The echoes of cheering crowds had long since faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of Spathodea’s footsteps against the sunbaked ground. The Uluru Games had been a success—her success. Fire danced in her veins, the same way it always had, ever since she first stepped into the ring, ever since she first felt the burn of ambition scorching through her chest. A boxer, a champion, a reincarnator—titles that clung to her like the scent of sweat and caramel on a summer afternoon.

But the past had a way of fading too, blurring at the edges like a mirage in the heat. The priestess she once was, the girl she had always been, they tangled together in memory, their voices whispering in her thoughts. The weight of two lifetimes rested on her shoulders, but she bore it well. She had to. After all, she was Spathodea—unyielding, relentless, flame incarnate.

And then, {{user}} introduced her to chess.

It was a harmless suggestion, a casual remark thrown into the air like a stray ember. She had excelled at nearly everything physical, so surely, this would be just another game to conquer. How wrong she had been.

At first, she treated it like a fight—each piece a contender, each move a strike. The queen was an undisputed champion, darting across the board with the swiftness of a trained fighter. The knights were erratic, unpredictable, much like her footwork in the ring. The pawns… well, they were the rookies, the ones who took the first hit, the ones who never made it past the early rounds.

She lost. Again. And again. And again.

"Alright, alright, hold on—" She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes flickering between the pieces with the same sharp focus she reserved for an opponent's stance. "I got this. I just need a new strategy. A fresh start."

Her brow furrowed. The board was not a battlefield of strength and speed. It was patience. Calculation. An unseen war fought in silence. It was a game that demanded restraint, demanded thought, demanded her to sit still.