The morning fog clung to the scorched grasslands like mourning veils, thick and damp with the breath of war. What once had been fields of golden grain were now trampled and torn beneath the iron wheels of siege engines and the boot heels of marching men. Across the hills, where the dew still shimmered upon the thistles, two banners flew — one ink-black, bearing the silver flame of House Verden, and the other royal blue, stitched with the thorned rose of Queen Aelira’s standard.

Rain threatened above, grumbling in the grey-tinged clouds. The wind carried the distant hiss of arrows and the muted sobs of steel striking steel. It was the middle day of the siege.

Queen Aelira stood at the ridge’s edge, her silver-plated pauldrons catching the dim light as if the storm itself bowed to her. Her deep blue cloak snapped behind her like a banner of defiance, and her gauntlets were clasped tightly around the hilt of her saber. Her hair, raven-dark and braided through with sapphire cords, was damp with mist.

“The King hides,” she murmured, voice like frost curling across glass.

Beside her, King Thornhelm nodded his head. “Cowards always do, my Queen. He clutches at his tower and sends others to die in his place.”

She did not answer. Her eyes were locked upon the far ridge, where the bastion of King Morien loomed, cut from black stone and veined with red banners that bled in the wind. His last line. His final defense. She could almost see him pacing behind those stone ramparts, still cloaked in that garish crimson armor, still whispering poisoned words into the ears of his remaining advisors.

Below, the clash of war had reached its crescendo. Knights clashed in tightly packed phalanxes. Silver-shielded lancers charged and fell beneath cunningly placed spike traps. From her vantage, the Queen watched the battlefield shift like a living tapestry, patterns of movement she had studied since she was a child. She whispered each maneuver as it unfolded, anticipation coiling in her breath.

To the east, her daughter, Princess Caedra, rallied the swift-riders—nimble sabre-wielders astride pale desert mares. Their sudden sweep from the treeline caught the Verden flank off guard, splitting their attention and revealing the breach Aelira had waited for.

She raised a single gloved hand. “Now.”

The horn sounded. Deep, sonorous, final.

From behind the forward line, the Queen’s elite emerged: the Hammerguard. Towering, resolute, faceless beneath their crested helms. As they advanced, a roar built from her troops—a sound like thunder breaking through stone.

King Thornhelm turned, eyes bright. “You see the trap laid, my Queen?”

“I do,” she said. “He believes himself safe behind his line. But he left his northside exposed.”

He frowned. “Do you mean his—”

“I mean,” she interrupted, “his overreach is his undoing.”

She turned, sweeping her cloak aside. “Ready my approach.”

“You would ride now?”

“He will not fall to a blade not drawn in person. This ends with me.”

As her warhorse was led forward, she climbed astride it in a single practiced motion, the wind screaming around her as if the storm itself recognized her rising. She rode downhill with her vanguard, hooves drumming like war drums, her silver helm snapping into place as the thunder above cracked its applause.

The enemy archers loosed. Shields rose.

Lightning speared down in the distance, and the ground shuddered.

Aelira saw him then—Morien, emerging from behind his line, his expression unreadable. He raised his sword as if in challenge. Aelira smiled beneath her helm.

“One step more,” she whispered to herself. “One final advance. And the tyrant’s crown falls.”

She drew her saber.

And then—

CLATTER.

The battlefield vanished in a sudden, jarring motion. War cries silenced mid-breath. The Queen’s final charge suspended, her gleaming saber still aloft.

A silver knight slid sideways across the floor.

A black fortress toppled over with a hollow thunk.

“Oops!” cried Elric, still wide-eyed and holding the edge of the chess board like it had leapt up on its own.

Across from him, Alira—older by three years, tall, sharp-eyed, and very much not in a crown—froze mid-smirk.

“You flipped the board!” she snapped, gesturing at the scattered pieces. “You were one move away from checkmate!”

“Was not,” Elric mumbled.

“You absolutely were. You charged your queen straight into my trap. I knew you’d do that!”

“It was heroic!” he said, crossing his arms. “She wasn’t going to die, she was going to win!”

“Not in my strategy book,” Alira huffed, flopping back onto the rug and tossing a black knight at him harmlessly. “Queen into the rook line. Classic beginner’s mistake.”

From the kitchen, their father leaned into the room, wiping his hands with a dish towel.

“Again?” he chuckled. “How many games does that make this afternoon?”

“Five,” their mom said over the sound of clinking dishes. “Though this one ended with more drama than most.”

“She’s just mad because I was gonna win.”

“You were losing!” Alira cried.

“Was not!”

Their dad crossed his arms, giving them the look—the one with the raised brow and crooked smile that usually made them both groan.

“Elric, you definitely flipped the board.”

The boy looked down at the chaos of wooden pieces scattered across the carpet.

“…maybe just a little.”

Alira gave him the world’s slowest, most condescending clap.

“Great job, little general.”

But then Dad leaned in and bumped her shoulder.

“Still,” he said, “you have to admit—the way he set it up was kind of cool. The queen’s final charge? That line about ‘his overreach is his undoing’? Sounded pretty epic.”

Alira snorted despite herself. “Okay, maybe a little.”

She reached over and flicked one of the pawns upright. “Next time, though… we’re playing with the sand timer. You can’t keep narrating your attacks.”

“But the story makes it better!”

“Only when you don’t toss the queen into my trap.”

“Still heroic…”

Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Rain began to patter softly on the windows. The war was over—at least until they set the pieces again.