Darkness enveloped Lysandra, pulling her into a world both familiar and foreign. When she opened her eyes, she stood in the center of an enormous chessboard stretching endlessly into the void. The squares beneath her feet glowed faintly, alternating black and white. Above her, there was no sky—just a swirling expanse of silver and shadow, crackling with faint energy.
The silver threads she'd seen before were here too, but brighter, more alive. They wrapped around her wrists, pulling her toward the center of the board. There, on the black Queen's square, stood a figure cloaked in shadow. Its glowing green eyes locked onto hers, freezing her in place.
"Pawn," the figure rasped, its voice like grinding stone. "Move, or perish."
Before Lysandra could speak, the chessboard beneath her trembled, and pieces began to materialize around her. Pawns appeared first—figures carved from black and white marble, standing tall like silent sentinels. Bishops and Rooks followed, then Knights and Queens, all gleaming with a faint inner light.
And then, the Kings—two towering figures at opposite ends of the board. The white King glimmered with soft golden light, but its counterpart—the black King—seemed to absorb the very air around it, pulsating with an ominous green glow.
Lysandra staggered backward, her breath coming in short gasps. "What is this?!"
A low hum echoed around her, vibrating through her bones. The silver threads around her wrists tugged harder, yanking her forward one square at a time. She realized with a jolt that she was moving like a chess piece—one step ahead, one step to the side.
"You are the Pawn," the shadowy figure said again. "And this is your first move."
Before she could respond, the black King raised a hand. A shadowpiece, identical to the one she had seen in the forest, materialized in front of her. Its eyes gleamed with malice as it raised its clawed hands, charging toward her.
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Lysandra acted on instinct. She dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the creature's strike, and scrambled to her feet. Her heart pounded as the chessboard quaked beneath her, and the silver threads flared like fire.
"Think, Lysandra," she whispered to herself, scanning the board. The pieces around her stood motionless, like frozen statues, but the shadowpiece was moving freely, circling her like a predator stalking its prey.
The shadowpiece lunged again, and she ducked, feeling its claws slice the air just inches from her face. Desperation coursed through her veins as she backed away, her eyes darting to the silver threads. They connected her to the board, to the other pieces—and to something deeper, something she couldn't yet understand.
The threads pulsed with light, almost as if they were alive. They seemed to whisper to her, guiding her gaze toward the white Pawn on the far side of the board. Its surface gleamed faintly, and Lysandra felt an inexplicable pull toward it.
The shadowpiece lunged again, and this time, she moved with purpose. She leapt forward onto the next square, the silver threads pulling tight around her wrists. The moment her foot touched the new square, the white Pawn beside her sprang to life.
The marble figure shifted, its rigid form melting into something more human—a soldier clad in armor, wielding a gleaming spear. Without hesitation, the white Pawn stepped in front of her, blocking the shadowpiece's path.
The shadowpiece hissed, clawing at the white Pawn, but the soldier's spear struck true. The shadowpiece shrieked and shattered into black smoke, the green light in its eyes extinguished.
Lysandra stared at the white Pawn-turned-soldier, her breath catching. Before she could thank it, the figure froze once more, returning to its marble form.
"You are learning," the shadowy figure said, its voice echoing across the board. "But you are far from ready."
The black King raised its hand again, and this time, two shadowpieces appeared—each larger and more menacing than the first. Their glowing green eyes locked onto Lysandra, and they began to advance, their movements unnaturally fluid.
Lysandra clenched her fists, her heart pounding. The silver threads flickered around her, but they felt weaker now, as though the strain of summoning the white Pawn had cost her something.
"This isn't fair," she muttered, backing away as the shadowpieces closed in.
"Fairness has no place on the board," the shadowy figure said, its tone cold and unyielding. "Move, Pawn, or be captured."
Lysandra's mind raced. She couldn't summon another piece, not without the threads snapping entirely. But if she stayed in place, the shadowpieces would tear her apart.
She glanced at the white Knight to her left—a marble horse frozen mid-leap. It was close, but not close enough. She needed to move two squares forward and one to the side to reach it, just as a Knight would.
But I'm a Pawn, she thought, panic rising in her chest. I can't move like that.
The shadowpieces lunged toward her, and time seemed to slow. Lysandra closed her eyes, reaching deep within herself. The silver threads pulsed faintly, urging her forward. She focused on them, willing them to bend, to shift, to change.
"Please," she whispered. "Let me move."
The air around her seemed to ripple, and suddenly, the silver threads snapped taut. A burst of light erupted beneath her feet, and she felt herself being lifted, carried forward in an arc. When she opened her eyes, she was standing beside the white Knight.
The shadowpieces halted, their green eyes narrowing. The marble horse shimmered, and the Knight came to life, its sword blazing with golden light. With a single slash, it destroyed one of the shadowpieces, sending it crumbling into ash.
Lysandra barely had time to breathe before the remaining shadowpiece lunged at her, its claws outstretched.
The threads around her wrists flared again, but this time, they weren't enough. The shadowpiece slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. Pain shot through her body as its claws raked across her shoulder.
"Enough," the shadowy figure said, its voice echoing like thunder. The remaining shadowpiece froze, its claws inches from Lysandra's throat.
She lay on the board, gasping for air, blood seeping from her wound. The figure stepped forward, its form becoming clearer now. It wasn't human—not entirely. Its face was obscured by a hood, and its hands were skeletal, trailing wisps of black smoke.
"You survived," it said, tilting its head. "Barely. But the game has only just begun."
Before Lysandra could respond, the chessboard dissolved around her. The marble squares, the glowing threads, the shadowpieces—all of it vanished, leaving her in complete darkness.
And then she heard a voice—not the shadowy figure's, but something older, deeper, and far more terrifying.
"Beware the Queen's Gambit," it whispered. "The price of the final move will be everything."
Lysandra's eyes snapped open, and she found herself back in the forest. Thalassa knelt beside her, her expression calm but grave. The man in armor stood a few paces away, his sword drawn, his amber eyes fixed on the trees.
"You're awake," Thalassa said softly.
"What—what just happened?" Lysandra gasped, clutching her shoulder, where the shadowpiece had struck her.
"Your first move," Thalassa replied, her voice almost pitying. "And your first lesson."
Before Lysandra could demand an explanation, a sharp cry split the air. The man in armor spun around, his sword at the ready.
From the shadows of the forest, more figures emerged—three, no, four shadowpieces, their glowing green eyes fixed on the small group.
And this time, there were no chess pieces to summon.