Zayne
Two Weeks Earlier
He was falling.
Not through space. Not through air. But through reality itself.
It wasn't a fall you could feel. No pain. No orientation. Only resonance, piercing into his skin like needles—
and then: silence.
When Zayne (dazed) opened his eyes, the world… was wrong.
The sky above wasn't a sky. Just grey, pulsing darkness, torn with blood-red cracks that moved like throbbing veins. The ground beneath him was dusty, cracked—alive.
Something whispered in the roots of things. No sound, but an idea. A presence.
Black Mark.
He remembered the mission. The flash of light. Echo, trying to shout something. Kyro's serious look.
Then there was only the pull—
as if the resonance itself had decided where each would land.
And he was alone.
Zayne (dry):
"…Wonderful."
He reached for his weapon, only to realize it was gone. Only his clothes remained, a tear at the sleeve, some dust—and the weight of resonance pressing deep inside his chest.
He was naked. Not in the literal sense—but in the way warriors fear most.
No tools. No backup. No plan.
He walked. Hours passed, maybe days—there was no sun here. Only the blood-red pulse at the horizon shifted slowly, like the heart of the island beating in heavy rhythms.
No sign of the others. No tracks. No trace of life.
And then—a voice.
Soft.
Feminine.
Old.
Sick.
??? (whispering):
"Welcome to the game, child."
Zayne (tense) froze. He spun around. No one there—only fog, crawling along the ground like thick blood.
Zayne (sharp):
"Show yourself."
Voice (soft):
"You already have."
From the mist, a figure stepped forward. A woman—or something wearing that shape. Her skin was so pale it glimmered in the cracklight. Her eyes were hollow—deep violet, swirling with something red. Her dress was made of fog and shadow. Her hair shimmered like strands of resonance.
??? (calmly):
"I am Medea. The one who judges what comes here."
Zayne (steady):
"Are you what protects Black Mark?"
She smiled.
A crack ran across her face—as if smiles weren't made for it.
Medea (soft):
"I'm not a guardian. I'm what remains when protection fails."
Zayne:
"What do you want from me?"
Medea:
"You want answers. I want… entertainment."
"I offer you a game. For your life. And for the lives of your division."
Zayne (cold):
"I don't fight for your amusement."
Medea:
"And yet you're already in it. Resonance brought you here.
Your friends were scattered—sent elsewhere, in pairs.
Only you… are alone."
Zayne (silent) closed his eyes briefly.
Kyro, Utak, Echo, Rex, Rioji, Lynora…
Where were they?
Medea:
"Play with me. If you win, you'll receive two things:
The coordinates of their locations—and access to the truth about the Tower of Silence."
Zayne (focused):
"And if I lose?"
Medea (soft):
"Then they die. Or they fade into this world—piece by piece.
And you will be the first."
He said nothing.
Then:
Zayne (firm):
"I choose the game."
Medea (curious):
"Which one?"
Zayne:
"Chess."
The Arena
The ground trembled.
A circle of violet light formed beneath them. The floor cracked open—
not a crater, but a smooth, perfect platform of eight by eight tiles.
Black and white.
A chessboard of floating plates, each made of liquid obsidian, pulsing.
From the air, pieces took shape—not from wood, but from light and shadow.
Medea (whispering):
"Explain the rules—so you understand what you're asking for."
Zayne nodded.
The Rules
•Each player has 16 pieces: 1 king, 1 queen, 2 rooks, 2 knights, 2 bishops, 8 pawns.
•Goal: Checkmate the opponent's king—trap him with no escape.
•If a piece dies—the person it represents dies.
•The pawns? They are the lost ones. Seekers—humans who entered Black Mark though they shouldn't have. Some chased glory. Others redemption. Most disappeared.
Medea (smirking):
"Ready, General?"
The Pieces
Zayne chose:
•Himself – King
•Echo – Queen
•Kyro – Bishop
•Rioji – Bishop
•Rex – Knight
•Utak – Knight
•Lynora – Rook
•An unnamed recruit – Rook
•8 Pawns – Lost seekers on Black Mark
Medea's pieces were faceless shadows.
No names. No stories.
Only threat.
The Game Begins
Zayne opened cautiously.
One of his front pieces moved—slow, deliberate, a first step into unknown ground.
Medea struck back immediately. Her shadow piece slid across the field with frightening precision.
Zayne calculated.
A second piece forward—sideways, guarding.
He built.
Stability before aggression.
Then the first pawn fell.
A flash—
a projection above the board:
A man, starved, his eyes hollow. Running through a cracked swamp.
Something reached for him.
Then: nothing.
Zayne stared at the image.
Medea (quiet):
"A seeker. One of many.
You sent him—without knowing."
Zayne didn't respond. But his next move was sharper.
He moved Utak—a risky advance. But it cut off one of her paths.
A shadow shattered into light.
Another image appeared. Not a person this time—
just a place on Black Mark, flickering—
as if someone had survived there.
A moment of hope.
But then two more pawns were lost.
A woman, barefoot, on a violet plateau—shattered.
A man in patched uniform—stabbed by something unseen.
Medea:
"No mercy?"
Zayne (low):
"I have responsibility."
Endgame
Echo was surrounded. Three shadows tightening around her.
Medea had laid a trap—
a trade, one that would force a decision.
Kyro was the only one who could hold the line.
Rex was blocked.
Zayne hesitated.
Every move now meant death—or salvation.
He did what had to be done.
He sacrificed Kyro.
The light figure vanished.
But what Zayne saw was not death—
It was a vision:
Kyro and Utak, together, alive, in a ruined village. Breathing hard.
Wounded.
But there.
Medea:
"They're still alive.
But the next mistake—
and they vanish."
Zayne moved Echo.
Straight into the center.
He forced Medea to react—
Too late.
Check.
A countermove.
Zayne sidestepped it.
Pushed the queen forward—
down the final line.
Checkmate.
The shadow king shattered.
Silence
The board dissolved. The shadows withdrew.
Medea (quiet, with a smile):
"You're better than most."
Zayne (cold):
"The coordinates."
She raised a hand.
A symbol appeared—glowing, pulsing.
Medea:
"Three places. Three signals. Follow them."
Zayne (firm):
"And the Tower of Silence?"
Medea:
"He already hears you.
But whether he answers…
that remains his game."
Zayne turned away.
No thanks.
No final word.
Medea (whispering, from afar):
"That was move one."
"The game has just begun."