"It's not the king you strike down first. It's pride."
On the morning of the first clash, the sky over Edelstadt was the color of ashes.
A cutting wind swept through the towers of the Royal Academy, whistling between the enchanted stained glass and columns engraved with ancient inscriptions. The Sovereign Board, installed at the center of the great honor courtyard, seemed vaster than ever. The black and white squares pulsed with ancient energy—almost alive.
At the top of the stands, a murmur rose.
Students, professors, elite mages. All were waiting.
All were talking about him.
— "That's the boy from Umbra... Caelen. They say he came from nowhere."
— "They mostly say he's never lost."
— "And that he hasn't invoked his zone yet..."
— "He won't last three openings against Haldric."
Haldric Veyr. Champion of House Arca. A noble student, brutal, famed for his flawless memory and aggressive play. A ruthless strategist, raised with the certainty he was born to dominate.
He was already standing at the edge of the Board, chin high, arms crossed over his breastplate engraved with red runes. He was smiling.
A smile that promised humiliation.
Opposite him, Caelen Sareth advanced slowly, wordless, cloaked in his black cape without crest.
The Board trembled beneath his steps.
The voice of the arbiter, amplified by enchantment, echoed across the amphitheater:
— "First duel of the Tournament of Minds: Haldric of House Arca versus Caelen of House Umbra. No forfeits allowed before thirty moves. Zones may be activated at any moment, once per game. At the end of the match: only one strategic survivor."
A heavy silence fell.
Then the voice rose again:
— "Players, take your places."
Caelen placed his hand on the edge of the Board. Instantly, a wave of energy surged from the squares. The world around seemed to freeze.
The crowd held its breath.
The duel began.
First move.
Haldric, as tradition demanded, opened with white.
1.e4 — direct, aggressive, unflinching.
Caelen answered without hesitation.
1...c5 — the Sicilian Defense. A trap. A minefield.
The spectators immediately recognized the structure. But the usual lines quickly vanished.
Haldric played fast. Too fast.
Caelen played slowly. As if he was watching something else. Something beyond the board.
— "You scared?" Haldric taunted after his 7th move. "What're you waiting for? Show us what you've got."
Caelen didn't answer. He moved his knight. A strange maneuver. Unexpected. And yet... perfectly placed.
Haldric clenched his teeth.
Twelve moves later, he had lost an exchange.
But it was nothing. Not yet.
He was waiting for his moment.
On the 23rd move, Haldric straightened.
He raised his hand.
— "I invoke my zone."
A red lightning bolt split the sky. The Board trembled.
And the world shifted.
Reality around the game twisted. The squares widened, the borders disappeared. Ruins rose. Statues of ancestors, burned banners. Staircases of blood. Distant screams.
Mental zone: The Throne of Arca.
— "Welcome to my home," Haldric whispered.
The pieces became iron knights, flaming towers. The magical tension crushed the air.
Every move Caelen made, he did as if bearing a weight.
The Board judged him. Rejected him.
But he kept playing.
35th move.
Haldric had the advantage.
He hadn't won yet. But he was in control. And the audience knew it.
— "You've got no defense line left, Umbra," he spat. "Resign. You don't belong in this world."
For the first time, Caelen looked up.
His pupils were calm. Empty.
— "You think this world is yours just because you carry it in your skull."
Haldric smirked, unsettled.
— "And you? Showing nothing? Refusing to play your trump?"
Caelen placed his fingers on a piece.
— "I'm waiting."
— "For what?"
— "For you to believe you've won."
He moved his bishop.
And suddenly... everything changed.
42nd move.
Haldric had just lost a minor piece.
His attack was collapsing.
The spectators saw it too late. But Caelen had foreseen it eight moves in advance. Haldric's structure, his proud zone, his world, was cracking.
— "This... isn't possible..." he murmured.
The Board flickered.
— "You thought your zone would scare me?" Caelen said. "Want to know why I haven't invoked mine?"
Haldric didn't answer.
— "Because your world is an empty throne."
"And I... I haven't yet decided who I want to be in mine."
49th move.
Checkmate.
Silence.
Haldric's king fell slowly. It bounced on the Board's tile with a heavy, final sound.
The Sovereign Board closed.
Reality reset around them. The sky returned. The obsidian statues froze.
The arbiter raised a hand:
— "Victory for Caelen Sareth."
The stands erupted in whispers.
No cheers. Not yet. The Academy didn't know how to react.
Caelen turned without a word. He descended the steps, his boots echoing against the stone. Haldric stood frozen, fists clenched, eyes wide open.
The king of Arca... had just fallen.
In the Umbra Tower, Maestra Venhal was already waiting.
— "You didn't invoke your zone," she noted.
— "Not yet."
She slowly nodded.
— "And him?"
— "He invoked a throne. But he didn't know how to rule."
— "And you? Will you rule?"
Caelen stopped.
— "Not over ruins."
He entered his room. Closed the door.
And collapsed against the wall.
His hands were trembling.
Not from fatigue.
Not from fear.
But from memory.
In his mind, the Fool whispered:
— "You've advanced your king, my brother... but you're still far from the center."