Greed’s Gambit

I don’t move. I can’t. The chains bite into my skin when I shift too hard, so I stay still—watching.

The pyramid looms above me like a god that never sleeps. Cold. Massive. Unforgiving. Each of its steps stretches wide enough to hold a person comfortably, but the ones seated now make the entire structure feel cramped with pressure.

And every pair of eyes is fixed on me.

I already know what this is.

They’re waiting.

Judging.

Waiting for someone to make the first move.

And it’s not me.

The first to rise is exactly who I expect—Rage.

He stands tall, taller than I remember, his shoulders crackling with heat. Every breath he takes sends out smoke, rising from the seared cracks across his chest. His body looks like it’s been forged in a furnace—muscles carved from ash and coal, veins glowing like molten metal under his skin.

His hair is short, almost charred, black at the roots with red tips that flicker like embers. In his right hand, he grips a long, burning sword. The blade bends slightly, not from damage but from heat—constantly shifting like it’s too angry to stay solid.

He steps down one level toward me.

The flames on his shoulders flare with the motion.

His voice booms—raw and heavy, echoing in this strange skyless void that surrounds the pyramid like a storm that never moves.

“Back in chains again, broom boy?” Rage grunts, dragging the sword behind him. Sparks trail across the stone as if it hates being held back. “You always try to sweep up the storm, but you never last.”

I meet his eyes.

I don’t say anything. What’s the point?

He always says something like this. Always the same opening line, as if he needs to remind me I’m weak before we even start talking.

Still, he grins—wild and sharp. There’s no warmth in it, just the thrill of a fight waiting to happen.

“Say something, Mr. Average,” he taunts, lowering the sword to the obsidian floor beside me. “Or have you already given up?”

I shift slightly, the chains clinking again. A jolt of pain shoots up my arms as they pull tight against the bolts.

I clench my jaw.

“I’m still here,” I mutter. “That’s all that matters.”

Rage laughs—loud and explosive.

“Still here?” he spits. “That’s your bar for success now? Breathing?”

He lifts his sword again and points the burning tip toward the throne high above us. Its curved seat catches a glint of red from the fire, glowing like fresh blood under moonlight.

“That’s the seat of control,” he growls. “And you don’t have what it takes to keep it.”

I look past him, up the pyramid.

They’re all still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

And Rage isn’t wrong.

I’ve been losing control.

Bit by bit.

And now they’ve all come to take what little’s left.

The sound of fabric brushing stone draws my eyes left.

A figure steps out of the dark, his golden cloak rippling unnaturally as if caught in a wind no one else can feel. His movements are smooth, calculated, like he’s already counted every step between me and the throne. The hem of his cloak gleams, embroidered with tiny golden eyes that blink in and out of existence. His own eyes swirl—five pupils in each iris, always shifting, never blinking.

Greed.

He smiles, slow and sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk.

“Oh, he stares,” Greed muses, voice smooth and dripping with amusement. He raises a single gloved hand and gestures at me lazily.

“But he’s broken inside. He’s soft. Too soft to rule.” His eyes glint with hunger. “You know it’s temporary, Average. You’ll hand it back. You always do.”

I exhale sharply, lifting my chin just enough to meet his gaze. “I didn’t ask for your thoughts.”

Greed chuckles, and the sound slithers through the air like smoke. “No. But you always listen, don’t you?” His eyes narrow slightly. “You have to. I know too much.”

Before I can respond, another figure rises.

This one doesn’t step forward—he ascends. Slow, deliberate. His every movement screams elegance, authority, disdain. His robes are deep violet, almost black in the dim light, and trimmed in silver. Floating just above his head is a cracked golden crown that glows with faint pride and bitterness.

Pride.

He doesn’t even look at me at first—his chin is tilted upward like he’s addressing a crowd I can’t see. When he finally does glance down, it’s with contempt that cuts colder than Fear’s whispers.

“This is insulting,” he says flatly, like the words taste rotten. “To be ruled by a mirage pretending to be whole. You are not Winter. You are just his mask.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

I breathe out, forced and low. “Better a mask than a liar.”

Pride’s lip curls, but he doesn’t respond. His silence is louder than Rage’s threats.

Then I feel it. The shift.

Like cold mist crawling over skin. A tremor that’s more emotional than physical.

From the side, Fear emerges, half-shrouded in a gray hood that swallows most of his face. He’s hunched, like he’s expecting the world to hit him any second. His fingers twitch at his sides, clenching and unclenching in a rhythm that doesn’t match anything.

His eyes... they dart. Constantly. Not out of curiosity—out of dread.

“They hate you,” he whispers. His voice is barely audible, like someone speaking through a cracked mirror. “They’ll leave. They’ll all leave. You’ll be alone.”

I shut my eyes for a second.

Just a second.

“You always say that.”

Fear doesn’t blink. “Because it’s always true.”

He steps back, fading into the gloom, but I know he’s still watching. He always is.

The next sound is strange—like ice breaking under silk.

Click. Click. Click.

He’s descending. Graceful, mechanical.

Logic.

He wears a pale blue suit with sharp lines and colder edges. His skin looks polished like porcelain, but his eyes glow cold white, flickering like some machine behind glass. His hands are behind his back. He doesn’t look at me like a person. Just a variable.

“This setup is inefficient,” he says with no emotion, stepping into view. “He reacts emotionally. He hesitates. Replace him.”

“Screw off.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

But he doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. He simply nods once and steps aside, as if recording the data for future processing.

Then—

A laugh.

Soft.

Melodic.

Wrong.

The shadows at the edge of the pyramid swirl into a whirlpool of darkness, folding inward until they reveal a figure crouched upside down on one of the steps—legs over the edge like he’s lounging in reverse.

He wears a stitched smile across his porcelain mask. The mask is cracked. Not broken—perfectly cracked. Like it was done for style. His black clothes hang loosely, ribbons trailing like puppet strings caught in a wind I don’t feel.

In one hand, he flips a small, spiral coin.

The Dark.

He doesn’t walk.

He slides—effortless. Like the laws of physics look away when he moves.

He crouches on the step closest to me and hums, still spinning the coin.

“Coward in denial of his strength,” he sings, and then tilts his head like a curious child. “But adorable.”

I look away.

The steps are filling now.

And they all want the same thing.

Control.

A soft glow rises behind the others.

It’s pink. Gentle. Warm. The kind of color that makes you think of sunsets and old memories. It hums low, like a lullaby.

A girl steps forward.

She’s barefoot, walking like the stone doesn’t hurt her. Her dress flows around her like it's made of smoke and flower petals—soft rose, almost glowing. Her arms wrap around herself like she's afraid to fall apart. Her eyes, though... they’re heavy. Sad. Like she's carrying every heartbreak I’ve ever had.

The Love.

She looks at me—not with judgment, not with pride—but with something far worse: pity.

“You’re what we always wanted to be,” she says quietly. Her voice sounds like someone trying not to cry. “But you’re not real. We made you up so we could survive.”

I grit my teeth.

“I’m not fake,” I say.

The words sting as they leave my mouth. Not because they’re a lie—but because I’m starting to wonder if I’m trying to convince her or myself.

She doesn’t answer. Just nods once. Her feet brush the obsidian floor and she steps back into the light that clings to her like a fading dream.

Then, the shadows shift.

They split slightly, like parting for someone they respect. And through them steps a man robed in soft yellow light. His robe is simple—plain—but it glows faintly, like the first light of dawn. His face is gentle, kind, older than the others. His hands are open, not in defense, not in threat—but in welcome.

The Light.

He kneels beside me.

Not above.

Beside.

And for the first time since I woke up here, I don’t feel judged.

“You’re the only one who listens,” he says softly. “Don’t let them break you.”

I swallow hard. His presence doesn’t burn or chill—it steadies.

I nod, even if I don’t know why.

Then, a flicker.

High up—almost at the throne—one last figure appears. Hooded, quiet, wrapped in a cloak the color of a fading sky before sunrise. A single star floats above their head, tiny, flickering, like it’s fighting to stay lit. They don’t move much. They just stand, still and certain.

The Hope.

Their voice is quiet, but somehow I hear it clearer than the rest.

“He’s the glue,” they say. “If he breaks, we all fall apart.”

The words wrap around the whole pyramid like a seal. Nobody argues. Nobody mocks.

Silence falls.

A rare silence.

Even the chains feel lighter, like they’re listening too.

I shift, the metal rattling softly as I look up again.

The top.

The Seat of Control waits—still untouched.

Not for long.

I know it.

One of them will climb again. One of them will fight to sit there.

And next time… I might not be strong enough to stop them.

--------------------------------------------------

The silence stretches for a beat too long.
Heavy. Electric. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

Then—

A shift.

Logic rises.

He moves with mechanical precision, as if every motion has been calculated down to the microsecond. His skin is porcelain-pale, nearly translucent under the cool, ethereal blue light pulsing from the obsidian torches that line the inner walls. His robe is rigid, navy trimmed with silver lines like circuit patterns. His icy-blue eyes don’t blink—they pierce.

“It’s time,” he says.

No emotion. No hesitation.

Just a verdict.

The words drop like a guillotine.
A ripple echoes across the black pyramid’s interior—deep and thunderous, like a distant war drum calling soldiers to arms.
My chest tightens. A cold sweat kisses my spine.
Fingers twitch involuntarily against the obsidian floor. The chains around my wrists jingle, mocking me.

Then I see him.

Dark Winter.

He unfolds his limbs from a seated position three steps above me—uncrosses his legs like a prince rising from a throne. The black stone beneath him seems to recoil with a low groan. His coat—long, pitch-black, and whispering like curling smoke—trails behind him as he moves. His eyes shimmer with chaos, bottomless and wild beneath a controlled exterior. A permanent smirk curves his lips.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

Each step he takes echoes.

Each step is a declaration.
He ascends the pyramid, slow and deliberate, toward the vacant throne at the top.

I jerk forward, instinct overriding reason.
The chains on my wrists yank taut. Cold steel bites into my skin.

“Wait! What’s happening?” I demand, my voice sharp, breath catching.

From above, Rage lets out a gravelly huff, a plume of smoke rising from his shoulders. He crouches like a beast held barely in check, crimson skin glowing with molten cracks. His hair is wild flames, eyes a burning furnace. A glowing sword made of sheer fury pulses in his hand, chained to him by links of molten lava.

“We’re not here to waste time,” he growls, voice rumbling like a volcano about to erupt. “We’re here to decide who takes the throne.”

I blink.
“The throne?” The words tumble from my mouth, tasting like ash. “But… I…”

Logic’s cold gaze doesn’t waver. His hands are folded behind his back, back straight like a statue carved from ice.

“You’re not fit to sit there,” he says, monotone, as if listing a fact. “We’ve tolerated your kindness long enough. You’re good, Orion, but good isn’t enough to do what needs to be done.”

My hands ball into fists.

I yank at the chain again—harder this time.

“And you think you’re better?” I shout. My voice bounces off the dark stone, swallowed by the shadows above. “You think you can handle my life better than I can?”

Dark Winter pauses mid-ascent.

Halfway to the summit, he turns.

His eyes burn like stars collapsing into black holes. The weight of his gaze hits me like a punch to the gut. Even Rage, wild and furious, flinches slightly at the pressure rolling off him.

“I know I can,” Dark Winter replies.

His voice is soft. Too soft. Like the whisper of a knife sliding between ribs.

“You hesitate. You falter. You care.”

He points upward, toward the obsidian throne bathed in soft blue fire.

“And that’s your weakness.”

The throne pulses. A chill wind courses through the chamber. Shadows ripple across the pyramid’s surface like breath.

Then—light.

A new voice.

Soft. Calm.

Firm.

Light Winter steps forward.

He’s cloaked in radiant white robes that shift with the colors of sunrise—soft gold, warm amber, gentle silver. His presence hums with serenity, a stillness that soothes the air. His silver-blonde hair drapes neatly over his shoulders. A faint halo of light surrounds him, as if the very space around him refuses to cast shadow.

He raises one hand—not to attack, not to command—but in protection.

“Enough,” he says. His voice is dawn breaking after the longest night.

“Orion isn’t weak. He’s everything he needs to be—everything we need him to be.”

Dark Winter laughs.

One bark. Sharp. Cruel.

Mocking.

“Spare me your speeches, saint.”

He turns his back to Light Winter without hesitation and continues ascending.

“We’ve been stuck with this version of him for too long.” His voice rises with each step. “It’s time someone took control who actually understands how to survive.”

Light steps forward slowly, his hands relaxed at his sides, his presence calm like still water before dawn.

“This version of Orion is the best version,” he says, his voice steady, like a calm bell echoing in a storm.

“He’s balanced. He’s strong. He’s learned to fight, yes—but he’s also learned to care.”

He looks up at the throne, not in hunger, but in reverence.

“That’s why he deserves the throne—not you, not me. Him.”

Dark Winter scoffs. Just one breath, sharp and dismissive. He flicks his hand sideways, like swatting away a fly.

“You’re wrong. As always.”

Suddenly—crack!

The ground beneath me glows red, glowing like molten lava beneath obsidian skin. And before I can blink—
Chains.

They shoot up from the stone like striking serpents—fast, merciless.

SLAM—

One wraps around my right wrist, smashing it down to the black stone.The next whips around my neck.

Tight. Crushing.

My breath catches.

My head jerks down violently.

“Ngh—!”

My throat burns. My eyes blur. I fight it. I fight hard. But the chains are thick and alive. They pulse with Dark Winter’s energy—wild and oppressive.

Every link is like fire and ice, crushing and freezing at the same time. The pressure presses in on my skull, pushing me lower. My knees dig into the pyramid’s smooth obsidian floor. Cold. Unforgiving. Heavy.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

Above me, I hear it.

“Playtime is over,” Dark Winter says.

His voice isn’t raised. It doesn’t need to be.

It’s low. Calm. Deadly.

He ascends the final steps with the grace of a king returning home.

Each footstep hits with purpose, echoing like drumbeats—like the end of a sentence. His black cloak flows behind him, almost alive, dragging across the pyramid like a storm cloud crawling over a graveyard.

“I’m taking control now.”

He plants one foot on the final step—just beneath the throne. The Seat of Consciousness glows faintly above him, carved into a single curved black stone. The shape isn’t inviting. It’s sharp. Heavy. Meant for the one willing to carry the weight.

Dark Winter doesn’t hesitate.
He stares at it with hunger—and knowing. Like it belongs to him.

“And I’ll show you what it really means to live.”

The chains tighten on my wrists. On my neck.
Not enough to knock me out—but enough to remind me I’m not in control.

I grit my teeth. The fury in my chest isn’t fear. It’s rage. Rage that burns hotter than the chains biting into me. I kneel. Not by choice. But because I’ve been forced.

The torches along the walls flicker as he passes. Their blue flames dim, like they’re afraid.
Afraid of him.

The air thickens. The whole realm holds its breath.
Even the pyramid seems to groan beneath his presence.

Then—Light Winter moves again.

He doesn't raise his voice—but there’s an edge now. A sharpness beneath the calm.

“You’ll destroy him,” he says.

His eyes aren’t soft anymore. They’ve gone sharp—steel beneath silk.

Dark Winter doesn’t turn.

His voice hisses through the silence.

“Better destroyed… than weak.”

I yank on the chains again—hard. My wrists scream in protest, the metal searing my skin. I can barely lift my head, but I shout anyway.

“Get back here!” My voice echoes, bouncing off the black walls of the mind realm.

“I’m not done! This is my mind—my throne! You don’t get to take it from me!”

Dark Winter doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even look back.

“Then stop me.”

His voice slices through the air, cold and final. It settles over the realm like frost, sharp enough to cut.

I feel my heartbeat slam against my ribs. My chest heaves. The pyramid feels taller now—colder. Darker. Shadows ripple with every step Dark Winter takes, coiling at his boots like silent beasts. They follow him with quiet devotion, dragging behind his long, black coat like torn pieces of night.

Halfway up the steps, Rage halts.

“This far is enough for me,” he rumbles, his voice like thunder cracking through a burning forest. His skin is stone and flame—deep red cracks glow like magma across his chest and shoulders. Smoke rolls from his mouth as he exhales.

“I’ve done my part. Go, King. Claim what’s yours.”

He plants his feet and folds his arms, a sentinel of fury holding his post. Dark Winter gives him a small nod and climbs past without a word.

From the side, mist thickens.

A shape slithers into view—tall, thin, and twisted. The cloak he wears isn’t cloth—it’s fog. Shifting, twitching, like it’s breathing. His hood hides everything but his eyes—wide, twitchy, pale like faded glass.

Fear.

“Majesty,” he purrs, voice barely above a whisper. It slides across my skin like cold breath on the back of my neck. “I will remain here... ensure no one interferes. No one will see what they’re not meant to see.”

Dark Winter’s shadow pulses—one sharp beat.

Fear smiles and fades into mist again, disappearing between the cracks in the pyramid.

Then—footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Logic steps out.

He walks like a judge about to pass sentence. His robe is pale ice blue, smooth and still. His silver hair is slicked back perfectly, not a strand out of place. His eyes… they’re empty. No warmth. No hate. Just calculation.

He stops one step below the throne.

“I’ll wait here,” he says flatly, his voice the same temperature as his skin. “If anyone dares follow, I’ll cut them down where they stand.”

No threat. Just fact.

And then—he’s there.

Dark Winter reaches the top.

The final step is just ahead. The throne looms—massive and sharp. A single, black triangle of stone curved inward like a seat carved for a god. Veins of crimson glow faintly beneath its surface, pulsing slow… like a heartbeat.

It’s alive.

It’s waiting.

Dark Winter lifts his foot, ready to take that last step—

Then a golden hand grabs his wrist.

Greed.

He looks like royalty from a forgotten empire—draped in robes of molten gold, fabric shimmering with patterns of twisting eyes and runes only the greedy would dare to understand. His skin glows faintly, warm like treasure under torchlight. Every ring on his fingers looks stolen from gods. And those eyes…

Golden. Alive. With too many pupils. Dozens. All moving, rotating like clockwork. Watching everything.

Greed.

Dark Winter pauses mid-step.

His head turns, slow and sharp, like a sword tracking its target. His pitch-black eyes narrow—blades drawn.

“Why do you stop me, Greed?” he asks.

No rage. Just cold.

Greed doesn’t flinch. He just smiles, polite as a prince at a funeral.

“My King,” he says smoothly, bowing slightly. Even his voice is layered, like he’s talking over himself—every word soaked in charm and poison. “I wouldn’t dare stop you. Only advise you. Let me speak.”

The pyramid holds its breath.

Dark Winter stares, unblinking. The shadow beneath his feet thickens like ink.

Then… he tilts his head slightly. Just enough to say: I’m listening.

“Speak,” he says.

Greed chuckles—soft, humble, calculated. He brushes imaginary dust from his shoulder, his bracelets clinking softly.

“You are the strongest of us—there’s no doubt. Your strength is unmatched, your presence... commanding.” He steps forward, smooth as poured wine. “But,” he continues, lowering his voice, “why waste our most powerful piece so soon?”

Dark Winter’s coat twitches behind him, reacting like it doesn’t like the idea.

“Explain,” he growls.

Greed nods once. “Let me hold the throne—for now,” he says, placing a hand against his chest.

“I will handle the diplomacy. The reconstruction. The allies. The masks. You don’t need to dirty your hands with foundations.”

He circles Dark Winter now, slow and confident. Like a vulture flattering a lion.

“You deserve the final move,” he whispers. “The killing blow. But someone has to set the board.”

Dark Winter’s shadow writhes.

“Why would you deserve the throne,” he asks, voice a razor sliding across stone, “even for a moment?”

Greed leans in. Closer than anyone should be to a living storm. And he smiles.

“Because I know the cost of power,” he says. “I understand the value of sacrifice. The danger of reputation. The seduction of secrets.” His voice lowers to a hiss. “And because unlike you… I know how to smile while I lie.”

A beat of silence.

Then another.

Dark Winter watches him—staring straight through him.

I can’t move. The chain on my neck pulls tighter every time I breathe. My wrists are bleeding now. My throat feels crushed. My heart’s a drum I can’t quiet.

Greed waits.

And then—Dark Winter lets go.

Fingers uncurled. Wrist released.

“Very well,” Dark Winter says, voice low and final. “You have your chance.”

He leans closer, one step from the throne.

“Do not waste it.”

Greed’s grin spreads. Wide. Controlled. Too clean to be honest.

He straightens his collar like he’s preparing for a speech. His eyes flick up to the seat of power—his steps light as he climbs the final stone.

I see the way his fingers twitch. How his breath catches. His eyes flick to me once, just once, like he knows I’m watching—like he wants me to.

He steps in front of the throne.

The veins of crimson running through the stone pulse faintly.

Greed’s hands hover over the seat’s curved armrests.

And he whispers—just loud enough for me to hear:

“It begins.”

And the realm... holds its breath.

I struggle against the chains, chest heaving.

No. No. No.

This isn't over.