King's Gambit

Scars gasped awake, his lungs dragging in sharp breaths as if he'd been drowning. His chest rose and fell, and the sweat cooled on his skin in the pre-dawn chill. The dream—if that’s what it had been—was already a smear at the edges of his memory, but the lingering weight clung to his chest.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet met the icy stone floor, sending a jolt up his spine. He exhaled slowly, futilely attempting to push the phantom dread from his mind. Across the room, his reflection glinted faintly in a polished steel mirror, catching his crimson eyes. He stared at the distorted image—a man stitched together by scars, his skin a patchwork of memories better left forgotten.

The thin light creeping through the high, narrow window cast a pale, ghostly glow on his face, revealing the jagged line that cut beneath his left eye. That one had been close—too close. He touched it briefly as his fingers traced its rough edge, then dropped his hand with a snort. 

He crossed to the basin and dunked his hands in the water, splashing his face. The cold bit into him, shocking him awake like no nightmare could. Droplets trickled down his neck, vanishing into the ridges of his old injuries. He straightened, precision-tying his dark hair back with a leather strip.

The armor stood by the bedside, reminding him of his duty. Each piece bore its history—scratches, dents, and repairs that marked its time as much as his own. He pulled it on methodically, strapping on the greaves, fastening the vambraces, and adjusting the breastplate until it settled against him like a second skin.

Finally, he reached for his boots, tugging them into place before giving the straps a firm tug. Fully dressed, he paused for one last glance around the room. It was enough to have bare walls, a narrow cot, and a single chair—more than enough.

His boots echoed softly in the stone corridor as he stepped into the waiting silence of the Crimson capital. Somewhere ahead, the city was waking, but the stillness was his current command.

The capital of the Red Clan was a monument to power—its towers piercing the sky and its streets pulsing with the disciplined movement of soldiers and scholars alike. Scars strode through the main thoroughfare, with every step echoing a promise: Soon, Renjiro would be found.

But not yet.

The summons to the grand Crimson Hall delayed his departure. Duty required him to attend, and he wouldn’t dare defy orders. The hall loomed ahead, its spires draped in crimson banners bearing the black rose emblem of the Dynasty. At its gates, guards stood still, their spears crossing in unison as Scars approached. They parted without a word, recognizing the mark of a high-ranking soldier etched into his bracers.

Inside, the hall unfolded in breathtaking grandeur. Pillars of dark stone rose to dizzying heights, their surfaces engraved with the history of the Dynasty’s conquests.  Nobles dressed in flowing crimson robes mingled with scholars, their hushed voices filling the air with an undercurrent of tension.

Scars moved to his designated seat near the lower balcony. Above him, on the grand balcony reserved for the highest ranks, sat General Zira, her crimson armor glinting in the light. She leaned back, alone enough to command the room's attention, though she did not speak.

The performance began.

Dancers moved across the stage, their crimson-clad forms weaving a tale of battle and triumph. The drums pounded like the beat of war, the flutes shrieking like the cries of the defeated. It was a reenactment of the Dynasty’s conquest of the day Theron united the scattered Crimson nobles and forged the Empire into a single, unbreakable force.

Beside him, Zaryph, King Theron’s advisor, sat with a measured grace. His robes were an intricate weave of black and deep crimson embroidered with the Dynasty’s sigils. He watched the performance below with the faintest of smiles.

“Are you ready for your mission, Scars?”

“I am,” Scars replied. “The human will be found.”

Zaryph tilted slightly, “And what do you think of him? A human... wielding lumina. It’s unheard of, isn’t it?”

Scars nodded slowly. “Unreal,” he said, his voice low. “Human bodies can’t handle lumina. They’re not... built for it.”

Zaryph’s faint smile deepened. “And yet, here we are. It shouldn’t be possible, but it is. Perhaps this Renjiro is an anomaly. Or perhaps... he’s a sign of something more.”

Scars frowned the weight of Zaryph’s words settling uneasily in his mind. Before he could reply, Zaryph leaned closer, his voice dropping.

“Do you know why King Theron is eager to find the coordinate?”

Scars hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Only that it’s important.”

Zaryph’s gaze flicked to the stage below, where the dancers reenacted the final battle against the nobles. “Theron has been having visions,” Zaryph said softly. “Dreams, as he calls them. He claims he’s seen a future—a way to end this war once and for all. To achieve that in the future, we need to coordinate.”

“A future?” Scars repeated, “So we’re acting on a dream? How do we know this coordinate is even real?”

Zaryph leaned back, “You’re not the only one asking that question. Some nobles believe Theron is chasing illusions, that he’s drifting into madness. But tell me, Scars—if the coordinate is real, wouldn’t it be worth the cost? A way to end the centuries of bloodshed? To uncover why this war began in the first place?”

Scars didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked out over the hall, his gaze lingering on the dancers. “What if it’s not real? We've been searching for this for the past 3 years. How many human settlements will be searched? How many more of our men must die?”

Zaryph exhaled, his tone turning contemplative. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the cost will pale compared to the truth we uncover about why our predecessors fought among themselves and why the Azeron Guardians remain relentless. Why we, as a world, cannot seem to stop devouring one another.”

Scars’ jaw tightened. “And what of the humans?” he asked. “We take them, destroy their villages, and promise them a choice after a month. What sense is there in letting them go? To live among us and resent us for what we’ve done?”

Zaryph’s gaze sharpened, his expression unreadable. “There is much you don’t know about this world, Scars. But if the coordinate is real, it may hold the answers to everything. The wars, the hatred, the truths buried beneath it all.”

He paused, his voice lowering to a near-whisper. “Kill the dove, and you’re a monster. Kill the rat. You’re a savior. Squash the ants, and no one even cares to acknowledge them. This world quickly decides who the hero is and who the villain is, but it refuses to see what lies beneath the surface—the truths no one dares to acknowledge.”

Scars frowned, his thoughts racing as Zaryph continued.

“Out of all the death and loss from both sides, do you think the Blue Clan is ready to forgive? Or are they simply waiting to destroy the evil they believe we are?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

Scars glanced back at the stage, watching as the dancers fell into a tableau of victory—the nobles kneeling before Theron’s actor, their crimson banners lowered in defeat. 

His mission awaited. But the questions Zaryph had raised clung to him and refused to be shaken.

The Crimson Hall fell silent as the highest podium in the chamber lit with a vivid crimson glow. The Dynasty banners flared as if alive, their black rose insignias stark against the blood-red light. Every noble, scholar, and soldier turned toward the podium.

And then, he appeared.

King Theron ascended the podium with the grace of a predator, his black and crimson robes flowing like liquid shadows. His presence filled the room, and his aura of authority was so palpable that it seemed to crush the air. His dark eyes swept over the hall, silencing even the faintest murmurs of the crowd.

Scars felt the weight of Theron’s gaze, though it did not linger on him. He straightened in his seat, his heart pounding despite himself. This was no ordinary event—he could feel it in the tension that gripped the room.

Theron raised a single hand, and the crimson light of the podium intensified.

“Loyal nobles, devoted scholars, and warriors of the Crimson Dynasty—hear me,” Theron began, “Today marks a new chapter in our Empire’s history.”

“As you all know, a wild card has appeared—a human who wields the power of lumina, a force beyond what their kind should ever possess. He is an anomaly. An unknown. And he must be found. His name is Renjiro.”

Scars felt a shiver run down his spine. The King’s focus on Renjiro was clear, but there was more—something deeper in his tone that suggested Renjiro’s existence challenged the very foundation of the Dynasty.

“But this is not the only matter before us. We have ruled with strength for too long, as is our right. But strength alone cannot forge the future we seek.”

The hall remained utterly silent, every eye fixed on the King.

“After deliberation with my council, I have decided that we must take a bold step forward. We will select one among the humans brought into our fold. One among them will be given the chance, for the first time in the history of the Crimson Dynasty, to prove their worth and join the ranks of our nobles.”

The room erupted.

Nobles leaned forward in their seats, their faces twisted in disbelief and outrage. Scholars whispered furiously to one another. Even the soldiers glanced at each other uneasily, their discipline momentarily faltering.

Scars' thoughts raced. A human... as a noble? The idea was unthinkable, contradicting everything the Dynasty had stood for.

Theron raised his hand again, and the hall instantly fell silent.

“This decision is not made lightly,” he said. “It is made with purpose. The chosen human will serve as a bridge, a symbol of unity, proving that even the lowest can rise if they serve the Crimson Dynasty with unwavering loyalty.”

Theron’s gaze swept over the hall, his eyes dark and piercing. “The traditions of the past do not bind the future of the Crimson Dynasty. It is forged by strength and the will to evolve. 

Scars sat frozen, his thoughts a storm of disbelief and confusion. Theron’s announcement had shattered the foundations of everything he thought he understood about the Dynasty. And yet, there was a small, uneasy part of him that couldn’t help but wonder: What game is the King truly playing?