices yet.

A quiet breath leaves my lips.

This is just the beginning.