Flyer Faye

Faye had learned both halves of flying on the day she first earned her wings and nearly wasted them.

She'd been ground down, that game — nine pieces to three, cornered, certain she'd lost. And then she'd realized she could fly, and the sheer joy of it went to her head. She leapt about wildly, gleefully, landing wherever looked fun, drunk on her new freedom — and accomplished nothing, because flying anywhere is only powerful if you fly somewhere that matters. She'd been given a miraculous second chance and spent it swooping around for the thrill of swooping, and lost anyway, three pieces flapping uselessly about a board she could have saved.

An old flyer — a piece who'd come back from three pieces to win more than once — sat with her. "Flying isn't a magic escape, child," she said gently. "It's a fighting chance. The rule doesn't win the game for you; it just stops you from being helpless. You still have to fly well — land where it counts: block the mill that would finish you, complete the line that saves you, threaten from across the board. You got your wings and used them to play. Next time, get your wings and use them to fight." Faye never forgot it. She learned that the flying rule was not a rescue but an opportunity — and that an opportunity means nothing unless you're wise enough to use it. Down to three, she stopped swooping for joy and started flying with purpose, and discovered that a well-flown comeback was the sweetest game there was.

At the House of the Board, Faye arrived by leaping the last stretch of the path — she did enjoy an entrance — and the Elder laughed.

"The flying phase," the Elder said. "The mercy rule. Your students will meet it two ways — despairing when they're ground down to three, or flapping about wildly the moment they earn their wings. What will you teach?"

"Hope, and then discipline," said Faye. "First: down to three pieces is not the end — it's when you get your wings, and a flying piece can turn a lost game around. I want my students to stop despairing the moment they're cornered. But then the discipline: flying is a chance, not a win. I'll teach them to fly with purpose — to land where it saves them, blocks the enemy, threatens across the board — not just to swoop about because they finally can. The rule gives you a fighting chance. What you do with it is still up to you."

"Teach both," said the Elder. "The hope keeps them in the game; the discipline lets them win it."

Faye's student was a piece named Lio who did both wrong things at different times. When ground down to three, he first despaired — I've lost — and gave up; and on the rare game he remembered he could fly, he'd swoop about wildly, landing anywhere, wasting the miracle.

"You're down to three pieces," Faye said. "How do you feel?" "Beaten," said Lio glumly. "You're not beaten. You just got your wings. Watch." Faye, down to three, did not despair and did not swoop for fun — she flew one piece clear across the board to block the exact mill that would have finished her, then flew another to complete a line of her own, threatening a snatch. Suddenly the "beaten" side was dangerous. "Flying isn't the end and it isn't a party," she told him. "It's a fighting chance, and you have to fly well. Land where it matters. Block what would kill you. Threaten from anywhere. Down to three, played with purpose, you can claw a whole game back."

Lio stopped despairing at three pieces and stopped swooping aimlessly. He flew with purpose — blocking, threatening, landing where it counted — and clawed back a game he'd been certain he'd lost, and the fierce joy of that comeback lit him up.

"Being nearly beaten was when I got strongest," Lio marveled.

"If you use it well," said Faye. "That's always the catch."