"One does not become a monster by nature. One becomes one when the world rips away all that was human."
Three days. That was all that remained before the final.
Three days, and the Academy would be frozen in a single moment, a single match.
A confrontation everyone awaited: Caelen versus Elwin. The Shadow versus the Dream. The silent strategist against the sleeping player.
But for Caelen, the enemy was not Elwin.
The enemy... wore a crown.
He walked alone in the northern gardens, where students never came. Where stone cracked under moss, where the trees seemed to watch.
The wind passed through the branches without making a sound.
And he... remembered.
Not like a dream.
Not like a sweet memory.
But like the dizziness that returns when you reopen a poorly healed wound.
Images. Blurry, at first. Then sharp. Too sharp.
A throne of black iron.
A cage hanging from the ceiling.
A mask bolted to his face.
And him, Ashen, or what was left of him then, screaming into the void, while the court laughed.
— "Make him dance! Let the Fool dance again!"
The king, seated, a glass of wine in hand, smiled with a tired air. As if it were all a boring play whose ending he already knew.
And when Ashen collapsed, exhausted, the chains pulled him up so he could continue.
— "The show doesn't end until I've laughed."
A cold pain pierced his chest.
He stopped, knelt against an old stone wall.
His hands trembled.
Not from the cold.
But because this time, the memory didn't go away.
It stayed.
And it burned.
In Umbra Tower, the news dropped like a bomb.
Venhal, usually impassive, opened her eyes upon hearing the official message broadcast throughout the Academy:
"His Majesty King Maelrath will personally attend the final of the Tournament of Minds. He wishes to see with his own eyes the future strategist of the nation."
Silence fell upon the students.
Some smiled, proud to be noticed by the king.
Others curled up, afraid of playing before someone said to be able to read one's soul with a glance.
Venhal, however, understood immediately.
She stood up abruptly.
— Where is Caelen?!
She found him in the garden.
Sitting, alone, eyes fixed on a black rose that never bloomed.
He hadn't heard her footsteps.
— You knew? he murmured before she even arrived.
— No. The announcement dropped five minutes ago.
— I felt it. This morning... the wind had changed.
She sat beside him.
— It's him, isn't it?
— It's him, he said.
— The one who... changed you?
He closed his eyes.
— No. The one who destroyed me.
A long silence.
Then he spoke again:
— He won't recognize me. I have a new name. A new face. A new life.
— But you recognize him.
— Every night.
She wanted to place a hand on his shoulder. She stopped.
— Then why not face him here? On the Plateau?
He finally turned his head toward her.
— Because on the Plateau... I am free.
That evening, in his room, Caelen opened his personal grimoire.
Not to read.
But to write.
Each page contained a played game, real or fictional.
But tonight, he wrote something else.
He wrote his name.
ASHEN.
Then he erased it.
And rewrote:
CAELEN SARETH.
— I am no longer the one he broke.
I am the one who got back up.
Meanwhile, the Academy stirred.
The banners were changed. The gilding polished. The staircases enchanted so they wouldn't creak.
The king's presence paralyzed everything.
Impeccable uniforms were distributed. Seats assigned by caste.
The Plateau was cleaned every morning.
Some students, panicked, dropped out of classes.
Others made bets.
But one name kept coming up, whispered like a riddle:
— Caelen.
He still hadn't shown his zone.
Some said he didn't have one.
Others said that if he revealed it, it would swallow the entire Plateau.
In the forbidden library's basement, Caelen searched the old archives one last time.
He stumbled upon an old book: The Silver Follies, chronicles of the reign of Maelrath the Bloody.
And there, among the yellowed pages:
"One of the king's favorite entertainments, in the year 921, was the education of the Fool, a child offered by a now-vanished noble house. He was broken, humiliated, then dressed in gold and iron. His voice was taken, but his laugh was forced. He died by falling from a balcony, according to official rumors."
Ashen... had never truly existed.
He was only a toy.
A puppet for a king's laughter.
But today...
He was the last player on the Plateau.
The day before the final, Elwin came to see him.
Without warning. Without a sound.
— Aren't you afraid? asked Caelen, sitting on the edge of a balcony.
— Yes. But not of you.
— Then of what?
— That your past will catch up with you before I get the chance to beat you.
Caelen smiled faintly.
— Do you really want to win?
— No. I want to see you play without chains.
They looked at each other for a moment.
Then Elwin held out his hand.
— Let the Plateau judge us.
Caelen shook it.
— And let the king watch closely.
Because this time...
he's the one who will fall.
"You can forgive a monster. But a king who thinks he's a god? Never."
The sky above Edelstadt was clear that morning. A pure blue, without the slightest cloud.
Too calm.
Like a stage left empty before blood is spilled.
The Academy bells rang at dawn. The students were woken by cleaning spells, the hallways perfumed by magic, the windows polished to perfection.
Everything had to shine.
Everything had to be perfect.
Because that day, King Maelrath was returning.
Caelen stood at a distance, watching the preparations from an abandoned tower.
Golden banners of the crown had been hung all around the Sovereign's Plateau. Silver curtains fell from the balconies, forming a royal theater. Magical soldiers in gleaming armor stood in silent watch at every corner.
And above all, at the top of the northern podium, a throne had been set.
A throne larger than the others.
Colder.
He recognized it at once.
It was the same.
The one he used to see from the depths of his cage.
The one from which the gaze that broke him would descend.
He felt his throat tighten.
His hands tremble.
But he did not look away.
Not this time.
The king's arrival was announced by a hundred drums.
A portal of light opened in the sky.
Then a magical chariot, carried by four creatures of blue flame, slowly appeared in the air before landing in the center of the courtyard.
The crowd knelt.
Even the professors.
Only Venhal remained standing. Arms crossed. Blank gaze.
The king descended without a word.
Maelrath the Sanguine.
He did not seem old. Nor young. Neither dead, nor alive. He had the tired gaze of men who had seen everything, taken everything, and desired nothing more than their own power.
His crown was a simple circle of black steel.
But his eyes... his eyes were those of a sleeping executioner.
Caelen did not move.
He stayed in the shadows of the tower, watching.
And it was then that their eyes met.
A second.
Maybe less.
And in that second... nothing.
No recognition.
No flash.
Not even a shadow of memory.
The king looked. But did not see him.
The ceremony was brief.
Rector Aernias took the floor.
— "His Majesty King Maelrath attends today the final of the Tournament of Minds, to witness with his own eyes the greatest strategic mind of this generation. The winner shall be granted the Right of the Sole Wish, in the presence of the throne."
A murmur ran through the ranks.
Then Aernias added:
— "The finalists are: Elwin Telar, House Keralith, and Caelen Sareth, House Umbra. The match shall take place tomorrow morning, at dawn, on the Sovereign's Plateau."
The students stepped aside.
And for the first time, Caelen stepped forward, slowly crossing the courtyard.
He lifted his gaze toward the king.
Not a word.
Not an expression.
But inside, he was screaming.
That night, he did not sleep.
How could he?
He sat, facing his personal chessboard, in his room.
The pieces did not move.
But in his mind... the game had already begun.
And in the silence...
He heard it.
The laugh.
That twisted laugh. The Fool's.
He looked up.
And he was there.
Sitting on his window. Legs dangling into the void.
Same gaze. Same puppeteer costume. But tonight... he was silent.
— You're back? Caelen whispered.
— I never left.
— You've been silent since I entered the Academy.
— Because you stopped listening.
A silence.
— And now?
— You let me return, because you're afraid to see him again.
Caelen clenched his fists.
— He doesn't even recognize me.
— Worse. He doesn't even remember destroying you.
The Fool smiled.
— That's power. He doesn't need to remember. He'll do it again. Over. And over.
Caelen walked to the mirror.
He saw his reflection.
Then that of the child from long ago.
The chained Fool. The puppet.
— Tell me, he whispered, what should I do?
The Fool stood up.
— You don't need me to tell you anymore.
— And if I lose?
— Then you'll look at him again, from the bottom of your cage.
— And if I win?
The Fool laughed.
— Then you'll force him to remember.
At dawn, Caelen rose.
He put on his Umbra uniform.
Black. Without embellishment. Without gold.
Just a silver brooch shaped like a fallen pawn.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
And simply said:
— Tomorrow, I won't play to win.
I'll play so I never bow again.
"There are games one doesn't play for victory... but for deliverance."
The bells of the Academy rang six times.
Dawn slowly broke over the Sovereign Plateau, brushing the black and white tiles with a solemn light. The sky, a uniform gray, seemed to wait too—for the first move.
All eyes converged on a single place: the heart of the Academy.
And on two figures advancing, opposed but bound by the same invisible thread: King Maelrath, seated on his throne of black stone... and the living Board, ready to swallow fragments of soul.
In the stands, the magical elite of the kingdom had gathered. Section directors, noble families, war-strategist mages, former champions.
And at the summit, isolated, surrounded by guards with vacant eyes, King Maelrath observed. Silent. Unchanging.
No one knew what he was thinking.
But everyone felt the pressure of his gaze.
Caelen stepped forward first.
He walked slowly, never averting his eyes.
No shiver. No blink.
In his mind, all was silence.
No fear.
No anger.
Only... the board.
He stopped in front of his place. Touched the edge of the Board.
A magical wave burst forth.
The Board recognized its player.
Moments later, Elwin joined him.
Still as calm, eyes half-closed, a slight smile at the corner of his lips.
— So, he said, settling in, here we are.
— Yes.
— You planning to show it to me this time?
Caelen didn't answer.
Elwin smiled.
— Perfect.
The referee's voice echoed across the arena, amplified by a magical circle:
— Final of the Tournament of Minds. Elwin Telar of House Keralith versus Caelen Sareth of House Umbra.
The Judgement Board is open.
Each player is allowed to activate their mental zone once during the game.
The winner shall be granted the Right of the Single Wish, before His Majesty Maelrath, King of the Kingdom of Edelstadt.
A heavy silence settled.
Then:
— Begin.
1. d4
Elwin opened the match.
A gentle opening. Flexible. A field of observation.
1...d5
Mirror response from Caelen. Solid. Symmetrical.
The pieces moved slowly. The Board seemed to breathe, each square vibrating slightly under the weight of their will.
The early moves proceeded without surprise.
But everyone knew this board wasn't a game.
It was a field of truth.
Move 12.
The king still hadn't moved.
But Caelen felt his gaze.
And with each move, a memory resurfaced.
A bishop moved: the red room, the chains.
A knight captured: the laughter of the court.
A pawn advanced: the crack of bones hitting tiles.
And always, the same voice:
— "Make him laugh, little animal. MAKE HIM LAUGH."
Move 15.
Elwin gently raised his hand.
A breath passed through the stands.
— Mental zone: Forest of the Fragmented Dream.
The Board transformed slowly, without shock.
Trees appeared. Glowing mushrooms. Vines suspended in void. The pieces became blurry, shifting. The Board no longer obeyed geometric laws.
But this time... it wasn't a nightmare.
It was a welcoming world, almost soft.
Even the audience seemed calmed.
Caelen felt a strange warmth.
— You're inviting me into your dream? he murmured.
— No, Elwin replied. I'm giving you a chance to rest.
Caelen lowered his eyes.
And answered:
— I haven't slept in a long time.
The moves resumed.
In this shifting world, strategic lines became unpredictable. Some squares changed size. Pieces briefly vanished into shadowy wisps, then reappeared with new smiles.
But Caelen kept playing.
Precise.
Focused.
Almost outside the dream.
Move 21.
Elwin attempted a complex combination. He sacrificed a piece to open a diagonal to the black king.
A murmur spread through the stands.
— He's going to trap him!
But Caelen didn't flinch.
He let it happen.
Then played a series of perfectly ordered moves.
An open file. A counterattack.
Elwin smiled.
— You won't let yourself be lulled.
— No.
He placed a piece.
— I'm waking up.
Move 27.
Caelen retreated a rook.
Some thought it a mistake.
But Elwin understood.
— You're preparing something...
— From the beginning.
A shiver passed through the Board.
The dream zone began to crack in places. The trees trembled. The sky wavered.
Elwin withdrew a piece.
And murmured:
— You can open it now.
Caelen raised his eyes toward the king.
The monarch's gaze was fixed on him.
No blinking.
No words.
But that gaze...
That gaze he had known in another life.
The one that forced him to laugh.
To dance.
To bleed.
Caelen closed his eyes.
And heard once more the voice of the Fool:
— So? You still let others decide the moment?
He smiled softly.
And said, without lifting his head:
— No.
Then he raised his hand.
"If the world is a stage, then make the king your spectator. And let him never look away."
The Plateau trembled.
Not like an earthquake.
But like a breath... held too long.
Caelen had raised his hand.
And in a breath, everything changed.
Mental Zone: Fool's Theater.
The world shifted.
The tiles of the Plateau cracked. The squares tore like fabric. The sky above the arena exploded into red curtains.
And slowly, slowly, the ground gave way beneath the spectators' feet.
The Sovereign Plateau was absorbed, swallowed, reshaped...
Into a vast theater, suspended in endless void.
Puppet strings hung from the ceiling. Curtains of flesh, battered by an invisible wind, opened and closed without rhythm.
Spotlights floated, but instead of light, they projected screams.
The floor was a circular stage, surrounded by stands made of sculpted bones, all facing a single silhouette.
A throne of rusted iron, at the center.
And there, chained, dressed in a black and white costume, a broken mask on his face...
The Fool.
He screamed.
Not in pain.
Not in fear.
But in pure, twisted madness, never-ending.
He laughed, cried, screamed, danced on the spot, the chains tearing at his wrists.
He spun around, murmuring incomprehensible words:
— "You wanted a show? Laugh! Keep laughing! I still have teeth to bite your eyes out!"
The Academy spectators screamed.
Some fainted.
Others tried to flee, but the Plateau held them prisoner.
Because they were in Caelen's soul now.
And it did not forgive.
Elwin, however, remained standing.
Eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
— This is...
— My world, said Caelen.
His voice had changed.
Deeper. Colder.
— This is where I lived. Every night. Every day. Chained to this stage. Forced to dance, scream, bleed... for a king who wanted to laugh.
The Fool screamed again:
— "Majesty! Look at your masterpiece! Look at what you made of me!"
On his real throne, in the physical world, King Maelrath had stood up.
For the first time... he turned pale.
Not because he recognized.
But because his unconscious did.
Somewhere, deep down, he had seen this stage.
But he had chosen to forget.
To survive it.
And now, that memory confronted him, brutally, without disguise, without mercy.
— Do you recognize me, Majesty? shouted Caelen, without looking away.
But the king didn't answer.
He couldn't.
His hands trembled. His lower lip quivered.
Around him, the guards stiffened.
But no one dared move.
Elwin placed a hand on the chessboard, now a red stage carpet.
His pieces were frozen, paralyzed by the Fool's screams.
— You made your mind a prison...
— No, replied Caelen.
— You made your pain a performance.
— Yes.
A long silence.
Then Caelen added:
— And this is only the first act.
The Fool danced again, chains clinking, tears streaming from his empty sockets.
— "I am the forgotten pawn, I am the toppled rook, I am the legless knight!"
The setting changed.
Faces floated around the theater: those of the court nobles, distorted, laughing loudly.
Spectral hands applauded them.
Then came the memories:
— the suspended cage,
— the mocked screams,
— the blood feasts,
— the king's orders, always whispered in a bored tone, as if it were just another form of entertainment.
Caelen stepped onto the stage.
And said in an icy voice:
— It's not Elwin I challenge today.
It's you, Maelrath.
The king flinched.
He opened his mouth.
But no words came out.
The Fool knelt at the center of the stage.
His chains fell.
And in total silence...
he reached out to Caelen.
Caelen took his hand.
And the Fool's mask shattered slowly, revealing beneath a face one might call human... if pain had not turned it into a monstrous work of art.
A mirror.
A reflection.
His own face.
— You can't erase me, said the Fool.
— I don't want to anymore.
— You want to free me?
— No.
He looked up at the king.
— I want the world to know what you did.
Around the theater, the illusions of the zone engraved themselves in the minds of the spectators. Each saw the scene in their own way: some saw a boy. Others, a monster. But all understood.
The truth.
Elwin bowed.
— I withdraw my pieces, he whispered.
Caelen turned to him.
— Why?
— Because in this world... no one wins.
Caelen hesitated.
Then nodded.
And the zone slowly collapsed.
Red curtain.
Black curtain.
Silence.
The Plateau reappeared.
The king was standing.
His face was pale.
His breath short.
And in his eyes... fear.
The first human emotion he had ever shown.
Caelen, standing at the center, simply declared:
— Match suspended.
The referee, trembling, nodded.
— The royal judgment will take place tomorrow morning. Under oath.
The king finally opened his mouth:
— I... don't know this boy.
But his voice was empty.
And Caelen replied, eyes black:
— That's what I thought.
"Some rule through blood. Others through fear. But I... I do not rule. I remind. I remind the world of what it tries to forget."
The Sovereign Platform was silent.
Caelen Sareth had just won the final of the Tournament of Spirits.
Before him, Elwin Telar lowered his head-defeated but dignified. The Platform vibrated one last time before coming to a stop.
But Caelen did not bow. He did not smile. He did not raise his arms.
He descended the steps of the Platform slowly, as if each step tolled the end of a bygone era.
All eyes turned. The silence stretched.
King Maelrath, seated on his black stone throne, stared at him.
Caelen walked toward him.
Professors, directors, guards... no one dared to stop him.
He climbed the steps to the throne, step by step, without a word.
The victory drums did not sound. Only the icy wind flapped the banners of the Academy.
Caelen stopped just inches from the sovereign.
He leaned in.
And whispered:
- I am Ashen.
The king's pupils dilated.
Before he could speak, react, flee...
Caelen placed two fingers on his temple.
Mental Zone Activated: The Theatre of Torture.
A whip cracked. A rain of laughter fell. A red curtain descended from the sky.
The world shifted.
They were elsewhere.
On a vast circular stage of scorched stone. At the center: a broken throne.
And all around: shadowed stands filled with faceless spectators. Nobles, mages, children-all frozen in silent laughter.
An orchestra of the tortured stood below. Musicians with torn-off fingers played violins of flesh, drums made from ribcages, horns sculpted from human skulls.
With every note, a pain. With every chord, an awakened memory.
And at the center of the stage...
The Fool.
Ashen, as he once was. Disfigured, deformed, an iron mask welded to his face, arms chained, gaze mad.
He danced.
And every step broke a bone.
Every gesture twisted a memory.
Every scream made the spectators tremble.
The king stood there, alone. Naked. Fragile.
And the Fool stopped.
He slowly turned his head.
- Majesty... the curtain finally rises.
- You gave me a mask. You gave me a cage. You gave me fear as my only companion.
- You wanted laughter? I'll give you a laugh that burns.
- Look at them! All these spectators... They're the same ones who applauded as I bled. Their faces are empty because they never wanted to see.
- But you... you will see.
Ashen made a gesture.
The king was hurled against a torture chair. Invisible bonds tied him down.
Before him, Ashen's memories replayed in a loop:
• The child stretched with hooks.
• The cage suspended in the banquet hall.
• The nobles laughing as he was forced to dance on shards of glass.
Then, the stage transformed.
The walls wept blood. Naked, burned children banged on skulls, chanting "Again! Again!"
A mirror appeared, reflecting Maelrath... but wearing the Fool's mask.
The king screamed. He tried to close his eyes.
But his eyelids were nailed open by the Fool's magic.
Ashen leaned in.
- It's not pain that breaks a man.
- It's indifference.
- It wasn't iron that marked me.
- It was your silence.
- Executioners think their reign is absolute. Until the victims return with crowns of flame.
A palace hung from the ceiling. The hallways bent in absurd angles.
Doors lined the walls.
Behind each one, a victim of the king.
Mute children. Tortured servants.
All whispered in unison:
- Why did you laugh? Why did you say nothing?
- You think I'm mad, Maelrath?
- Then look closely.
- This madness-you built it with your own hands. This theatre is your creation.
- And me? I'm only your reflection, twisted by your laughter.
He laughed.
A dry, cracked laugh-almost human.
Then fell to his knees.
His laughter turned to sobs.
- I am mad... because I saw too much. Felt too much. Loved the idea of justice too deeply to survive without hate.
He stood.
He screamed.
A massive golden scale appeared.
On one side: the king's crimes.
On the other: Ashen's screams.
The scale tilted.
The king fell to his knees.
The orchestra played louder.
The spectators applauded... and melted like wax statues.
The king ran, screamed, fled, through hundreds of mirrors.
Each reflected a deformed version of himself:
A screaming child.
A cackling monster.
A chained king.
In each of them...
The Fool was waiting.
- Look at yourself, Maelrath. Look at what you never dared to become: a man capable of regret.
The stage became an open coffin.
Maelrath was sealed inside.
On the lid, engraved: "Here lies the oblivion you deserved."
He screamed. Begged. Pleaded.
But Ashen did not answer.
The Fool whispered:
- You thought you had forgotten me.
But I am the memory that never dies.
He snapped his fingers.
And the stage burned.
The spectators melted.
The orchestra exploded.
The curtain tore.
The king reappeared on his throne, on his knees, naked, eyes wide open.
He whispered, again and again:
- The Fool looked at me... he looked at me...
The mages rushed in. He did not respond.
He would never respond again.
Caelen, below, turned his back.
And walked away without a word.
The Academy Council voted his expulsion within the hour.
Official reason: "Unacceptable use of mental magic on the person of the sovereign."
But no one dared lay a hand on him.
As he passed through the gates, silence reigned throughout the Academy.
Even the stones seemed to watch him pass.
In his mind, a soft voice:
- Thank you for letting me speak. You can silence me now. But I'll remain here.
Just in case the world begins to forget again...
Silence.