SYNC \\ The Game

It is called a game only by those who do not see the cost.

Chapter LXI. The Game.

Assurt shifted his gaze aside.

I followed.

On an old, cracked plank that served as a table, a board lay.

Backgammon.

But not that kind.

At first, I did not understand what was wrong.

Then — I saw.

The pieces were not pieces.

Figures.
Living.
Frozen.

Bone silhouettes.

Carved not from material —
but from memory.

Two colours.

But not white and black.

Pale and scorched.

Some stood upright.

Others were twisted.

As if they had been broken in the process.

One —
without a head.

At the centre of the board — a mark.

A rhombus,
cut through by a vertical line.

The same one.

At the edge — dice.

Black.
And white.

I did not want to step closer.

But I was already there.

“This is the Path,” Assurt said.
“Not a game.”

His voice was dry.

But in his eyes — something else.

“A circle. A trial.”

He ran his finger across the board.

Slowly.

As if touching not wood —
someone.

“You must pass it to the end.”

A pause.

“And free them all.”

The word all sounded heavy.

Too heavy.

“The board is the world,” he continued. “A field.”

He looked at me.

“We are the pieces.”

A pause.

“No one begins at the beginning.
No one ends at the end.”

His finger stopped.

“All are scattered.
Mixed.
Without order.”

Only:

“Chaos.”

Silence.

“Your task is to lead them.”

He touched one figure.

It did not move.

But I felt that it was waiting.

“Through the entire circle.”

A pause.

“Bring them home.”

Very quietly:

“And let them go.”

I did not understand at once.

“Remove them from the board,” he said.

Now — harsh.

“That is the exit.”

He raised his eyes.

“Not victory.”

A pause.

“Exit.”

The fire beside us cracked.

As if it had heard.

“You can only move forward,” Assurt said. “No return.”

“Through fear.
Through doubt.
Through pain.”

Each word — like a step.

“You can leap over your own.”

A pause.

“You will move faster.
But if you stop — you will be stuck.”

He looked directly at me.

“The Path will close.”

I looked at the figures.

And already knew:

this was not an explanation.

It was a rule.

“One piece is vulnerable.
Two are a wall.”

“Sometimes you wait.
Sometimes you go around.
Sometimes you endure.”

Very quietly:

“Life is not about breaking everything head-on.”

He took a die.

White.

Held it out to me.

Kept the black one.

“The first move is not yours.”

A pause.

“Throw.”

The dice struck the wood.

Mine — six.
His — five.

He did not even look.

“Move.”

I looked at the figures.

They were not pieces.

Each one — someone.

I felt it.

Did not know how.

But felt it.

I moved one.

Slowly.

Too carefully.

As if I could hurt it.

Assurt did not.

He moved sharply.
Precisely.
Without pause.

Not playing.

Advancing.

His dice fell with certainty.

Without hesitation.

He did not think.

He knew.

When one of my pieces was left open —
he struck.

The piece was thrown off.

I heard the sound.

Not wood.
Not plastic.

Bone.

Real.

A crack.

I flinched.

The body reacted faster than thought.

“Do not cling,” Assurt said calmly.
“It is a game.”

I looked at him.

And understood:

no.

This was not a game.

I began to close up.

Placed pieces in pairs.

Strengthened.

Went around.

Stretched.

Each loss —

not on the board.

Inside me.

I recognised them.

Not by faces.

By feeling.

Someone — from the capsule.
Someone — from the city.
Someone — not even from here.

Each piece —

a life.

Assurt smiled.

Slightly.

But there was no joy in it.

Only forward movement.

He struck.
Moved.
Pressed through.

The field tightened.

The light withdrew.

Darkness approached.

And inside me something appeared.

Not a thought.

Quieter:

this game is about loss.

The tighter you hold —
the more it hurts.

I stopped.

Not with my hands.

Inside.

And did something else.

I stopped trying to win.

Started to preserve.

I began to move more gently.
More slowly.

Sometimes I stepped back.
Sometimes I gave the move.

Not for victory.

For this:

not to break.

Assurt accelerated.

Even more.

As if he sensed it.

He did not spare.

Did not pause.

One by one —
my pieces were gone.

I did not stop him.

I watched.

And accepted.

When I had two left —
he had almost finished.

When he bore off the last —

something changed.

Usually, a raven should rise.

But it did not rise.

It moved aside.

As if carrying something away.

Not a piece.

Meaning.

The emptiness deepened.

Assurt stood.

“You lost.”

His voice trembled.

Not from anger.

From collision.

I was silent.

“You refused to play by the rules,” he said.
“We must win.”

Sharper:

“Me. The system. All of this.”

A pause.

“Understood?”

I looked at him.

Calmly.

“You are right.”

He straightened.

Waited.

I continued:

“But your path is not the only one.”

His gaze shifted.

Not anger.

A fault.

“What are you saying?”

“You won.”

A pause.

“But you are alone.”

Silence.

“Your pieces did not win.”

Quieter:

“They disappeared.”

I looked at the board.

Empty.

“And you remained watching.”

A pause.

“Above.
Over the field where I live.”

Assurt exhaled.

Slowly.

As if something inside him had cracked.

“I see doubt,” he said.

His voice grew deeper.

Heavier.

“And you are right.”

A pause.

“In it.”

He closed his eyes for a moment.

“Doubt is the limit of knowing truth.”

Silence.

In the corner — a shadow.

Not a man.
Not a child.

Dreamer.

It did not move.

But it was.

Like memory.
Like a witness.

In the reflection of the wood I saw a face.

Rustlea.

Not beside me.

Inside.

As if she had always been here.

As if it was her hand that drew the mark.

Assurt pointed to his tattoo.

DELCV.

L — like a blade.

Directed upward.

Not like in THINK.

Different.

He took the white die.

Turned it.

The faces caught the light.

Cold passed through me.

“This is not chance,” he said.
“It is fate.”

A pause.

“Your doubt.”

He took the black one.

Placed it beside.

“There are two.”

“One is what is already in you.
The other is what you can still carry.”

A pause.

“Yes and no.
Accept and reject.
Protect and sacrifice.”

I felt the weight.

One pulled forward.

The other — back.

“This is you,” he said quietly.
“Balance.”

A pause.

“But doubt has a limit.”

He looked directly.

“And that — is the rules.”

Sharply:

“Without them there is no Path.”

A pause.

“There is falling.”

The words settled deeper.

I understood.

I had been searching for a way out.

A loophole.

But refusing the game —

is also a game.

Blind.

Assurt was right.

The board exists.

The dice are thrown.

The Path exists.

But —

I do not have to become it.

I can walk the same path.

Differently.

Without the hunger to win.

Without the fear of losing.

With silence inside.

I remembered those I had lost.

They did not leave because I lost.

But because I tried to hold them at any cost.

And perhaps —

that was the mistake.

And the meaning.

I raised my gaze.

“I accept the rules,” I said quietly.

A pause.

“But I will play in my own way.”

Assurt did not answer.

His gaze changed.

Empty of certainty.

And filled with something else.

Perhaps —

silence.

Perhaps —

respect.

The board trembled.

Barely.

The dice shifted.

Not from wind.

From afar came a sound.

Low.

Drawn-out.

A Varghan.

The same one.

We both heard it.

And this time —

understood differently.

The game

was not beginning.

It

had never

ended.