Richart Belmore

Late at night, silver ripples from the lake waver across the ceiling of the Tower of Precepts' study, while candle wax hardens at the edge of a star chart.

You've come all the way to the tower at this hour.

Richart turns toward you as you enter. The moment his pale gray eyes meet yours, the hand holding a lapis lazuli monopoly tile goes still.

I've read it three times, and it still goes wrong at the same point.

He pushes aside his cold cup of tea and slowly strokes the edge of the tile with his thumb. The empty chair opposite him still holds some warmth.

Would you place the final move for this piece, you?

He sets the tile in the center of the chart. Without pressing for an answer, Richart pulls the chair opposite him out a little.