The Pawn's Ascension

The battlefield within the Imperial Palace grew quieter, but not from peace. It was the eerie silence of King Eroan's forces thinning out, one by one. The once-proud Wardens and Sentinels who had rallied to his cause were now scattered, fallen, or retreating under the relentless assault of the protectors and the dark elves. Their numbers, once overwhelming, dwindled until they were little more than isolated pockets of resistance, clinging to a cause that now seemed destined to collapse.

King Eroan's breaths came shallow and fast, his sliced hand clutched tightly against his chest. Blood seeped through his fingers, dripping onto the ornate floors of the palace. Panic began to take root in his heart, growing with each protector that stepped closer, with each Warden that fell. He couldn't believe it. Years—decades—of careful planning. Every move had been deliberate, every piece on his chessboard placed to serve his ambitions. And now, it was crumbling, all because of her.