[Record No. 843.15.734-D7]

  [Event: Battle of Chamizal - Fall of the Lightbringer]

  [Site: Yridani Valley. Pelcot Region. Sector 1: District 3.]

  [Related Records: The Independent. Fall of the Lightbringer.]

  [Long Form] [Summary] [Excerpt] [Notable Outcomes]

  [Excerpt.]

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  [Begin.]

  The Lightbringer fell like the others, caught in the Queen's Embrace.

  No mercy, no quarter. Those were the orders, and they were followed to the letter. In the end, only the Bishop, Veridean of Eqaz, remained. Along the way, he must have forgotten he drew blades on his King and supported the first Pawn's death. He threw himself at the Dark King's feet, his eyes wide with terror.

  "Mercy, my lord! Mercy," the sniveling Bishop croaked between sobs, scrambling for the King's boots. The King drew his foot back in disgust. "You've won. That much is clear. All I ask is my life. It is not worth much to you, but to me... it is all I have."

  The King studied him for a long moment. Then he turned his gaze to the Valley, to the carnage unleashed beyond—bodies scattered across the scorched earth, the stench of death thick in the air. A sigh escaped his lips, heavy with the weight of ages, and he slowly shook his head.

  "Your request has been denied, Veridean of Eqaz," the King responded, his voice carrying genuine sadness beneath the iron resolve. "Had you offered mercy to the others, then... no. No, not even then. In the end, it was your methods. Some things cannot be forgiven. Some crimes..."

  He shook his head again, and then he drew his blade. The steel sang as it left the scabbard, catching the dying light.

  "When it comes to those like you—the ones who crave power for its own sake—I have no mercy, Bishop. Mercy is a fool's gamble, and I'm not a betting man."

  The King's blade rose and fell.

  Aside from the resurrected Queen and the Bishop of Shadows, a single Knight and two Pawns stood to witness his end. They had survived when thousands had not. Endured as kingdoms rose and fell around them. They would remember this moment for millennia. Only one would come to understand its significance in the end.

  [End of Record]

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  The little figurine fell from his hand, bouncing once, twice across the polished marble floor.

  Arizeal stared at his palm, trembling. His heart hammered against his ribs, breath coming in short gasps. What was that? What had he just—

  Not a memory. He knew his own memories, had lived with them for over three thousand years. This was something else. Something foreign. Something impossible.

  He'd been there. At Chamizal. But wrong. All wrong.

  He'd watched from angles he'd never stood at, seen moments he couldn't have witnessed. Kelris falling—he'd been there for that, holding his shield-brother as he died. But in the vision, he'd seen it from above, from behind enemy lines, from impossible perspectives all at once.

  And the Lightbringer's execution. He'd been exhausted after the battle, tending to his wounded comrade. He'd heard of Veridean's death secondhand, from the Knight who'd witnessed it. The Knight he'd just killed.

  But he'd just watched it happen and heard every word. Seen the blade fall. Experienced it as if he'd been standing right there.

  Yet he knew he hadn't.

  "Where did this come from?"

  His voice came out rougher than intended, sharp with confusion and the lingering disorientation from whatever had just happened. The two attendants near the table leading to the bedchamber flinched, stepping back from the ornate board.

  The woman who'd been cataloging the dead Knight's possessions looked to her companion, then back to Arizeal. Her hands twisted nervously.

  "It's a game, Keeper," she said, her voice uncertain. "The officers play it. I've been trying to learn, but—"

  "Game?" Arizeal interrupted. He bent to retrieve the fallen piece—a Pawn carved from dark wood, worn smooth by handling. When it struck the marble floor, a small chip broke off the base. The damage somehow made it feel more real, more fragile.

  The moment his fingers closed around it again, he felt it. A presence. As if the piece were somehow aware of him. In his peripheral vision, so faint he almost missed it, something flickered. Text? Numbers? He couldn't focus on it, couldn't make it resolve into anything clear.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to concentrate, but the sensation vanished.

  "No," he said, opening his eyes and staring at the small carved figure, his thumb running over the fresh chip. "This is no game. This is... I don't know what this is."

  He slowly rotated the piece between his fingers, scrutinizing it in the candlelight. It was just wood—carefully carved, but still merely wood, shaped by a craftsman's skill. Nothing extraordinary. No signs of aether or runes. Nothing that should have transported him into someone else's recollection of a battle from a thousand years ago.

  "Pegrit! Daxil! Front!"

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  Two men rushed through the open double doors, armor and steel ringing as they moved. They stopped before Arizeal, their fists striking their chests in unison with the old salute.

  "Present, Keeper!" the two men said in sync.

  "Rest. No more formalities." Arizeal waved dismissively, though his hand was still shaking slightly. "The battle is over. I just needed to get your attention."

  He held up the carved Pawn. "The attendant found this board in Horas' chamber. Have either of you seen anything like this?"

  He extended the piece toward Daxil, who took it carefully with his calloused fingers.

  "No," Daxil said after a moment's inspection, frowning at the fresh chip at the base. "Can't say I have. Fine work, though. This has seen plenty of use—you can tell from the wear patterns on the side and base right there. Shame about the chip."

  He passed it to Pegrit, who studied it, turning it, examining the grain, testing the weight, and also noting the damage with a slight frown.

  "No, sir," he said, still frowning. "Do you know the rules or where it originated?"

  The three men turned to where the attendant had stood moments before.

  Empty space. She'd vanished.

  "Quick on her feet, that one," Daxil observed, the ends of his flails jingling softly. "I see you still have that effect on the ladies, Keeper."

  "Stop that," Arizeal muttered, but his attention had already returned to the piece Pegrit held. "Wait. Did nothing happen when you touched it?"

  The Knight and Bishop exchanged glances.

  Arizeal took the Pawn back, holding it carefully as if it might burn him. "When I touched it the first time, I saw... something. Chamizal. The end of the battle. The Magister’s execution. All seen from perspectives I had never known, as if someone had preserved every moment from every angle. It was…eerie."

  He looked at his two oldest friends. "And there was something else. Just for a second, in my peripheral vision. Like text or numbers, but I couldn't make it out. It disappeared before I could make sense of it."

  Pegrit couldn’t help himself. He latched onto the curiosity in an instant. Doubts forgotten. "Aether doesn't store information like that. It can’t. It flows, dissipates— and words, numbers?"

  "I know what aether does," Arizeal interrupted before his friend drowned them all in aether theory. "But I'm telling you what I experienced. Perfect recall of a battle from angles I never occupied. All I did was touch a piece."

  He gestured toward the chessboard, where Knights, Bishops, Rooks, a Queen, and a King were arranged carefully. They were positioned both in front of and behind the chipped Pawn he had placed in a square at the center.

  "If this one contains... something... what about the others?"

  Before either could respond, he reached for another piece—the Knight.

  His fingers had barely brushed the carved wood when it hit him—

  A different battle. An urban environment. Unfamiliar architecture.

  Pawns fighting desperately, armor he didn't recognize—

  It was too fast, too overwhelming. Arizeal jerked his hand back, and the vision cut off instantly.

  "What?" Daxil asked, startled.

  "Another one," Arizeal said, breathing hard. "Another battle. Not Chamizal. Somewhere else. A different place, a different time, maybe." He stared at the Knight. "I barely touched it, and I saw—"

  He forced himself to pause and articulate his thoughts. "This isn't random. These pieces... they're more than carvings. I think... I think they're more like... records."

  "Records of what?" Daxil asked.

  "Battles." Arizeal looked at all the pieces on the board. "These are records of battles, somehow preserved in the pieces."

  "That's not possible," Pegrit said, though his tone had shifted from skeptical to intrigued. "The amount of aether required to store that much information, to preserve it at that level of detail..."

  "Yes, Pegrit. And that is exactly why we should be concerned about where this came from and who made it," Arizeal finished. Pegrit nodded once, accepting the admonishment.

  He studied the board more carefully now. The pieces were arranged in specific positions, as if the game were in progress or already completed.

  "Horas had this," Arizeal said thoughtfully. "He claimed he remembered dying in battles that never occurred. I think I understand now."

  The implication hung in the air.

  "You think the game drove him mad?" Daxil asked.

  "I think whatever these pieces contain, Horas saw it, just as I did. Maybe his mind couldn’t handle it." Arizeal finally pulled his gaze from the table and looked sternly at his compatriots. “We need more information on this. We need to find that attendant. She knows something about these games. She said officers played—which means there are more of them out there. Their minds could be degrading like Horas’s."

  "Keeper," Pegrit said carefully, "maybe you should leave these alone for now. Let me look into this. If this game indeed drove Horas to madness—"

  "Then I need to understand why, Pegrit." Arizeal's jaw set with determination. "You of all people should understand. If these are records of battles and Horas saw battles that supposedly never happened, then either these are elaborate fabrications meant to drive people mad, or..."

  He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't want to voice the darker possibility forming in his mind.

  "Or what?" Daxil pressed.

  "Or the alternative may be true," Pegrit said grimly, voicing Arizeal’s unspoken thought. "Those battles did happen, and maybe it’s us who don’t remember."

  Arizeal looked down at the board and the remaining pieces he hadn't touched. Pegrit followed his gaze and frowned deeply. Arizeal took a breath and offered the Bishop a weary smile.

  "Not tonight." He rubbed his face, suddenly aware of how long the day had been. "Not after all that's happened."

  The battle in Sector 9. The bodies in the streets. The crude crown rolling over bloodstained cobblestones.

  It had been only hours ago.

  "We secure this room," he decided. "No one touches this thing until we understand what it is. Pegrit, I need you to track down that attendant. Quietly. She knows something, and we need to know what."

  "And if she doesn't want to talk?" Pegrit asked, pulling a notebook from his storage.

  "Then we find out why she's so afraid of a game." Arizeal moved toward the door, then paused. "And Pegrit? See if you can find out whether there are more of these games. If people throughout the Garden have them, I want to know who, how many, and where."

  "You think this is bigger than one mad Knight and one game board," Daxil chimed in, following the conversation.

  "I think," Arizeal said carefully, "Horas wasn't mad. Not really. I think he saw something in these pieces we don't understand yet. We need to know what. I need to know."

  He looked back at the chessboard one last time.

  "This battle may not be over after all."

  Daxil and Pegrit watched him leave, then looked at each other in the candlelit chamber.

  "He won't be able to leave this alone," the Knight told the Bishop.

  "No," Pegrit agreed. He approached the chessboard cautiously, not touching the pieces but studying them. "Whatever this is, I don’t believe it’s going to let him."

  Pegrit didn't respond. Instead, he leaned closer to the board, squinting in the dim light. There, carved into the wooden edge in letters so small they were nearly invisible:

  Record No. 843.15.

  "What is that?" Daxil asked, stepping closer.

  "Numbers," Pegrit said. "A designation of some kind. 843.15." He opened his small notebook and carefully recorded it. "If this is an organizational system..."

  "Then these aren't just random games," Daxil finished for him a few seconds after he trailed off. "Keeper’s right, then."

  Pegrit nodded and kept scribbling in the book.

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  As twilight dwindled and night deepened over the Garden, both moons rose full, their light streaming through the windows. In the distance, someone sang a song of mourning for the dead.

  The chessboard sat on a table in Arizeal’s chambers, with the pieces arranged in the same positions he had found them. Each one a mystery, potentially leading to revelation or madness.

  Arizeal had touched two pieces and seen impossible things.

  There were dozens more pieces on the board.

  And if his and Pegrit's suspicions were correct, dozens—perhaps hundreds—of other boards could be drifting through the Garden.

  Each piece a record. Records that someone had tried very hard to preserve.

  Or hide.

  The question was: Why?

  What would happen when Arizeal finally understood the answer?

  Deep inside, he secretly feared the game. He wouldn’t understand why until the day he drew his sword against a true King once more.

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  [End of Prologue]