Rain lashed against the stained-glass windows of Regulus Academy, its patterns reminiscent of chess moves—sudden diagonals, strategic retreats, advances in formation.
"Breathe deeply. Don't let them see you." Leal Vitrius repeated the silent mantra, his fingers fumbling with the tie that was choking his neck.
The silk slipped between his sweaty fingers, the knot tightening with each attempt. Around him, impeccable uniforms glided through the corridors like pieces on a perfectly arranged board.
"Lost, freshman?" A senior student smirked as he passed, not waiting for an answer.
His reflection in the stained glass showed a seventeen-year-old with unruly hair and a uniform that was too big. Leal took a deep breath, feeling the fabric of his shirt strain against the buttons.
"You'll grow into it," his mother had said, smoothing the overlong sleeves. The pride in her eyes had almost made up for the discomfort.
His fingers found the emblem on his chest—a lifeless, gray pawn. All around, veterans flaunted emblems that seemed to drink in every ray of sunlight: golden crowns, silver knights, and obsidian rooks.
A group passed by him as if he were invisible. The jolt of a shoulder against his. No apology.
"First day?" asked a staff member passing by with a stack of documents.
Leal simply nodded, leaning against the cold wall.
"Hey, Vitrius."
The voice came like an unexpected move. Leal turned to see a young woman two steps away, watching him with an almost clinical curiosity. On the digital display behind her, names blinked in a sequence. His was at the top: "VITRIUS, LEAL — TABLE C." The bracelet on her wrist vibrated with the same designation, explaining her sudden interest.
She was different from the other freshmen. Copper-red hair in a perfect bob, precise makeup, and green eyes that seemed to calculate three moves ahead. She held a coffee cup as if it were a trophy. On her chest, the same gray pawn as the other newcomers, but on her, the symbol felt like a temporary choice, not a life sentence.
"You're Vitrius, right?" She didn't offer a hand. Instead, she slightly raised her cup in a minimalist toast. "We're table partners."
Leal nodded, trying not to look as out of place as he felt. "Leal. And you?"
"Beth Harmon." She took a sip of coffee, her eyes never leaving his. "First time at Regulus?"
"That obvious?" He tried to smile, but the gesture came out as a question.
"To me, yes." A corner of her mouth quirked up. It wasn't quite a smile. "You look at everything as if you're memorizing a position. Shall we go? The bell rings in thirty seconds."
As if on cue, the academy bell rang three times, each note deeper than the last. The doors to the Great Hall opened without a touch. The space within was vast and intimidating by design—a vaulted ceiling that amplified every whisper, columns that looked like gigantic chess pieces, and at the center, an 8x8 board engraved in the marble floor, each square large enough for a person to stand on.
"Freshmen." The voice required no amplification—it carried the weight of authority in every syllable. "Welcome to Regulus Academy. Align yourselves by houses."
The floor responded to the command. Lines of bluish light cut through the marble, forming bands marked by holographic emblems. The sections for WHITE and BLACK remained gray—unfulfilled promises waiting for the draw.
Leal followed Beth to the band farthest from the center, where other newcomers with Pawn emblems were gathering. At the front, veterans organized themselves in a visible and impeccable hierarchy. Those closest to the stage displayed gleaming crowns and scepters.
"The royalty always get the front seats," Beth commented, following his gaze. "Don't let it get to you. It's not about where you start." Her eyes analyzed the hall like a chessboard. "It's about where you finish."
A man stepped onto the central stage. His perfectly tailored gray suit seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. It wasn't clothing—it was camouflage. Light hair combed back revealed a face that could be any age between forty and sixty. His eyes, however, belonged to someone much older.
He carried a traditional chess set in his hands. When he placed it on the central table, something strange happened. His fingers, which had been moving with mechanical precision, trembled. It was a fleeting, almost imperceptible lapse, but Leal noticed. The professor closed his eyes for a second, as if contact with the board had awakened a physical memory his body couldn't ignore.
"I am Professor Anders," he said. His voice was controlled, but the name left his mouth like borrowed clothing—it didn't quite fit. There was an awkward pause after "Anders," as if he expected a correction. A few veterans in the front rows exchanged meaningful glances. One, an older student from House Rook, frowned and whispered something to his colleague, who shook his head.
"Today," the professor continued, regaining his composure, "we will begin the Entrance Examination."
"What do you think he'll demonstrate?" Leal asked in a low voice, watching the professor's precise movements.
Beth didn't respond right away. Her eyes followed the professor's hands as if she could predict every gesture. "Nothing you need to see. It's just theatrics."
Professor Anders positioned the pieces on the board with surgical precision. His fingers seemed to know every millimeter of the wood, every curve of the pieces. When he touched the white king, something shifted in the air—an almost imperceptible tension, like the silence before a lightning strike.
A hologram lit up above the table, projecting the pieces in an enlarged size. The translucent figures hovered in the air like ghosts trapped between two worlds. The white king seemed more alive than the other pieces, pulsing with its own light.
Anders moved the king near a black knight. The king shone with golden intensity, and the opposing knight slid backward, pushed by an invisible force.
"Imposing King," the professor said, his voice strangely tense. "A classic example of DOM—Dominion of Movement."
Leal watched the demonstration with a mixture of fascination and apprehension. It wasn't the first time he'd seen DOM in action—any child who grew up watching official tournaments knew the concept—but there was something different in how Anders wielded the power. An intimate, almost painful familiarity.
"The King's DOM allows it to push any adjacent enemy piece," the professor continued, his voice taking on a more formal tone, as if reciting a rehearsed speech. "But the power demands a sacrifice. The king cannot move on the same turn it uses its DOM."
The audience reacted with the appropriate murmur of admiration. Leal, however, noticed something else on Anders's face—a flash of nostalgia, quickly masked by professionalism.
"Now," Professor Anders said, turning off the hologram with an abrupt gesture, "the Entrance Examination. Proceed to your designated tables. A through H."
Leal followed the flow of students to Table C. His opponent was already there—a tall young man with tense shoulders and platinum blond hair combed back with military precision. His uniform, unlike the freshmen's, sported the House Knight emblem in gleaming gold. The insignia was so bright it seemed to scream for attention.
The young man observed Leal's approach with a divided look—half practiced disdain, half genuine assessment. His eyes, an almost artificial blue, descended to the gray emblem on Leal's chest. For a fleeting instant, something resembling envy crossed his face. So quickly that Leal almost missed it.
"Darius Tenebris," he introduced himself, without standing or offering a hand. His posture was too rigid, his shoulders tense as if carrying an invisible weight. "House Knight. Third generation."
The last words came out with a pride that sounded rehearsed. Leal noticed a golden bracelet on Darius's wrist, engraved with a name that wasn't his—likely his father's or grandfather's. The young man constantly adjusted it, as if it were never perfectly positioned.
"Leal Vitrius," he replied, sitting in the opposite chair. "House Pawn. First generation."
"Ah, yes." Darius's smile widened, but his eyes remained serious. "The house of... laborers." He hesitated, glancing quickly at a group of House Knight veterans watching from a distance. When he spoke again, his voice had a different, almost rehearsed tone: "I hope you have at least some rudimentary DOM. I hate matches where only I can make interesting moves."
But there was something in the way his fingers drummed on the table—not arrogance, but nervousness. As if he were playing a role he hadn't chosen.
The table arbiter—a middle-aged man with tired eyes that had seen thousands of matches—positioned the pieces with mechanical efficiency. The holographic board above them lit up, projecting each piece in enlarged size for the spectators. Leal felt the weight of gazes around him, the murmur of bets being placed, the expectation of seeing the freshman crushed by the House Knight prodigy.
The match began with the familiar dance of openings. Pawn to e4. A symmetrical response. Development of knights. Leal played with the caution of someone walking through a minefield, each move calculated to avoid showing weakness. Darius, on the other hand, moved his pieces with the confidence of someone who had already seen the end of the game. His fingers barely touched the pieces, as if physical contact were unnecessary.
It was on the tenth move that everything changed.
Leal was considering advancing a pawn that had already left its initial position. By classical rules, this pawn could only advance one square at a time. But when his fingers approached the piece, he felt a strange tingling, like a weak electric current running up his arm.
The piece under his fingers felt... different. It wasn't a visual change—it was something deeper. As if the pawn had awakened. Leal felt a tingling rise up his arm, a subtle electric current that connected his mind to the piece. Without fully understanding what was happening, he realized he could feel the board in a way he had never experienced before. Every square, every diagonal, every possibility.
"Problem with your pieces, Vitrius?" Darius's voice cut through the moment like breaking glass. "Or are you trying to delay the inevitable?"
Leal didn't respond. Not with words. His fingers touched the pawn, and the world around him disappeared.
A soft hum filled his ears. His peripheral vision narrowed, as if a tunnel had formed between him and the piece. The touch of plastic against his skin sent a current that ran up his arm, across his chest, and down his spine. His heart quickened, but not from fear—from recognition.
Without thinking, without questioning, he pushed the pawn two squares forward—an impossible move for a pawn that had already left its initial position. His fingers trembled, but his mind was strangely calm, as if he had found a truth that had always been there, waiting to be discovered.
Time fragmented.
The pawn began to change under his fingers. The opacity of the plastic dissolved like mist in the sun, revealing a crystalline structure that shouldn't exist. Inside the piece, a bluish light pulsed—in the exact same rhythm as his heart. Leal felt the connection as something physical, an invisible thread linking his essence to the piece's. A bead of sweat ran down his temple as a sensation of simultaneous power and fragility invaded him.
When the piece touched its destination square, the sound it made wasn't the usual dull thud of plastic against wood. It was a pure, crystalline musical note, like a glass being tapped.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Darius froze. His face went pale, eyes fixed on the translucent pawn. What Leal saw there wasn't just surprise—it was primitive, visceral fear. The fear of the unknown that challenges all certainties.
A whisper ran through the room, growing like a wave. A veteran from House Bishop dropped her coffee cup. The liquid spread across the floor, ignored. An older professor in the front row stood up abruptly, his eyes fixed on the board as if he had seen a ghost.
"Impossible," someone murmured. "Impossible."
Professor Anders, from across the hall, dropped the clipboard he was holding. The crash of metal against marble cut through the silence. In three quick steps—too quick for someone of his apparent age—he was beside the board, his breathing accelerated.
"Don't touch anything else," he ordered, his voice a mixture of urgency and reverence. His eyes met Leal's for a fleeting instant, and there was something disturbing in them—not surprise, but confirmation.
The arbiter approached with cautious steps, his hands trembling. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper:
"In thirty years of arbitrating matches... I've never seen..."
The hologram above the board flickered violently. For a moment, it looked like it would shut down. Then, golden letters flashed with urgency: ANOMALY DETECTED — UNCATALOGUED DOM — NOTIFYING COUNCIL.
"This is impossible," Darius finally managed to say, his voice strangely vulnerable. "Pawns don't have DOM."
Leal didn't respond. The sensation coursing through his body was overwhelming. Each pawn on his side of the board now felt like an extension of himself, connected by invisible threads of power.
Beth appeared beside the table, her green eyes wide. It wasn't surprise that Leal saw there—it was fascination, like someone finally witnessing something they had only suspected was possible. She extended a hand over the board, hesitant, without touching the pawn.
"This isn't... it can't be..." she murmured, her words broken. "It looks like crystal. Or glass."
Her fingers trembled. For someone normally so controlled, that reaction said a lot.
Leal looked at the transformed pawn. Under the translucent surface, a fine line had appeared—a tiny crack that hadn't been there before. A chill ran down his spine when his fingers touched the piece again. Something instinctive, visceral, told him there was a limit. Twice. The thought emerged in his mind with frightening clarity. Each piece could endure a maximum of two transformations before shattering completely.
"Can you feel it?" Beth asked, watching his expression. "What's happening to them?"
Leal felt the weight of the revelation. The miracle and the curse. The gift and the price. Intertwined like light and shadow.
The arbiter raised his hand. "Examination concluded," he announced, his voice trying to maintain professional firmness while his eyes betrayed astonishment. "Vitrius has demonstrated DOM. The assessment is complete."
Darius stood up abruptly. His face was a complex mix of contradictory emotions—incredulity, indignation, but also something deeper. For a moment, the mask of arrogance fell completely, revealing a glimpse of relief. As if a burden had been momentarily lifted from his shoulders.
He looked at the board. At the golden bracelet on his wrist. His fingers touched it briefly—a silent apology. As he turned to leave, he murmured words that only Leal could hear:
"Maybe now they'll look somewhere else."
He walked away. His steps echoed. His back was rigid. He was expecting a blow that never came.
The hall exhaled collectively. It wasn't the end of a match. It was a rupture in the world's order.
Some applauded—mostly the freshmen, who had seen one of their own defeat an established veteran. Others whispered with veiled disapproval, like priests witnessing heresy. But all, without exception, looked at Leal Vitrius as if he had just rewritten the laws of physics.
Professor Anders remained beside the board while the arbiter conducted the formal procedures. His fingers drummed against his thigh in a nervous rhythm. When everyone began to disperse, he grabbed Leal by the elbow with surprising firmness.
"My office. Now," he murmured, so low that only Leal could hear.
Then, raising his voice to an official tone:
"Vitrius, we need to document this... phenomenon." His face was a mask of professional neutrality, but his eyes betrayed urgency. "Follow me."
In the empty corridor, away from curious eyes, Anders stopped abruptly. He turned to Leal with an intensity that made him step back.
"What did you feel?" he asked, without preamble. "Exactly what went through your mind when the pawn changed?"
"I... I can't explain," Leal responded, taken aback by the direct question. "It was as if I always knew I could do this."
Anders closed his eyes for a moment, as if confirming an old suspicion.
"You just did something that hasn't been seen for..." he hesitated, as if calculating a number too large to pronounce. He looked around and lowered his voice even more. "For fifty-three years, to be exact."
Leal felt the weight of those words. "What exactly did I do?"
Anders leaned his hand against the wall, as if needing to steady himself. For an instant, he looked much older—and at the same time, strangely younger.
"You have just become the most important person in this academy," he said. "And also the most vulnerable. Remember this: don't trust anyone who offers help too easily. Not even me."
The murmur in the hall ceased. Cut off. Absolute. Leal felt the change before seeing its cause.
A young man was crossing the hall. He didn't walk. He glided. The floor seemed to curve under his steps.
Black hair. An aristocratic face. Skin that had never known the sun. He wasn't tall or muscular, but his presence filled the space like a gravitational field.
Students made way. Heads bowed as he passed. Not out of formal respect. Out of instinct. Like plants turning toward the sun. Or fleeing from a storm.
He stopped. He didn't look at Leal directly. He didn't need to.
A minimal gesture of his fingers. Two millimeters of movement. A chess piece materialized in his hand—a black king that he began to spin between his fingers with hypnotic precision.
"Who is...?" Leal began to ask, but realized he didn't need to complete the sentence.
Beth had gone pale. Not from fear, but respect. "Rex Mortalis," she answered, her voice barely audible.
The young man finally looked at Leal. His eyes were so dark brown they seemed to absorb light. When their gazes met, Leal felt something strange—as if an invisible force were assessing him.
Rex Mortalis slightly inclined his head. It wasn't a greeting, but an evaluation. Then, with a precise movement, he placed the black king on a nearby table. Beside it was a white bishop.
With a subtle gesture, the black king pushed the bishop backward, without Rex touching it.
"Imposing King," Beth whispered. "The most powerful DOM of House King. He can push any adjacent enemy piece."
Rex Mortalis turned his back and walked toward the exit, his followers converging around him like shadows at dusk. Before leaving, he looked at Leal one last time over his shoulder. There was no threat in his gaze. Only certainty. The certainty of someone who sees the future as a calculated board.
The bracelet on his wrist vibrated, displaying a message: ACADEMIC COUNCIL — IMMEDIATE PRESENCE REQUIRED — ROOM 7.
Beth read the message over his shoulder and let out a sigh that was half admiration, half concern.
"Be careful what they do to you in there," she said, her eyes meeting his. "Remember: pawns may seem weak, but they're the only ones that can transform completely."
Leal nodded and put the transformed pawn in his pocket. As he walked toward the exit, the weight of gazes followed him—curious, envious, hostile.
The pawn in his pocket pulsed against his thigh. It wasn't just plastic anymore. It was living glass. Fragile. Powerful.
With each step, a small crack formed in the crystalline surface, imperceptible to anyone but him. Each fissure, a promise. Each line, a path not yet traced.