February 11, 1929.
Cerydra would always remember this date.
It was not because anything earth-shattering happened on this day—in fact, for most people in Italy, the most noteworthy event of the day was Mussolini signing the Lateran Treaty with the Holy See, ending the fifty-nine-year-long “Roman Question.” The Holy See recognized the Kingdom of Italy, and Italy recognized the sovereignty of the Holy See, both sides completing this long-awaited reconciliation amidst cheers.
Newspapers were flooded with photos of the Prime Minister shaking hands with the Cardinal, while the King’s name appeared only in the third paragraph of the reports.
Cerydra remembered this day because it was the first time she made a move in a public Chess match.
The annual invitational tournament of the Rome Chess Club was nominally a social event for Italian nobility and Chess enthusiasts, but in reality, it was also a venue for various factions to secretly observe and socialize.
Professor Ferrari had spent three whole months convincing the King to allow the princess to compete.
The King finally nodded, on the condition that she would not compete in the name of the royal family or as a princess, but only under the personal name of “Cerydra.” She did not care about titles; she only cared about the chessboard.
The match venue was set in the main hall of the Rome Chess Club.
The high dome was painted with a 16th-century fresco depicting Neptune, the god of the sea, driving his chariot.
Below the fresco, twelve Chess tables were arranged in two rows.
The mahogany tabletops were covered with dark green velvet, and the black and white Chess pieces were lined up neatly, like soldiers waiting for inspection.
The spectator seats were filled with people—nobles, officers, Chess players, reporters, and a few individuals in plain clothes with exceptionally sharp eyes, sitting in an inconspicuous corner, their notebooks never opened from start to finish.
When Cerydra walked into the hall, all conversation ceased for a moment.
She was fourteen years old and would be fifteen in a few months.
Her short white hair had grown to her shoulder blades, loosely tied back with a dark blue ribbon.
The touch of blue at the tips of her hair was deeper than before, as if the color from the deepest part of the Adriatic Sea had been solidified into her strands.
Her features had fully developed, so exquisite that she did not look real—the curve of her brow bone, the line of her nose, the contour of her jaw, every part was just right, as if someone had measured them with the most precise ruler.
Her skin was very fair, not the pale complexion of noble ladies who never saw the sun, but a clear, translucent fairness that seemed to glow.
Her blue eyes swept across the room calmly, and where her gaze landed, some people unconsciously held their breath.
She wore a simple white shirt and a dark blue skirt, with no jewelry.
Her right hand gripped a blue cane—the shaft was painted a deep-sea blue, and the top was inlaid with a King piece carved from crystal.
That piece quietly refracted the colors of the dome’s fresco in her hand, like a solidified star.
Professor Ferrari walked half a step behind her.
The old professor was seventy-four this year, his back more hunched than before, but his steps remained steady.
He looked around and saw those familiar faces in the spectator seats—veterans of the Rome Chess Club, old friends from the University of Turin, and several old Chess players who had once played against him.
He also saw some people he did not recognize; they sat with straight postures and focused gazes, but they did not look like they were there to watch a Chess match.
The old professor said nothing.
Cerydra sat down at the third Chess table.
Her opponent was already waiting across from her—Marquis Amedeo Sforza, fifty-two years old, a descendant of an ancient family from Lombardy, whose skill was said to be in the top five among Italian nobility.
He was burly, sporting a thick gray beard, and wore a large ruby ring on his finger.
When he saw Cerydra walking over, he raised his eyebrows.
“So this is Ferrari’s star pupil?” His voice was loud, carrying the ruggedness unique to northern nobles.
“She looks like she walked right out of a church fresco.” A few chuckles sounded around them.
Cerydra sat down opposite him and leaned her cane against the edge of the table.
The crystal King piece faced the chessboard, watching the unfolding battle like a third eye.
“Marquis.” She nodded slightly, saying only these two words.
Sforza’s smile faded slightly, not because he was offended—but because of the way the girl in front of him looked at him.
Calm, composed, without any nervousness of a first-time competitor, and without any humility when facing an elder.
The way she looked at him was as if she were looking at a Chess piece.
This made Sforza inexplicably uncomfortable.
The referee announced the start of the match.
Cerydra played White.
She reached out, her fingertips landing on the King’s pawn.
e4.
Sforza responded with e5.
The opening for a Sicilian Defense.
Cerydra’s second move was Knight f3.
Sforza responded with d6.
Cerydra’s third move was d4.
Open Sicilian.
This was Cerydra’s favorite variation—not because it was the sharpest, but because it best exposed the essence of an opponent.
Closed positions test calculation, while open positions test courage.
A person’s reaction when forced to make a choice reveals more about what kind of person they are than their Chess skill.
Sforza chose cxd4.
The corners of Cerydra’s mouth twitched imperceptibly.
He chose the most direct variation, neither avoiding nor retreating, a head-on collision.
This was a man accustomed to crushing his opponents with strength and will.
But it also meant he was not accustomed to considering a second possibility.
On the twelfth move, Cerydra moved her white Bishop to b5.
This was an apparently conservative move.
The white Bishop moved away from the open center, retreating to the second rank, as if avoiding the offensive Black was gathering.
Sforza’s eyes lit up; he scented an opportunity to attack.
The Black Knight jumped into d4, threatening the White Queen while opening the line for Black’s light-squared Bishop.
Spectators on the sidelines let out low murmurs of admiration—this was indeed a good move.
Cerydra did not move her Queen.
She moved her other Bishop.
c4.
Sforza’s smile froze.
He suddenly saw it—not her next move, but the entire structure she had laid out from the very first move until now.
That white Bishop that retreated to b5, that white Bishop that moved to c4, that Queen that had never moved, those few seemingly scattered pawns—they were not scattered.
They were waiting.
Waiting for the moment he charged in.
And he had just charged in.
On the twenty-third move, Cerydra’s white Queen moved horizontally from d1 to a4; this move was silent and soundless, like a blade sliding out of its sheath.
Sforza stared at the chessboard, motionless.
The queenside.
His queenside was completely exposed.
Those pieces he had used to attack were now all piled up in the center and kingside, leaving the rear empty, like a city with its garrison withdrawn.
And her Queen was cutting in from the edge, pointing directly at his most vulnerable spot.
He looked up at Cerydra.
She was looking at him too; those blue eyes were as calm as water, without any aggression or triumph.
She did not even seem to be playing a match against him—she seemed to be doing something unrelated to winning or losing, like organizing a bookshelf, trimming flower branches, or putting scattered Chess pieces back where they belonged.
Sforza’s hand hovered over the chessboard for a long time.
Then he reached out and tipped over his King.
“I resign.” His voice was much softer than before.
The hall was silent for three full seconds before erupting into whispers.
Reporters were frantically writing in their notebooks.
Among the few people in plain clothes in the corner, one finally opened the notebook in their hand.
Sforza stood up and bowed slightly to Cerydra.
This time, his gesture carried genuine respect.
“Your Highness,” he said—he used the honorific, even though she was not competing as a princess today, “from which move did you determine that I would lose?” Cerydra also stood up.
She gripped her cane, the crystal King piece shimmering slightly under the light of the fresco.
“From the moment you made your first move,” she said.
Sforza was stunned.
“It is not that you played poorly,” Cerydra’s voice was very soft, but everyone around could hear clearly, “but that your Chess told me how you would respond to every subsequent step.
You like frontal attacks, loathe retreating, and believe that strength can crush all obstacles.
This is your strength, Marquis.
It is also your weakness.
Because not all obstacles can be crushed.
Some obstacles are water; if you strike them with force, they will give way and flow through your fingers.
When you pull your hand back, you find that nothing has changed, and you have already exhausted your strength.” She bowed slightly and then turned to leave.
Her cane tapped on the floor, making a subtle, rhythmic sound.
Her short white hair shimmered with a faint blue under the light of the dome, like a moving, silent beam of light.
Sforza stood in place, watching her walk away.
He suddenly felt that what he had lost today was not just a Chess match.
It was something he had not yet had time to understand.