There was no name for this place, only a wager that would decide the fate of every mortal (Naturally, the mortals were not asked for their opinion).
See names implied definition, definition implied understanding and this place had no intention of being understood. It was beyond time, beyond space, and definitely beyond the grasp of mortal comprehension (which is not saying much, given that mortals once considered horses the pinnacle of public transport).
At its edges, the void stirred. It was not the respectable, empty sort of void that poets like Sappho or Pindar wrote odes about. This void kept itself occupied. It had things that listened too closely, watched too eagerly, and, when the day dragged on a bit, decided that humanity could use another plague just to pass the time.
At its centre, on a plane of existence no larger than a modern New York apartment, two figures sat across from each other. Between them rested a chessboard as old as creation, its pieces carved from something older still, something that looked at creation, gave a long sigh, and muttered, "Children."
One was an older man who sat with a kind of stillness that suggested movement had long ago become unnecessary. His frame was tall, lean, and impossibly rigid. He did not fidget. He did not blink. His eyes, dark and depthless, gave nothing away. He simply was. Where he sat, reality seemed to bend in quiet deference, as though the universe itself hesitated in his presence, waiting for permission to continue.
By contrast, the other man appeared much younger and did not have the same effect. Or rather, he did, but in a very different way. Where the older man was stability and patience, he was unpredictability and improvisation. He sat sprawled lazily in his seat, shoulders loose, legs stretched carelessly forward. His fingers drummed against the board's surface in a rhythm just shy of insolence. His hair fell in careless strands across his forehead, as if even it refused discipline. He carried an air of easy arrogance, not born from ignorance but from experience.
"Do we have to play another game, uncle?" He wore the smirk of a man who had never learned to lose, and treated probability as a polite suggestion rather than a law. "How many times must we play before you admit the inevitable? Perhaps we should play something a bit simpler. Draughts. Or coin tosses. Best of three?"
His uncle's face remained a mask of quiet indifference. Over the millennia he had been called many things: king, tyrant, god. He had worn a hundred titles, shattered a thousand thrones and built a thousand more, usually out of the pieces. He had shaped the rise and fall of empires on a scale so vast that the history scrolls gave up somewhere around page one hundred and three.
Had anyone else dared speak to him as his nephew did, they would have been flayed alive, possibly twice for emphasis. And yet here he was, sitting across from the only being in existence who not only spoke to him as an equal, but also managed to sound vaguely bored while doing it.
"The pieces are set," he said, carefully positioning the final piece.
His nephew shook his head, glancing at the board. "Let me guess. Same terms as always? You insist on the first move, I humor you, and by move thirty-seven the fate of humanity is dragged in again. You've become predictable, uncle. It's incredible, really, you've actually managed to turn the end of the world into a routine."
"Is that so?" A flicker of something cold stirred behind his uncle's eyes, the faint stench of death and decay drifting across the board. In the void beyond, vast things shivered in fear, and for a moment the silence was broken by the sound of whimpering, the kind made by beings who had never learned how before now.
"So there are things that can still get under your skin," the nephew said, grinning as he leaned back in his seat. "And here I thought you had the emotional range of a boulder. But it's all ancient history now, isn't it?"
He stretched his arms and chuckled. "You led the golden age of man. Grand, unshakable, magnificent. Well… until you lost it all to a prophecy. Or rather, trying to stop a prophecy. And in doing so, you brought it about. What were you thinking, uncle? Surely you knew trying to stop it was a fruitless endeavor."
"Spare me your arrogance, nephew. If I recall, you were the one chained to a rock, bleeding for the sake of your precious pets. I don't need a prophecy to foresee the consequences of such… fruitless heroics."
"My so-called fruitless heroics gave Hope a reason to stay."
"A mistake, I'm sure. She'll leave the moment she sees the true depravity of your precious pets."
"A calculated risk. My 'precious pets,' as you call them, will surprise you." He folded his hands behind his head, the grin never leaving his face. "It must eat at you, uncle, knowing that for all your power, for all your grand designs, there are still those who will defy you in the end. That's their greatest strength… their unpredictability."
His uncle laughed, each booming chuckle shaking the plane of existence they sat upon. "Defiance? Unpredictability? That is what you cling to?" He leaned forward. "Oh, my dear, sweet nephew… how fitting that you would call such flaws their greatest strengths."
"Tell me," he continued. "When the chains bit into your flesh, when the beasts tore at you day after day… were you praising their defiance? Their unpredictability? Or were you cursing their very existence?"
For the first time, the nephew's smirk faltered. A fraction of a second, less. But his uncle saw it, and that was enough.
"I thought so." His uncle gave a soft, almost disappointed tut as he reached across the board. His fingers closing around a pawn.
"Let's make this the last game, shall we? You, your Hope, your pets and all their supposed strengths… against me, and their intrinsic nature. Your champion versus mine.
He paused, "Winner takes all."
His nephew's fingers drummed against the edge of the board, a rhythm that didn't quite hide the tremor beneath it. "Y-You can't be serious…"
His uncle lifted the pawn, studying it for a moment as though seeing something beyond the shape of it. "I swear upon the Semata, and by the law that binds it, to abide by this wager."
The nephew swallowed. His lips had gone dry. For once, the grin was gone. He glanced at his uncle, then upward into the endless dark above them. "Uncle…"
But his uncle ignored him. He placed the pawn down.
One square.
The void trembled. A soft ripple spread outward.
Far below, a child awoke screaming.