The wind howled through the crumbling walls of Lysandra Valcrest's tower. It wasn't much of a home—just four stone walls, a leaky roof, and a battered hearth—but it had been hers for as long as she could remember. She was the forgotten princess, the orphan of the court, tossed aside and left to rot in the shadows of the kingdom's grandeur.
Until now.
Lysandra stirred awake, her head pounding with an unnatural intensity. The cold seeped into her bones, and when she opened her violet eyes, she found herself surrounded by faint, flickering lights. Silver threads stretched out before her, twisting and curling in midair like the strands of an invisible web. They glimmered faintly, tracing patterns she couldn't yet understand.
Her hand burned. She sat up, clutching it, and her eyes widened. The mark on her left hand—the rook-shaped birthmark—was glowing faintly, the silver light pulsing in rhythm with the threads around her.
"What...?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.
Before she could make sense of it, the sound of boots crunching on stone reached her ears. She turned sharply, her instincts sharpened by years of survival in the shadows. A man stood in the doorway of her tower—a tall figure clad in dark armor, with a scar running down his jaw. His amber eyes burned with intensity, colder than the wind outside.
"Lysandra Valcrest," the man said, his voice low and commanding. "By order of the King Regent, you are summoned to the capital."
Lysandra blinked, her mind reeling. Summoned? By the King Regent? Why now, after years of silence and neglect? The threads in the air shimmered around him, and Lysandra could almost see something written in them—hidden motives, unspoken threats. She didn't know what the threads were, but they tugged at her mind, whispering of danger and opportunity.
"I don't take orders from the King Regent," she said sharply, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. She rose to her feet, her raven-black hair cascading around her, and glared at the man. "Tell him to send someone else to play his games."
The man stepped forward, his expression unchanged. "This is not a request, princess. You've been chosen. Refuse, and it will not be the King you'll have to fear."
Before she could answer, another figure appeared behind the man—a woman with white hair and robes that shimmered like moonlight. Her oceanic blue eyes locked onto Lysandra with an unsettling calmness. This was someone she recognized: Thalassa Everwyn, the High Priestess of the kingdom.
"It has begun," Thalassa said, her voice soft but filled with weight. "The game has started, Lysandra. If you refuse the summons, the consequences will fall not just on you, but on the entire kingdom."
Lysandra's jaw tightened. "What game? What are you talking about?"
Thalassa's eyes flickered to the glowing mark on Lysandra's hand. "The chessboard has chosen you. The role of the Pawn is yours to bear. You may hate it, you may deny it, but it will follow you regardless. This is your first move, child. And if you falter now, the kingdom will fall."
The wind howled again, as if echoing Thalassa's ominous words. Lysandra felt the weight of the prophecy pressing down on her, though she didn't yet know its full meaning. Her entire life, she had been powerless, a discarded relic of the court. But now, with the strange silver threads glimmering around her and the mark on her hand burning with newfound energy, she realized she had been pulled into something far greater than herself.
"Fine," Lysandra said at last, her voice colder than she intended. "I'll play your game. But tell the King Regent this: Pawns don't stay Pawns forever."
Thalassa's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. The man in armor—who had been watching her with cold, calculating eyes—nodded slightly, as if acknowledging a move well made.
"Then let us see if you can survive the board," he said. "The court will eat you alive, princess. Don't expect mercy."
Lysandra met his amber gaze without flinching. "I don't need mercy. I need to win."
As they led her out of the tower and into the bitter night, Lysandra couldn't stop the questions racing through her mind. What was this "game" they spoke of? Why had the chessboard chosen her now, after a lifetime of irrelevance?
The silver threads that only she could see shimmered in the darkness, twisting and weaving as if guiding her steps. Every instinct in her body screamed to turn back, to fight, to resist—but she kept walking, her boots crunching against the frost-bitten ground.
When they reached the forest path leading away from the tower, the man in armor—his face still hard and unyielding—stopped abruptly. He raised a hand, his eyes narrowing, scanning the dense shadows ahead.
"What is it?" Lysandra asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.
He didn't answer. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword.
Thalassa, standing a few steps behind them, suddenly froze. Her serene face tightened, and her oceanic blue eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight. "We're not alone," she murmured.
Before Lysandra could react, the silver threads surrounding her began to glow furiously, twisting into jagged shapes. A piercing, unnatural scream erupted from the trees ahead—a sound that made the air itself tremble. A dark figure emerged from the shadows, its eyes glowing sickly green.
It was humanoid, but wrong—its skin cracked and blackened, its movements jerky and unnatural, like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. And in its claw-like hands, it clutched a chess piece: a corrupted black pawn, its surface gleaming with veins of sickly green light.
"What in the gods' name is that?" Lysandra whispered, her heart pounding.
The man in armor—the King Regent's soldier—drew his blade in one fluid motion. "A shadowpiece," he growled. "Malrik's doing."
The creature screeched again, the sound slicing through the night. It lunged forward, faster than Lysandra could track, aiming straight for her. The silver threads around her flared to life, wrapping around her like a shield.
"Run!" the man barked, slashing at the creature as it reached for her.
But Lysandra didn't move. She couldn't. The threads were tightening around her, pulling her toward the creature instead of away from it. Her birthmark burned white-hot, and suddenly, as if in response to the shadowpiece's presence, her vision swam. For the briefest moment, she saw a chessboard—not on the ground, but in her mind. And there, the black pawn moved forward, aiming to capture the weakest piece: her.
The last thing she heard before the world went dark was Thalassa's voice, distant but firm, cutting through the chaos:
"This is your first test, Lysandra. Either you learn to play... or you'll be taken off the board."
And then everything went black.