Even the Steward’s son had finally left. In the Third Company common room lit only by dim blue glows guttering in pools of wax, a hand came out, hovered, and placed the rider firmly on the board.

“Checkmate.”

Man and wizard chuckled.

“A good game. Well fought.”

With efficient bustle, the captain secured the room: buttery door closed, windows bolted, candles snuffed, lantern lit.

“I’ll escort you to your quarters.”

“Aragorn.”

The man froze. “You should not name me that.”

“There are none to overhear. Your mother sends her love, and I have news from the North.”