<ul>What could she make of that?<br/><br/>Forgetting the game for a moment, Zilah leaned back slightly and ran her hands over her thighs. There was more to the story than the meaning contained in that single sentence, and it hung in the air above them like a menacing cloud. The remainder of the truth hung on his lips teetering there between silence and sound. <br/><br/>His eyes met hers and she suddenly grew uncomfortable. Chewing on the inside of her lip, it was Zilah that had to look away and glance at the pieces on the chess board. There was a move that would almost guarantee her a win, but she would not take it. If Quen was a worthwhile chess player he would see her blunder and believe she had made the wrong move. <br/><br/>Tearing her gaze away from the board, brown eyes drifted sideways, to the photograph on the wall. There he was, the father, his eyes glancing somewhere else. What could have possibly been more important in that moment? What had so captured his attention? At the foreground there were the two siblings, almost perfect copies of one another. <br/><br/>A part of her wanted to apologize. Why? It wasn't her fault. <br/><br/>All she could do was swallow it down, and make the move on the board. This game had been a bad idea as it was only serving to increase the empathy she felt for him.<br/><br/>"It's a means to make a living," she replied back with little embellishment, glancing up at him stubbornly. It was a gutsy question, and it had been stupid of him to ask it so brazenly. She would not allow him to know her any better than he already did. Emotions only created weakness, "Check."<br/><br/>In a few more moves he could potentially win, and she would let him have it. Amusingly, she missed the containment cell.<br/><br/></ul>