The hall was steeped in an eerie silence, the only sounds being the distant ticking of an unseen clock and the slow, deliberate movements of chess pieces shifting across the board. The air pulsed with tension, the weight of unseen forces pressing down on Denwen's shoulders. His mind was a battlefield, every decision a sword strike, every move a gamble between life and death.
The chessboard stretched out before him, no longer just a simple game, but a war-torn land where his allies stood as living pieces, bound by unseen forces that dictated their movements. The opposition, led by the spectral Queen in her pale, expressionless majesty, loomed over them like a reaper. Every move she made was swift, calculated, merciless. She did not speak, yet Denwen could feel her presence suffocating the board, her influence spreading like a creeping plague.
A knight moved, steel greaves scraping against the marble floor, and a bishop followed, robes fluttering as a diagonal path of light illuminated his route. The clash of essence resounded, magic flaring as a captured piece exploded into shimmering dust. The game had reached a fever pitch, and every participant felt it—their lives hung by the slender thread of Denwen's choices.
He swallowed hard.
"Bishop takes C2," Denwen commanded, his voice cutting through the thick silence.
Elara's eyes widened as the board responded. The tile beneath her feet glowed, and a brilliant diagonal streak of light traced a path toward the opposition's knight. She hesitated, fear glimmering in her emerald gaze, but the unseen force compelling her body left her no room for doubt. Her hands came together, and a burst of radiance shot forth. It struck the enemy knight with crushing force, an explosion of golden essence disintegrating the figure where it stood.
Across the board, the Queen narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, displeasure ghosting across her usually impassive face. Without a word, a goblin pawn lurched forward, its gnarled hands grasping at a vulnerable piece and crushing it effortlessly.
The game was shifting back and forth, each side trading blows, each move leading them further down an unknown path. The tension mounted. Elara trembled, her breaths shallow and ragged. Roran, who had yet to move, sat stiffly, watching Denwen with a silent plea in his eyes. Garrick, stationed deep in enemy territory as a knight, clenched his fists, understanding all too well the gravity of their situation.
Denwen was playing not just to win—but to survive.
Yet survival was never simple.
The Queen made her move.
She advanced toward Roran, her form gliding across the board, her piercing gaze locking onto him like a predator stalking its prey. A pawn stood in his path, offering a fragile barrier, but there was only one true defense—Garrick.
Denwen's heart pounded. The realization struck like a hammer to his chest. If Garrick moved to defend, they would lose an offensive advantage. If he attacked instead, Roran would be left to die.
"Ren!" Roran's voice cracked with desperation, his hands gripping the sides of his seat. "Come on, do something! Don't let her take me!"
Denwen's breath hitched. His mind spun, unraveling every possibility, every angle. His pieces were too far—his bishop trapped, his pawn an insufficient defense. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. His hand hovered over the board, fingers trembling.
"Hey, kid," Garrick's voice broke through the chaos, steady despite the storm raging around them. "You can use me."
Denwen turned to him, eyes wide.
"I can defend," Garrick continued, voice resolute. "Use me against her."
Elara gasped, hands clutched to her chest, tears forming in her eyes. She had fallen to her knees, unwilling to watch the decision unfold.
Denwen clenched his jaw. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Then, suddenly—
A revelation.
His eyes flicked across the board, tracing paths, unseen connections forming in his mind. A move. A move that changed everything.
A smile, sharp and triumphant, tugged at his lips.
"Knight to C6."
A flicker of light.
Then silence.
The entire board seemed to still.
Roran slumped forward, his breath escaping in a shudder. Garrick's eyes widened in disbelief. Elara held her breath.
Denwen let out a low chuckle. "Let me see that cocky smile now," he sneered, his voice brimming with defiance.
The Queen's statue-like face shifted. A frown.
A royal check would place the enemy king and queen under check simultaneously as in most situations the Queen ends up getting captured but this was different.
It was battlefield check.
It was not just a simple attack—it was a masterpiece of war. The opposition's rook, their bishop, their King, and their Queen—all placed in simultaneous danger.
Four pieces, trapped under threat.
Garrick stood at the center of it all, the knight who had changed the battlefield in an instant.
For the first time, the enemy was at a disadvantage.
But then—
The Queen smiled.
Denwen's breath caught. A chill slithered down his spine.
The board lit up. A white knight's square glowed ominously. A path traced through the board—cutting straight to Garrick.
Denwen's stomach plummeted.
The tile beneath Garrick's feet burned red.
Elara's scream cut through the air. "No! Garrick!"
Roran turned, his face twisted in helpless despair. "Ren!" he muttered helplessly looking at Denwen hoping he could do something.
Denwen stared in horror, his mind clawing for a way out, an alternative, a miracle—
But there was none.
A cold, sharp neigh echoed as the spectral knight advanced. Its warhorse stepped forward, hooves clicking against marble, each sound a slow, cruel drumbeat of inevitability.
Garrick exhaled. He turned to Denwen, offering a small, tired smile. His lips moved, mouthing words Denwen could barely process—
"I'm sorry."
The knight raised its scythe.
The blade descended.
A single, clean strike.
Garrick's head separated from his body.
Blood spurted, crimson painting the board. His form crumpled—then, like a sandcastle washed away by the tide, he disintegrated into nothingness.
The hall fell into suffocating silence.
Denwen couldn't breathe.
His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his skin. His vision blurred, a haze of shock, fury, and grief.
He tried everything possible to keep everyone alive but a slight mistake of not properly over looking the board properly would probably cause him two of his team mates.
-----
Outside—
The distant wail of sirens.
Enforcement officers gathered around the unstable dungeon gate, their vehicles forming a perimeter. Yellow caution tape fluttered in the wind, cordoning off the area. The captain, a grizzled man with a cigar pressed between his lips, stepped out of a hover van, surveying the scene with narrowed eyes.
He exhaled, a thick plume of smoke escaping into the night air.
"It's been over six hours," he muttered, his voice laced with weary apprehension. "And still nothing."
His gaze flicked toward the gate, a distorted, swirling void of unstable energy.
"The best-case scenario is that this thing collapses without an incident," he mused, rolling the cigar between his fingers.
"But with how unstable it looks right now…"
He took another slow drag, his eyes dark with foreboding.
"…we might already be too late."