The casino sparkled under phantom lights, its neon glow shimmering against walls rebuilt from fragments of timelines. Once, this place had been a prison of greed—Capone's gilded cage where souls wagered hope against despair. Now, it thrummed with a different life.
Guardians rested here, their weapons set aside for the first time in years. Enforcers lounged in velvet chairs, the collars of servitude gone, replaced by quiet indulgence. The air hummed with the clink of glasses, the shuffle of cards, the low murmur of those who had survived too much and were learning, awkwardly, to live.
Capone had seen to it himself. His empire of corruption was now a sanctuary of relaxation, a resort where old sins were poured into wine glasses and burned away in laughter.
Above the grand bar, the largest screen flickered to life.
A hush fell over the hall.
The broadcast cut to the void: a chessboard formed from roots, some glowing gold, others bleeding crimson, sprawled across an endless expanse. Two figures sat in their eternal seats, and between them stood a judge.
Sylva, crowned in woven gold, serene as Yggdrasil's flow.
Marisol, robed in gothic roses, eyes blazing with gold, her shadows restless as the Doom Tree.
And between them — Emrys, young Merlin, staff planted firm as the crystalline orb at its crown pulsed. His voice rang clear as a gavel.
"This is not war," he declared, eyes flicking across both queens. "This is judgment. A test of truth and balance. And you—" his gaze swept outward, piercing through the screen, into the casino itself, "—are the witnesses."
The silence broke in a rush of noise.
Enforcers leaned forward, snarling bets across the tables. Guardians smirked into their glasses. Chips clattered, drinks spilled, laughter and arguments crackled like electricity.
At the corner bar, the Sentinel tipped back a whiskey, crimson eyes fixed on the match. "Better than the old days," he muttered.
Amara raised her glass, a sly grin tugging her lips. "You're just glad no one's trying to kill us."
Kieran folded his arms, the faintest smile brushing his scarred face. "For now."
Capone himself leaned against the counter, suit sharp as ever, wine glass glinting like blood in his hand. "Place your bets, gentlemen. Light or shadow? Order or change?"
Even Captain Smith, sprawled across a velvet sofa, flicked his silver coin between two fingers, watching with predatory amusement.
Above them, the match began.
The board shimmered on screen, its surface alive with shifting echoes of history.
The board shimmered, Joan's pyre rising high, her bound silhouette defiant against the flames.
Sylva's hand hovered above her bishop, voice steady, patient as a tide.
"She was chosen by trial. Her suffering gave birth to faith that outlasted kingdoms. If you change her fate, you unmake the strength she left behind."
Her piece slid across the board, golden roots winding around the fire, holding it steady.
Behind Marisol's chair her most trusted enforcer. Detective Garrison leaned close, voice low but sharp in her ear.
"She's baiting you with legacy. Don't let her box you in. Play the person, not the history."
Marisol's golden eyes narrowed. She moved her knight, its thorns coiling around the fire until Joan's figure flickered, the ropes straining at her wrists.
"Strength?" she countered, her voice like velvet dragged over glass. "Your light didn't save her, Sylva. It lit the pyre. You call it sacrifice—I call it abandonment."
The board rippled violently, Joan's image shuddering as if torn between two paths.
From the casino floor, a Guardian's voice cut through the noise. Emilio rose from his seat at the bar, eyes locked on the board.
"Her death defined nations," he said, the words carrying weight. He looked briefly to Sophia beside him, and her two step children nodded like echoes of his conviction. "Her flame burned brighter because it was short."
"Martyrdom's just a pretty word for murder!" an Enforcer spat back. "sit your ass down!"
The Guardians erupted in cheers, slamming their glasses on tables. Enforcers jeered back, shouting Marisol's name.
Sylva lifted her gaze toward Marisol. "Her end carried weight across centuries. Would you unravel all of that for one girl?"
Marisol tilted her head, a sharp smile flickering across her lips. "If one girl was me? Would you still call it weight—or mercy?"
The crowd roared, voices clashing like storm and fire.
Capone laughed into his wine, shoulders shaking. "Now we're getting somewhere."
The sentinel raised his glass, tilting it back for another drink before amara could stop him. His battle worn face was calm, but his eyes gleamed with the weight of judgment.
"Not yet," he said, his voice cutting through amaras protest of his 12th drink. "The girls pushing it...."
Sylva's lips parted, pain tightening her face, but before she could answer, Emrys slammed the butt of his staff against the board. Light flared through the roots, silencing the ripple.
"Enough," his voice rang, sharp as steel in the quiet. With a flick of his wrist, a crimson card shimmered into being, floating before Marisol's chair. "Direct cuts at your opponent are a violation. The game is not about you. It is about the story."
The casino erupted in laughter and boos. Enforcers jeered at the judgment; Guardians applauded it.
Marisol leaned back, golden eyes flashing, her smile never wavering. "Oh, come now," she purred, tilting her head. "If the truth stings, perhaps it isn't the story I'm cutting into."
Emrys' gaze hardened. "One more violation, and the piece is forfeited. Do not test me, Marisol."
Behind her, Garrison muttered in her ear, his hand brushing the back of her chair. "Careful. He'll toss your whole argument if you push too hard."
Marisol tapped her nails against the knight she'd just moved, expression cooling into calculation. "Very well, judge. Let the record show—I'll play by your rules. For now."
The crimson card dissolved, but its echo lingered in the roots, glowing faintly like a warning brand.
The board shivered again, Joan's image stabilizing, waiting for the next move.
Beside her feet, the chibi-sized Eri leaned back against Marisol's leg, ignoring the endless game with a small, contented smile, the shadow-cat curled at her side.
For once, Eri wasn't fighting fate. She was waiting, hoping, that Joan might become her new sister. A Hallow yet to be welcomed home.
Above the table the timer neared its end. Sylva reached for the next piece.
Marisol mirrored her.
Their fingers brushed across the board—one light, one shadow.
Sylva smiled faintly, the lines of old sorrow easing from her face.
Marisol returned the smile, small but genuine, as the board reset between them.
There were no victors here. Only two equals — each watching over the fragile stories of the world in their own way. Saving those they could in their own way.
For now, that was enough.
And so the eternal game continued until the last sand fell. Because some battles aren't fought with weapons. They're fought with words — to remind the world what's worth saving.
Marisol's heart stirred with a single, defiant hope as she waited for Emrys' judgment.
"This time… we all get a second chance."