The walls opened without a sound.
Cael flinched. There had been no seam a moment ago. Just more white. More silence. But now, the wall in front of him slid aside like a veil being drawn, and a gust of colder air pushed into the sterile stillness of his chamber.
A hallway stretched ahead—long, dim, metallic. The lighting pulsed softly as if sensing his heartbeat, a low mechanical rhythm that made the space feel alive. There were no windows, no visible cameras—just smooth walls and a floor that hummed beneath his bare soles.
He looked back once, unsure if he was meant to wait, unsure if this was some test. But the room behind him had already sealed itself shut, seamless as if it had never been open at all.
There was only one way now.
Forward.
He walked slowly at first, shoulders tense, his ears straining for any sound beyond the hush of his own breath. Every step echoed with a surreal clarity. The corridor narrowed slightly, then widened into a black-tiled platform surrounded by a low circular rail. Faint vibrations tickled his feet through the floor.
A shaft stood open beyond it—an elevator without doors, gaping like a mouth about to close. Inside stood Elara, arms crossed, posture perfect, eyes unreadable.
"You came," she said, her voice carrying just enough inflection to imply she hadn't been sure.
Cael didn't answer. There was nothing to say. His throat still felt tight from the chemical fog that had dragged him under.
"You'll want to stand near the edge," she said, jerking her chin toward a glowing ring etched into the floor. "Center's bad during motion. Makes you puke your guts out."
He moved immediately, standing just inside the ring. The floor felt warmer there, almost like it was welcoming him. Or warning him.
The doors sealed behind him with a whisper.
And then the platform dropped.
Not slowly.
There was a moment of weightlessness, a tug behind the ribs, and then descent—smooth and fast, like being swallowed by something ancient and mechanical. The mirrored walls around them reflected blurred silhouettes, their own forms ghosting beside them, shifting in the light.
Cael caught a glimpse of himself again. The uniform clung to his body like skin, tailored and unnatural. The mark at the base of his neck still glowed faintly—a red insignia that pulsed like it had its own pulse, its own logic.
He hated it.
"How many of us are there?" he asked, voice hoarse.
"Thirty-two," Elara replied, not missing a beat.
He blinked. "That many?"
"It's chess," she said. "Sixteen pieces per side."
A pause followed.
"I don't know how to play," he admitted quietly.
Elara raised an eyebrow, her reflection crossing hers in the glass. "Then you'll learn fast. Or you'll die faster."
A chime rang softly overhead. The platform slowed.
"Quick primer," she said, like she'd done this more than once. "Each match starts with thirty-two players. Two factions—Black and White. Every side has sixteen roles: one King, one Queen, two Rooks, two Bishops, two Knights… and eight Pawns."
Her eyes flicked toward him.
"You're a Pawn."
He swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means you're front line. First to move. First to bleed. No powers. Not yet."
"But?"
"But Pawns have potential. Survive long enough, move far enough… and you can promote."
The elevator came to a halt.
Elara stepped off first, and Cael followed.
The room before him wasn't what he expected.
Gone were the sterile walls and colorless lights. This space had edges—grit, depth. Black-paneled walls arched overhead like a bunker. The lighting was lower, tinted blue, with wire mesh strung across the ceiling like a cage. Screens lined the periphery. Tables bristled with gear: armor components, weapon sheaths, packs that looked built for survival.
It wasn't a room.
It was a war station.
A massive grid dominated the far wall—a three-dimensional map glowing in red and white. It shifted with the occasional flicker, terrain zones pulsing into different forms: mountains, frozen crags, molten rivers, labyrinths.
It looked like a chessboard.
If the chessboard were the size of a city.
A dozen teens lingered across the room—leaning, pacing, sitting alone in taut silence. Their uniforms mirrored Cael's: black and silver, but not identical. Each bore a unique insignia—some subtle, some bold. They watched him, some with curiosity, some with calculation.
Some didn't look older than him. Others definitely did.
A girl with gold rings braided into her dark hair leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. A boy with white hair sat crumpled on the floor, eyes half-lidded, as if this entire place bored him.
And at the center of it all stood someone tall, still.
The insignia on his chest shimmered—a crowned helm.
Elara stopped beside him. "Elijah," she said. "Our King."
The boy turned.
He was calm, composed in a way Cael didn't understand. His skin was a warm brown, his eyes steady and deep, like he'd already seen too much. Probably had. He looked seventeen, maybe older. His gaze settled on Cael and held there.
"Welcome to the Black team," Elijah said. "Pawn Seven, I presume?"
Cael blinked. "Pawn… Seven?"
"There are eight of you. You're the seventh to arrive."
He hesitated. "Yeah. I guess that's me."
From across the room, someone chuckled. A boy leaning against a metal beam, arms folded, his insignia a spiked tower.
"Fresh meat always looks confused."
"Shut up, Rook," someone else muttered.
Elara gestured Cael toward the edge of the room where a sleek table awaited, its surface flickering with low light. As he sat, the embedded screen activated with a quiet chime.
PAWN 874A: READY FOR ORIENTATION.
He stared at it. His name had been erased. He was a number now.
"Why chess?" he asked, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Elijah turned from the map grid. "Because the board is simple. The war isn't."
Elara sat beside him. "It's not a metaphor. The arena is the board. Eight by eight. Each square is a quadrant—hostile terrain, unpredictable conditions. Lava, snowstorms, ruins. Some zones are organic. Some mutate. Some are… worse."
"Worse?"
"You'll see," the Rook said, grinning faintly.
"You're dropped into a starting square with your full team," Elara continued. "Goal is simple: protect your King, eliminate theirs. Do that, you win."
Cael's head swam. "And the rest of us?"
"If you're not the King," said the braided girl from earlier, "you're expendable."
Her voice was soft but firm, her gaze unwavering. "That's not defeatism. That's reality."
"But that doesn't mean you're powerless," Elara added. "It just means your role has limits. For now."
Before he could respond, another figure stepped into the chamber through a hidden panel.
It was the first adult he'd seen.
They were tall, wrapped in a long black coat stitched with silver lines, their face hidden behind a smooth white mask shaped like a bishop's miter. The air around them shifted, cold and sharp.
Everyone went silent.
"Official," someone whispered.
The masked figure didn't speak.
They strode toward the grid and tapped its side. The map expanded into a full projection, now filling the air with layered holographics—altitude lines, heat zones, moving hazard fields.
It wasn't just a terrain map.
It was alive.
And Cael understood now, with a kind of sinking finality, what they were.
Not players.
Pieces.
The Official finally spoke, voice wrapped in static, like it was coming from a throat not meant for speech.
"Orientation will continue for forty-eight hours. Combat trainings will begin in the next days."
They turned away, just as quickly as they'd arrived.
The team began to scatter—some drifting toward the gear tables, others toward training rooms branching off the main hall. The lights dimmed overhead, and a siren pulsed faintly.
Shift change, maybe.
Cael remained where he was, hands clenched in his lap.
"You okay?" Elara asked.
He looked up at her, tired. "I don't know."
She didn't try to comfort him.
Instead, she said, "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we bleed."