The sanctum was colder than before.
Not the familiar chill of shadow magic, but something sharper—cleaner. An intrusion.
I stood before the great chessboard, gloved fingers hovering inches above the white bishop that had moved without my command.
Seraphina Voss.
In Eclipse Chronicle, she had been nothing. A sheltered daughter with minor light affinity. A decorative presence at a noble banquet. Later, an off-screen casualty—fodder for grief, fuel for another character's growth.
Disposable.
Now her effigy had slid diagonally across three squares.
A probing advance.
Careful. Indirect.
Bishops did not announce themselves. They waited for open lines, struck from angles kings neglected.
Unacceptable.
Shadows coiled restlessly at my feet as I flexed my hand. My black king remained advanced—central, dominant.
But this?
This was counterplay.
Someone else was touching the board.
Another transmigrator? A reader like me, lodged into a minor role and scrambling to rewrite their fate?
Or worse—
The hand of the author. The script correcting itself.
Contempt stirred cold and heavy in my chest. If it was the latter, they had chosen poorly. Seraphina Voss possessed no plot armor worth salvaging.
I slipped my personal black king into my pocket. The obsidian weight steadied me.
Then I turned to the scrying pool embedded in the sanctum floor.
First—
Consequences.
The surface rippled.
The capital bloomed into view.
Chaos.
Voss's manor swarmed with gold-cloaked royal enforcers. Servants huddled in courtyards, whispering fear into their sleeves. Rayne banners were torn down in public squares, trampled beneath boots and suspicion.
The poison had spread beautifully.
The scry shifted.
Leonhardt Rayne had arrived hours earlier.
He stormed through his family's estate like an ill-timed cavalry charge—golden hair disheveled, green eyes blazing. Light mana flared around him in erratic bursts, cracking marble and splintering wood.
"Forged!" he roared. "All of it—lies!"
His father sat beneath guard, shoulders heavy with years and worry.
"Calm yourself," the duke said tiredly. "The emperor will—"
"No!"
Leonhardt slammed both fists into the table.
The explosion of light shattered a vase without contact, forcing attendants back in panic.
"Whoever did this—the Shadow Player?" His voice trembled with rage. "I'll drag him into the light myself!"
Too early.
In the novel, this awakening had been glorious—heroic light against invading darkness.
Now?
A tantrum.
Raw power displayed before skeptical nobles.
Uncontrolled. Dangerous.
Whispers would spread.
White's queen had overextended.
Open files invited black rooks.
Satisfaction flickered—
Then faded.
The bishop lingered in my mind.
I redirected the scry.
Academy dormitories.
Seraphina's quarters—
Empty.
Then the ruins of Voss's study.
There.
She stood alone amid the wreckage.
Silver hair braided tight. Mourning black clinging to a slender frame that did not tremble. Violet eyes scanned the desk where her father had vanished.
No tears.
No shock.
Only calculation.
She knelt.
Her fingers traced the place where my black king had rested.
It was gone.
Taken—or removed amid the confusion.
Then she reached into her pocket.
A white bishop.
Porcelain. Delicate. Crown etched faintly into its head.
She placed it at the center of the desk.
Facing the shadows.
Facing me.
The scry trembled.
Her eyes lifted—too precise, too direct.
Impossible.
Yet her gaze narrowed, violet light shimmering faintly.
"I know you're watching," she whispered.
The words carried through the link like a blade sliding between ribs.
"Clever opening. But diagonals cut both ways."
The pool collapsed into darkness.
I stepped back once.
Heartbeat steady.
Control intact.
But exhilaration surged through my veins like ice fire.
She had sensed the scry.
No—
She had addressed it.
Player.
Then we dispensed with distance.
I dissolved into shadow.
The sensation was intoxicating—body unraveling into cool void, awareness streaking through darkness with only intent as guide. Space ceased to matter.
I reformed in an alley near Voss's manor.
Night air snapped cold against my face. City scents layered thick—baked bread, wet stone, mana exhaust from street lamps.
Royal wards hummed around the estate. Light-woven, overconfident.
Amateur.
I slipped through them like smoke through keyholes.
The study awaited me.
Evidence gone. Seals placed.
One thing remained.
The white bishop.
Porcelain gleaming beneath moonlight.
I picked it up.
Warm.
Residual light mana pressed against my shadows—pure, focused.
A note lay beneath.
Elegant script. Precise.
Pawn takes pawn. But the board remembers.
Eclipse Spire ruins. Midnight tomorrow.
Come alone—or the game ends early. For you.
No signature.
None required.
A trap.
Obviously.
But traps revealed hands.
I pocketed the bishop.
White to black.
Balance.
Reports whispered in as I moved. Vesper's network confirmed Seraphina's withdrawal from the academy—official bereavement. Unofficial whispers spoke of her researching shadow theory days before her father vanished.
Premeditation.
Leonhardt's recklessness compounded the damage. A royal summons had been issued. The emperor—neutral in the original timeline—now leaned toward purging "unstable elements."
Good.
Black consolidated.
Yet the bishop—
Back in the sanctum, the board had shifted again.
A white pawn blocked one of my knights.
Leonhardt's piece had retreated slightly.
Caution? Or influence?
Separate agendas—or alliance?
Unlikely.
I advanced my own bishop.
A diagonal answer.
Shadows rippled. Somewhere in the capital, a pawn gained new sight.
Then to the war room.
Vesper awaited.
"The capital burns," she reported. "The Rayne boy is isolated. And the Voss girl—vanished."
"Expected."
I placed the white bishop on the table.
Porcelain rang softly.
Her eyes sharpened.
"A reply."
"Yes."
"Shall I prepare escorts?"
"No."
The word was absolute.
"This diagonal, I handle personally."
She bowed and withdrew.
Alone, I turned the bishop in my palm.
Seraphina Voss.
Light against shadow.
Silver against black.
A mirror—or a rival.
Bishops ruled unseen lines.
But even they fell to forks.
Midnight tomorrow.
I would attend.
And if she played white—
I would force promotion.
Or removal.
The board had deepened.
And depth was where I thrived.
Your move, bishop.
But check is coming.