The earthy musk of damp soil clung to the king's chambers, cut by the citrus tang of freshly steeped tea. A marble chessboard sat between the king and Astrolis, its pieces standing mid-game. The king cradled a porcelain cup. Steam curled around his stubbled jaw as he nudged a pawn forward, the faint clink of ceramic against wood marking his move.
"How is the search?" His voice, low and slow, broke the silence.
Astrolis reached into his robe and pulled out a brittle scroll. He slid it across the board, avoiding the rook.
"We have a rough idea of where four are."
The king leaned forward, his eyes narrowed into the scroll. His thumb brushed over the crest embossed on the surface, a shape resembling a heart. A flicker of amusement danced across his face.
"The Holy Empire and now Runeheart, too," he mused, sipping his tea. The cup clinked softly against the saucer.
"Indeed." Sunlight streamed through a high window, highlighting the silver threads in Astrolis's beard. "It seems there are some promising developments in Runeheart. Our odds look quite favorable." He tapped his nail against the edge of the board as if punctuating his point. "As you know, the other two are in Frostgale."
The king rolled a knight between his fingers. His gaze locked on the board briefly. Then, with a steady hand, he advanced the piece.
"And the last three? Any leads?"
Astrolis stiffened, his composed demeanor faltering for a brief moment. The smile on his lips faded, replaced by a shadow of concern.
"Unfortunately, we've had no success in tracking them down. They're beyond the reach of our networks."
The king's hand paused mid-air, and the knight halted in its path.
"Where exactly?"
"The East. We lost track years ago. Something—rather someone—is blocking us."
The king leaned back in his chair, the polished wood creaking under his weight. A low chuckle escaped his lips, and his gaze shifted to meet Astrolis's eyes.
"Call it the fifth, then—a mystery, a wild card. The gods had always played fair, scattering each card across the board. I hold one. He holds one. But in the trembling hand of that old cripple," his voice dipped, coiled with quiet menace, "it is a weapon he can barely wield—a move that could shatter the game or shatter him. And if he plays it wrong..." He let the silence breathe. "The board won't turn—it'll burn."
Astrolis's laugh crackled like dry leaves. "I think we've been playing this game too long, Your Majesty. You're starting to think like a gambler."
"Perhaps I am." The king's grin widened, crinkling the scar beneath his eye. "But I've always found that a bit of risk and unpredictability can be… invigorating."
"True," Astrolis replied, his lips curving into a thin smile as he captured the knight with a bishop. "But… I don't recommend taking this approach with the East. They're not exactly known for their sense of humor."
The king's grin faded, and his boot ground against the cold stone floor.
"I'll keep that in mind. Still…they've gotten too comfortable, too bold, thinking we'd gone soft."
"Strength requires softness. Weakness needs ferocity." Astrolis raised his teacup in a somber toast. "Balance, Your Majesty."
The king's eyes fell to the captured knight. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought before barking a laugh that shook his broad shoulders.
"You old fox! Taking advantage of my distraction!"
Their shared laughter wove through the room, momentarily dispersing the weight of their conversation. As the laughter faded, Astrolis reached for the teapot and refilled their cups. The king reset the chessboard. The pieces found their places once more, and the game began anew.
"I shall allow them to enjoy their comfort—until she comes of age." The king sipped his tea. "Balance."
—
The Runeheart Kingdom pulsed to the west as the undisputed heart of sorcery, a land where magic flowed thicker than blood. Its people had worshipped spellcraft like a religion for centuries, chasing perfection in every incantation. Here, a spell's elegance mattered as much as its power—twisting raw magic into art was their obsession, pride, and birthright.
A queen ruled this dominion, wise and mighty. Her council was equally fierce: witches and wizards who could reshape battlefields, noble families crackling with blessed bloodlines. Together, they wove Runeheart's unyielding laws and unshatterable might, ensuring Runeheart's grip on magic never faltered. Even the arrogant Frostgale King dared not play his tricks near her court—or so they believed—naive, almost amusing.
Every sixteen years, Runeheart's streets erupt into a storm of silken banners and cutthroat pageantry: the Royal Inheritance Festival. Known as the kingdom's "great game," this event pits royal-born daughters against each other in a spectacle of spellcraft, cunning, and political theater.
Power was the prize. To win meant becoming the queen's shadow for sixteen years and learning to wield power from the throne's edge. Should death or abdication strike, the heir ascends immediately, her reign ordained by the festival.
For the people, it's a carnival. Taverns overflow with betting pools. Street magicians mimic heirs' spells for coins. But beneath the festivities, alliances break and reform. Nobles send assassins. Merchants strike secret deals. Some gamble against their own families; loyalty rarely outlives gold.
This dance of ambition keeps Runeheart's magic sharp, its queens sharper. Let other kingdoms cling to primogeniture—here, power is taken, never given.
However, some ambitions are impossible to contain, even with Runeheart's bewitched wall. Cracks form where power seeps through, too raw and wild for the kingdom's iron grip. Loose threads unravel, drawing wolves with fangs bared and snakes coiling in the shadows. These predators thrive on naive festivities, slipping past Runeheart's defenses to feast on opportunity, leaving behind whispers of betrayal and blood.
Slowly, blood had corroded Runeheart's marble. While the nobles enjoyed their wine and hollow laughter, a shift in the air went unnoticed—too faint for those immersed in their revelry. Beyond the walls, the world stirred uneasily, its stillness rippling with untamed undercurrents. Something gathered at the edges, quiet but inevitable, waiting for its moment to unfold.