Near the Great River, on a land covered in frost and fog, the armies of the two kingdoms stood face to face. Thousands of warriors clutched swords and shields, their eyes fixed, their breaths cold, their bodies awaiting orders that never came.
But something seemed… strange.
Despite the protective armor and deadly swords, this was no ordinary battlefield.
Behind the ranks of soldiers, wooden stands were built, filled with the nobles and dignitaries of the two kingdoms, as if they had come to watch a theatrical performance—not a fateful war. Laughter was muffled, polite whispers were exchanged, and glasses gleamed between fingers.
In the center, on a raised dais of black marble, sat the two kings: King Julius, the "Golden Lion," and the Old King of the Iron Kingdom. They sat facing each other, with a chessboard made of dark green stone between them. The pieces weren't black and white—Julius's pieces were made of solid gold, while his opponent's were made of solid iron, all in the shape of traditional chess pieces.
Beside the two kings sat the cloaked enchantress, completely covered except for her face. She didn't say a word. She sat silently, as if waiting for a single sign to begin an epic written long ago.
Julius leaned slightly toward his opponent and said with a smile,
"Remember the first rule? This isn't just any chess game...it's the game of the dead."
"Of course," the old king replied with a faint smile.
"That's exactly why I came."
Julius nodded toward the field and said:
"The stage is set...and the pawns await the command."
Then he turned to the enchantress and whispered,
"Let it begin."
The enchantress stood and threw her strange barrier onto the battlefield. Damon's breath formed pale clouds in the freezing air as he stood in the rear, sword in hand. Beside him, the elite unit of archers readied their crossbows, their eyes sharp but uncertain.
He looked ahead.
Smith, the young soldier cowering in the lead, clutched his spear as if it were the only thing tethering him to life. His hands shook violently, fear dancing in his eyes.
Suddenly, Damon's gaze shifted
The enemy's right flank was moving.
Only that part of the army. The rest remained eerily still.
"Why?"
He stared through the fog.
Their movements were... "unnatural."
Jerky. Forced. As if invisible strings were pulling them forward.
Like puppets.
A shiver ran down Damon's spine.
This isn't war.
This is something else.
Then it happened again
Their left-hand battalion suddenly advanced.
Damon's eyes widened.
He looked directly at Smith.
The young soldier's body trembled even more now, his face twisted in panic as if his limbs were no longer under his control.
He was resisting... his own body.
"How could one resist one's own body?"
"And how could a body betray its owner?"
Screams erupted.
Not from wounds—but from terror.
Both the advancing battalions—on opposite flanks—were screaming with bewilderment and terror, their voices hoarse, echoing like a curse across the frost-covered battlefield.
And all the while,
The crowd of nobles was laughing.
Unfazed. Amused. As if watching a cruel play, not a descent into madness.
Damon tightened his grip on his sword.
Despite his inability to move, he finally understood.
This wasn't a test of strength...
It was a game.
played by kings.
A game that makes them pawns on a chessboard.