The war room was quieter than the sanctum.
But no less oppressive.
Maps of the empire lined the walls—ancient parchment yellowed by time, borders inked and re-inked across generations. Under my presence, the lines shifted, shadows subtly distorting provinces and trade routes as though the land itself bent toward darker outcomes.
A long ebony table dominated the chamber.
Reports lay scattered across it. Daggers. Sealed letters. And a smaller chessboard—portable, utilitarian.
The great board was for communion.
This one was for war.
I stood before it, gloved fingers resting on the head of a white pawn.
Harlan Voss.
Soon to be erased.
Hours had passed since Vesper's departure. The ploy was already in motion. In the original novel, Lucius favored spectacle—armies clashing beneath blood-red skies, assassinations executed in public squares, villains who announced themselves with thunder and fire.
Effective.
And utterly predictable.
A man who paints himself as a monster invites heroes to sharpen their swords.
I preferred rot.
A disappearance. A rumor. Doubt seeded quietly, watered by fear.
Before belief hardened into truth, confirmation was required.
I crossed the chamber to the scrying pool.
A basin of liquid shadow rested against the far wall, its surface rippling without wind. With a single thought, I fed it intent.
Darkness deepened.
Then cleared.
The capital emerged in bird's-eye view—merchant districts glowing with lanternlight, avenues traced like veins. At the center stood Voss's manor, bloated and ostentatious, lit like a challenge to the night.
Vesper's team was already inside.
Three figures moved through the structure like living ink, darkness clinging to them as though reality itself hesitated to acknowledge their presence.
My shadows.
Vesper led. Even through the scry, her amber eyes glinted faintly.
They reached the study.
Harlan Voss sat hunched at his desk, poring over ledgers beneath a single mana-lamp. Portly. Balding. Sweat clung to his scalp despite the cool air.
Greed had made him sloppy.
Ambition had made him blind.
Vesper materialized behind him.
No announcement. No flourish.
A blade kissed his throat.
He froze.
"Wh—"
"Confirm the routes," Vesper whispered.
The blade pressed in. A thin red line bloomed.
Shadows surged, binding his wrists to the chair.
"N-northward passes," he stammered. "Hidden caravans. Mana crystals for the rebels. The Rayne seal—f-forged, I swear! They forced—"
Part lie. Part truth.
Enough.
In the novel, the Raynes trafficked in gray markets long before redemption scrubbed them clean. I was merely advancing the timeline.
"Good."
At Vesper's signal, a subordinate produced the documents.
Letters. Ledgers. Seals.
Shadow-inked. Perfect.
They were placed neatly inside the safe.
Open.
Inviting.
Then—
The end.
Shadows swallowed Voss whole.
No scream.
No blood.
Flesh unraveled into wisps of black, drawn inward—consumed, recycled, fed back into the darkness.
Into me.
Clean.
Irreversible.
Vesper placed the final piece on the desk.
A black king.
Obsidian. Thumb-sized. Its crown etched with faint runes that drank the lamplight instead of reflecting it.
A void where answers should be.
She lingered a heartbeat too long.
The scry flickered.
A guard burst into the study.
Too fast.
Some ward. Some hidden contingency.
His eyes locked onto the empty chair. The open safe. The king.
Horror dawned.
A shadow lashed out.
Too loud.
Too physical.
The guard hit the floor with a muffled thud, a strangled cry dying in his throat.
Risk.
In a manor full of servants, sound was dangerous.
Vesper glanced upward—toward the scry, toward me.
Then the team dissolved into the walls.
The pool stilled.
I exhaled slowly.
Imperfect.
But sufficient.
By morning, the capital would choke on uncertainty: a vanished guildmaster, treasonous evidence implicating a noble house, and a single black chess piece whispering of something far worse than murder.
White would panic.
And panic ruined calculations.
A knock cut through the room.
Precise. Disciplined.
"Enter."
Vesper stepped inside, hood lowered. Her features were sharp, controlled—eyes that missed nothing. In the original story, loyalty carried her until betrayal demanded drama.
I had no need for drama.
"It is done, my lord."
"Report."
She did not sit.
"Voss confirmed partial ties. Enough to support the narrative. Dissolution complete. Evidence planted." A pause. "A guard triggered a minor ward. He was silenced, but servants may have heard."
Ripples.
"And?"
Her gaze sharpened. "The manor felt… observed. Not guards. Not wards. Something else. Shadows not aligned with ours."
The knight's twitch.
The bishop's future move.
"Noted," I said evenly. "Increase surveillance. Double assets in the capital."
She bowed and withdrew, darkness following her like obedient hounds.
I returned to the scrying pool.
New intent.
The Imperial Academy.
The surface shifted.
A young man paced a lavish dormitory.
Golden hair. Green eyes burning with fury.
Leonhardt Rayne.
A letter lay crushed in his fist.
"They dare accuse my family?" he snarled. Mana flared uncontrolled, cracking stone beneath his palm. "I'll prove it. I'll find who—"
Friends rushed in.
Familiar faces.
The fiery swordswoman. The cool mage.
"Leon, wait—"
"No."
Light mana sparked wildly—premature, unstable.
In the novel, his awakening came later.
After tragedy.
After restraint failed.
Now?
Forced.
Too soon.
"I'm going home," he said, already reaching for his blade.
Perfect.
I released the scry.
White had accepted the gambit.
A poisoned pawn taken eagerly. A queen dragged into the open before the board was ready.
I returned to the portable board.
Advanced a black pawn.
Sacrifice acknowledged.
Then slid another piece quietly into promotion.
In reality, a minor informant at the academy felt shadow coil around their spine—strength, loyalty, fear intertwined.
A new queen, born unnoticed.
Power hummed.
But unease followed.
The sanctum called.
The great board awaited.
Most pieces remained as I had left them.
Except—
The white knight had advanced two squares.
Leonhardt.
Reckless. Predictable.
Beside it—
A bishop had moved.
Diagonal.
Toward the center.
Seraphina Voss.
A non-entity in the original story. A footnote. Dead off-screen.
She should not have moved.
No report. No catalyst.
No me.
I stared at the board.
This wasn't noise.
This was intent.
Another hand.
Another mind.
I knocked a neutral pawn off the board—irrelevant factions would burn first.
Then advanced a black rook.
Aggressive.
Unapologetic.
Whoever they were—
They had made a move.
And I did not play for survival.
I played to end the game.