Chapter 4 - The Sovereign Board

"The chessboard is not a game, but a mirror. Those who stare into it too long lose their soul."

The sun was slowly rising over the Royal Academy of Magic. A pale light bathed the stone corridors, awakening the banners hanging between the columns: Arca, Silhaen, Keralith, and Umbra. Each House had its colors, its symbols... and its secrets.

Ashen, now known as Caelen Sareth, walked alone through the Eastern gallery. The other students, stirred by rumors that had been growing for days, gathered in tight groups, exchanging words in hushed tones.

Something ancient was awakening.

Something none of them had ever known.

A tournament.

It was in the Celestial Amphitheater, at the heart of the Academy, that the official announcement was made. The students, gathered by House, listened to Rector Aernias from atop his promontory. His voice, carried by a resonance charm, was clear and sharp.

— "Today," he declared, "the Council of Mages and His Majesty have authorized the reactivation of the Sovereign Board."

A murmur rippled through the students like a wave. Some straightened up. Others turned pale.

— "The Tournament of Spirits begins."

He paused.

— "Each House will designate two champions. They will face off in duels on the Board. The final winner will receive the Right of the Sole Wish."

The Right of the Wish.

An ancient privilege, granted only once per generation. A wish that even the king could not deny, as long as it did not threaten the kingdom's stability.

The room fell silent.

— "But this tournament will not be played on an ordinary chessboard," added the Rector. "Each match will take place on the Sovereign Board, a millennia-old artifact capable of reflecting the soul of its players. Each participant will be able, once per match, to invoke their inner zone, altering the reality of the board to impose their mental world upon it."

Shivers ran through the crowd.

Ashen remained unmoved.

He knew what that meant.

In the Umbra tower, Maestra Venhal stared at her students, standing before the great round table in the common room. Her gaze was cold, precise.

— "You want explanations? I'll give them to you."

She conjured a magical map of the four Houses.

— "The power ranking here is very clear. It doesn't depend on grades. Nor discipline. But on political weight, magical purity, and the number of alumni who've reached high positions."

She pointed to a red crest:

— "House Arca. The most powerful. Descendants of the Academy's founders. Brilliant, brutal, merciless students. Their motto: Dominate or disappear. Their leader this year: Théon of Morholt."

A blue crest:

— "House Silhaen. The scholars. Precision before passion. Logic before emotion. Their magic is subtle, their pride immense. Their champion: Elaris Varn."

A green crest:

— "House Keralith. Less prestigious, but respected. Known for its alchemists, its illusionists. Their strength: unpredictability. Their leader: Elwin Telar, the 'lucid dreamer'."

She stopped in front of a black crest, cast in dark relief.

— "And finally, Umbra. Us. The nameless. The abandoned. The turncoats, the bastards, the students no other House wanted. The shadow others ignore... until it bites."

A heavy silence.

— "This year, Umbra will send two players. One of them is Caelen."

Eyes turned toward him. Some curious. Others hostile.

He had never played chess in public. And yet, he had defeated the best in the House, one by one, without uttering a word.

— "The second will be chosen after the final internal selections."

Venhal placed her hands on the table.

— "I don't expect you to win. I want you to break them."

The next day, the Sovereign Board was activated in the main courtyard.

It was a ten-meter by ten-meter chessboard made of living stone. Each square pulsed gently, as if it were breathing. Ancient runes surrounded the perimeter. Four obsidian statues, representing faceless mages, stood at the corners.

Caelen approached.

He immediately felt the magical pressure. This was not a simple playing field. It was a mind.

And this Board... was watching him.

As if it was already trying to read inside him.

The rules were posted in the announcement hall:

• Single-elimination tournament.

• Each House presents two players.

• Quarterfinals, semifinals, final.

• Only one winner.

• One zone activation per match.

• The Right of the Sole Wish granted to the victor.

List of participants:

• House Arca: Théon of Morholt / Haldric Veyr

• House Silhaen: Elaris Varn / Serah Liane

• House Keralith: Elwin Telar / Lexion Drein

• House Umbra: Caelen Sareth / Varlen Morth

Ashen read the list silently.

His first match would be against Haldric Veyr, from House Arca. A hot-blooded fighter, known for his dislocation magic and his contempt for the weak.

— "Him?" they were already saying in the halls. "The nameless against the heir of Veyr? He's going to get crushed."

But Ashen did not flinch.

In his head, the Board was already spinning.

He had seen shapeless pieces.

Chained pawns.

Broken kings.

Laughter.

The Board was not a game.

It was a battlefield.

And he... had already left his body there.

"It's not the king you strike down first. It's pride."

On the morning of the first clash, the sky over Edelstadt was the color of ashes.

A cutting wind swept through the towers of the Royal Academy, whistling between the enchanted stained glass and columns engraved with ancient inscriptions. The Sovereign Board, installed at the center of the great honor courtyard, seemed vaster than ever. The black and white squares pulsed with ancient energy—almost alive.

At the top of the stands, a murmur rose.

Students, professors, elite mages. All were waiting.

All were talking about him.

— "That's the boy from Umbra... Caelen. They say he came from nowhere."

— "They mostly say he's never lost."

— "And that he hasn't invoked his zone yet..."

— "He won't last three openings against Haldric."

Haldric Veyr. Champion of House Arca. A noble student, brutal, famed for his flawless memory and aggressive play. A ruthless strategist, raised with the certainty he was born to dominate.

He was already standing at the edge of the Board, chin high, arms crossed over his breastplate engraved with red runes. He was smiling.

A smile that promised humiliation.

Opposite him, Caelen Sareth advanced slowly, wordless, cloaked in his black cape without crest.

The Board trembled beneath his steps.

The voice of the arbiter, amplified by enchantment, echoed across the amphitheater:

— "First duel of the Tournament of Minds: Haldric of House Arca versus Caelen of House Umbra. No forfeits allowed before thirty moves. Zones may be activated at any moment, once per game. At the end of the match: only one strategic survivor."

A heavy silence fell.

Then the voice rose again:

— "Players, take your places."

Caelen placed his hand on the edge of the Board. Instantly, a wave of energy surged from the squares. The world around seemed to freeze.

The crowd held its breath.

The duel began.

First move.

Haldric, as tradition demanded, opened with white.

1.e4 — direct, aggressive, unflinching.

Caelen answered without hesitation.

1...c5 — the Sicilian Defense. A trap. A minefield.

The spectators immediately recognized the structure. But the usual lines quickly vanished.

Haldric played fast. Too fast.

Caelen played slowly. As if he was watching something else. Something beyond the board.

— "You scared?" Haldric taunted after his 7th move. "What're you waiting for? Show us what you've got."

Caelen didn't answer. He moved his knight. A strange maneuver. Unexpected. And yet... perfectly placed.

Haldric clenched his teeth.

Twelve moves later, he had lost an exchange.

But it was nothing. Not yet.

He was waiting for his moment.

On the 23rd move, Haldric straightened.

He raised his hand.

— "I invoke my zone."

A red lightning bolt split the sky. The Board trembled.

And the world shifted.

Reality around the game twisted. The squares widened, the borders disappeared. Ruins rose. Statues of ancestors, burned banners. Staircases of blood. Distant screams.

Mental zone: The Throne of Arca.

— "Welcome to my home," Haldric whispered.

The pieces became iron knights, flaming towers. The magical tension crushed the air.

Every move Caelen made, he did as if bearing a weight.

The Board judged him. Rejected him.

But he kept playing.

35th move.

Haldric had the advantage.

He hadn't won yet. But he was in control. And the audience knew it.

— "You've got no defense line left, Umbra," he spat. "Resign. You don't belong in this world."

For the first time, Caelen looked up.

His pupils were calm. Empty.

— "You think this world is yours just because you carry it in your skull."

Haldric smirked, unsettled.

— "And you? Showing nothing? Refusing to play your trump?"

Caelen placed his fingers on a piece.

— "I'm waiting."

— "For what?"

— "For you to believe you've won."

He moved his bishop.

And suddenly... everything changed.

42nd move.

Haldric had just lost a minor piece.

His attack was collapsing.

The spectators saw it too late. But Caelen had foreseen it eight moves in advance. Haldric's structure, his proud zone, his world, was cracking.

— "This... isn't possible..." he murmured.

The Board flickered.

— "You thought your zone would scare me?" Caelen said. "Want to know why I haven't invoked mine?"

Haldric didn't answer.

— "Because your world is an empty throne."

"And I... I haven't yet decided who I want to be in mine."

49th move.

Checkmate.

Silence.

Haldric's king fell slowly. It bounced on the Board's tile with a heavy, final sound.

The Sovereign Board closed.

Reality reset around them. The sky returned. The obsidian statues froze.

The arbiter raised a hand:

— "Victory for Caelen Sareth."

The stands erupted in whispers.

No cheers. Not yet. The Academy didn't know how to react.

Caelen turned without a word. He descended the steps, his boots echoing against the stone. Haldric stood frozen, fists clenched, eyes wide open.

The king of Arca... had just fallen.

In the Umbra Tower, Maestra Venhal was already waiting.

— "You didn't invoke your zone," she noted.

— "Not yet."

She slowly nodded.

— "And him?"

— "He invoked a throne. But he didn't know how to rule."

— "And you? Will you rule?"

Caelen stopped.

— "Not over ruins."

He entered his room. Closed the door.

And collapsed against the wall.

His hands were trembling.

Not from fatigue.

Not from fear.

But from memory.

In his mind, the Fool whispered:

— "You've advanced your king, my brother... but you're still far from the center."

"Between each moved piece, a world collapses."

The name Caelen Sareth had spread through the halls like a slap in the middle of a ceremony.

Just the day before, few mages even knew he existed. Today, everyone had seen the unthinkable: Arca's champion on his knees, defeated without even grazing his opponent's mental zone.

— He trapped him in silence, they whispered.

— He refused to show his zone. That's... suicidal.

— Or strategic.

— Or mad.

Caelen, for his part, remained silent. He didn't leave his room for two days. Not to avoid others. But to study.

Replay.

Relive.

Not the game against Haldric.

But the ones to come.

Next Match – Game 2: Elwin Telar (Keralith) vs. Serah Liane (Silhaen).

The arena already vibrated with anticipation. This time, Caelen watched from the stands, sitting apart, a shadow among shadows.

He observed their postures.

Their eyes.

Their hesitations.

Elwin Telar, called the lucid dreamer, had his eyes half closed as he entered the Plateau. Some laughed. Others worried.

He didn't say a word.

Serah Liane, on the other hand, held her wand against her temple as if about to tear apart an invisible truth. Brilliant student, relentless theorist. But too rigid.

Caelen could already see it.

She didn't like the unexpected.

— She'll activate the zone first, he murmured.

And he was right.

On the 14th move, Serah lost patience.

— Mental zone: Archives of Silhaen.

The Plateau became a massive library of ice. The pieces floated in the air, connected by translucent bridges. Every move required absolute logic.

But Elwin... was smiling in his sleep.

Barely two moves later, his own pieces began to dance.

— Mental zone: Forest of the Fragmented Dream.

The Plateau began to flicker.

Squares distorted. Rooks turned into trees, knights into vegetal creatures, pawns... into shadows of children. Every move came with a spectral laugh or a muffled cry.

Serah lost her balance.

— It's illogical! she shouted.

— Exactly, Elwin murmured.

Checkmate in 37 moves.

After the match, Caelen slowly walked down the stairs. He crossed paths with Elwin in the hallway.

The boy still had his eyes half closed.

— You're not really asleep, are you?

Elwin smiled.

— Can one say the dream keeps watch?

— Your zone... it's a nightmare for rigid minds.

— Yours... you hide it too well. It'll burn you from the inside if you wait too long.

Caelen looked at him, surprised.

But Elwin walked away without waiting for an answer.

Game 3: Elaris Varn (Silhaen) vs. Varlen Morth (Umbra).

Caelen expected nothing from this game.

Varlen, though experienced, lacked the strategic brilliance. Too nervous. Too reactive. Umbra now relied solely on Caelen.

Elaris, on the other hand, was methodical. A glacier in flesh.

She didn't speak, didn't move her eyes. She just played... perfectly.

Her zone was invoked on the 30th move.

— Mental zone: Chamber of Balance.

The Plateau became a giant balance suspended in the void. Every moved piece influenced the world's weight around them. Every decision threatened the whole system.

Varlen broke under the mental pressure.

And fell into symbolic emptiness.

Clean checkmate. Cold. Without cruelty... but without mercy.

In the Umbra tower

— Only one remains, said Venhal to Caelen.

— Me.

— The pressure's rising. Everyone wants to see your zone.

— They'll have to wait.

She stared at him.

— And if you fall before the final?

Caelen smiled.

— Then I didn't deserve to have it seen.

Venhal stepped closer, softer.

— You know... those with nothing to lose are often the most dangerous. But those with nothing left to hide are the truest.

He looked away.

And thought about what he was hiding.

Next Match – Game 4: Théon de Morholt (Arca) vs. Lexion Drein (Keralith).

A clash of titans.

Théon was Arca's second representative. A living legend among students. Intelligent. Precise. And cruel.

Lexion, on the other hand, was unpredictable. A mage of chaos. But not stable enough.

The game didn't last.

On the 17th move, Théon activated his zone:

— Mental zone: Hall of Perfect Judgment.

A vast courtroom appeared around the Plateau. Giant statues watched, judging each move with howls or sighs. The pressure was unbearable.

Lexion tried to invoke his own, but his hands trembled.

Mistake. Trap. Checkmate.

Caelen watched. Silent.

— This Théon... he's still hiding something.

Because Théon hadn't needed to show his full strength.

Provisional Ranking – Remaining players:

• Caelen (Umbra)

• Elwin (Keralith)

• Elaris (Silhaen)

• Théon (Arca)

The semi-finals are approaching.

All eyes are turning.

The question arises.

When will Caelen reveal his zone?

In his room, Caelen summoned a small illusionary chessboard. The black pieces smiled. The white ones bled from the eyes.

He placed the black king at the center.

— "Not yet," he thought.

But soon.

"A dream is a game without rules. Logic, a cage without windows."

The Sovereign Plateau had never been so silent.

The obsidian statues at its corners seemed to hold their breath. The sky above the arena was a heavy gray, suffocating, as if suspended between two storms.

The stands were packed. Students, professors, mage-masters—all seated, all silent. The tournament was no longer an academic event. It had become symbolic.

And that day, two titans with opposite minds were about to clash:

— Elwin Telar, Keralith. The lucid dreamer, the child of illusions, the guest of chaos.

— Elaris Varn, Silhaen. The glacial architect, the priestess of logic, the queen of symmetry.

Two worlds.

Two visions.

And only one spot in the final.

Caelen watched from above.

He had never felt the weight of silence so intensely.

He knew Elaris. He even feared her a little. She never made mistakes.

And yet, he knew the real danger... was Elwin.

Because an unpredictable mind has no limits.

The two players took their places on either side of the Plateau.

The referee's voice echoed:

— Semifinal number one. Elwin Telar versus Elaris Varn. Invoke your zones at will. Forfeit prohibited before the 30th move.

There was a beat.

Then the pieces appeared. Sculpted in crystal for Elaris's white, in blackened wood for Elwin's pieces.

  1. e4 – Elaris's classic opening. Solid. Pure.

  1...d6 – Elwin's strange reply. Cautious. Twisted.

The battle had begun.

The first moves were oddly balanced. No brilliance, no daring captures. Like two dancers circling one another, not daring to touch.

Then, on move 15, Elaris broke the silence.

She raised her hand, expressionless.

— Mental Zone: Hall of Pure Geometry.

The Plateau transformed instantly.

The squares hardened. Transparent walls rose between the diagonals. Each line of play became a defined path. Each piece floated in perfect geometry, in constant rotation.

Concentric circles formed beneath their feet.

A world where everything had an angle. A cause. A consequence.

— It's no longer a game, whispered a student behind Caelen. It's a living equation.

Elaris had melded into her zone. She was now following a celestial logic, a mechanical intelligence. The pieces moved almost on their own, obeying her cold and flawless vision.

Elwin, meanwhile, lowered his head slightly.

One might have thought he was asleep.

But his index finger brushed the wood of a piece.

— Mental Zone: Forest of the Fragmented Dream.

And the Plateau became... a nightmare.

The corner walls began to collapse. The lines vanished. The grid melted into a shifting, moiré mist. Shadows passed between the squares. Laughter, weeping. Living trees replaced rooks. Rocks dreamed of being knights.

The two zones coexisted.

And repelled each other.

Interference zones appeared with every move. Unstable squares, where reality bent. Some pieces floated. Others shrank.

Elaris frowned. For the first time... she doubted.

Her perfect world was being parasitized by a dream without logic.

— You manipulate the board like a child toppling a game, she said.

Elwin murmured:

— And you want everything to stay frozen. But the world changes.

Move 28.

Advantage to Elaris.

But slight.

Her pieces had carved a path through the chaos. She had managed to isolate a weakness on Elwin's right flank.

A pawn to defend.

A trap to set.

But Elwin... smiled.

And moved a bishop.

— No! shouted a student in the crowd. He's giving up the central pawn!

Caelen slightly stood up, eyes wide.

It wasn't a mistake.

It was bait.

On move 30, Elaris took the pawn.

And at that moment... everything shifted.

Three moves later, her knight was trapped.

Four moves after, her queen was caught in an unstable square.

The Plateau laughed.

Distant cries could be heard. Dreamlike trees danced. The Hall of Pure Geometry cracked.

Elaris stiffened.

— This is not rational...

— No, said Elwin. It's real.

Move 36.

Elaris activated a focus spell. She tried to recalculate, to rebuild her world.

But the dream had gained ground.

And dreams... cannot be corrected.

Caelen smiled inwardly.

He recognized the beauty of the moment.

A perfect mind... sinking into a world without logic.

Move 38.

Checkmate.

Total silence.

The Hall of Pure Geometry disintegrated.

The dream slowly faded.

Elwin stood, bowed, and left the Plateau without a word.

Elaris remained frozen, eyes wide open. She had lost.

Not against a superior strategy.

But against the unpredictable.

After the match, Caelen crossed paths with Elwin in a hallway.

— You never looked at the board, he said.

— I didn't need to.

— You knew you'd break her.

— I don't play to break. I play to open doors.

He stopped.

— And you, Caelen? What do you play for?

A long silence.

— To no longer be a piece.

Elwin smiled.

— Then you're more dangerous than all of us.

Current ranking:

• Finalist 1: Elwin Telar (Keralith)

• Finalist 2: To be determined – Caelen vs Théon match in the next chapter.

The Sovereign Plateau awaits.

And this time... Caelen may no longer be able to hold back.

"Between shadow and light, there is the place where monsters are born."

The sky was black that day.

Not night. Not a storm. Just a dense, suffocating black, without moon or wind. The entire Academy seemed suspended in the silence of the Sovereign Plateau.

The students spoke in hushed voices. The masters looked at the arena with worried eyes.

It was no longer a tournament.

It was a war.

And this battle... was feared.

Caelen Sareth, the boy from Umbra, silent since the beginning of the tournament, undefeated without ever invoking his zone.

Theon of Morholt, prince of House Arca, renowned strategist, manipulator, master of mental control. He had not merely won his matches. He had broken his opponents.

And now, they were to face each other.

The referee's voice echoed throughout the amphitheater:

— Second semi-final of the Tournament of Spirits. Caelen Sareth versus Theon of Morholt. No resigning before the 30th move. Only one zone invocation per player.

A murmur ran through the stands.

The Plateau awakened.

The two opponents took their places.

Theon wore a dark red outfit embroidered with gold, his metallic grey gaze locked onto Caelen's.

— At last, he whispered. The lost child comes out of his hole.

Caelen did not reply.

— I know you, Umbra. You play clever with your silence, but you've never played against me.

Still no words.

— I'll rip your zone from you like a mask from a fraud.

Caelen placed his hand on the board.

The Plateau vibrated.

The pieces appeared.

e4

Theon opened with a classic attacking variation. Direct. Violent.

1...e5

A mirrored response. Caelen wasn't avoiding conflict. He accepted it.

The moves followed one after the other.

5, 10, 15.

The spectators held their breath.

Both players were ice-cold, each move played like a scalpel cut.

22nd move.

Theon played his rook diagonally.

Then, without warning, he raised his hand.

— Mental zone: Hall of the Infinite Mask.

A shiver ran through the crowd.

The Plateau deformed.

The light changed.

All around, black mirrors appeared, floating, distorted. Every piece on the board wore a mask. Even Caelen. Even Theon. The stands blurred. Nothing was visible anymore, except the reflections.

— You don't get it, said Theon in the fog. I am you. I am everything you hide.

Caelen slowly moved a piece.

And noticed that the Plateau... reacted to his thoughts.

Every move he considered, the Plateau projected into a mirror. A false version of reality, growing ever closer to his nightmares.

— Your zone manipulates my visions, he murmured.

— Not just that. It tests you. And you will fail.

The mask worn by the black king on the board... bore Ashen's face.

28th move.

Caelen lost a knight.

A trap. A lapse in concentration.

Theon's zone was too precise, too intelligent. It anticipated emotional reactions. Each piece was a symbolic double, an illusion masking true intent.

But Caelen didn't panic.

He adapted.

He retreated.

He gave space.

A student whispered in the stands:

— He's retreating... he's losing...

But Venhal, standing in the shadow of a column, smiled.

— No. He's breathing.

30th move.

Caelen raised his hand.

The spectators held their breath.

But he triggered nothing.

Just a look.

— You want to see my world, he said to Theon. You want it so badly you tremble.

— You're bluffing. You want to save your weapon for the end. But there will be no final for you.

Caelen smiled. An almost imperceptible smirk.

— You forgot something, Morholt.

— What?

— It's not up to me to show you my zone.

It's up to you to lead me there.

32nd move.

An unexpected move. An exploited weakness. A rook of Theon left isolated.

Then two connected pawns slowly advanced on the f-file.

Theon frowned.

Caelen had hidden his progress.

He had used the enemy zone against itself.

Every illusion. Every reflection. He had observed them, measured them, analyzed them. He had turned them into weapons.

His king, hidden behind a wall of pawns, moved forward slowly.

As if approaching the enemy not to flee, but to strike.

37th move.

Theon hesitated.

His gaze grew unsteady.

The Hall of the Infinite Mask trembled slightly.

— You're getting nervous, Caelen whispered.

— You haven't won yet.

— No.

He advanced a bishop.

— But you've already lost.

40th move.

Theon's white king was cornered.

His queen trapped in a mirror.

Only one way out.

And behind that way out, the black bishop.

Mate in two.

Theon saw the trap.

He screamed inwardly.

And struck the table.

But nothing moved.

The Plateau had decided.

42nd move.

The white king fell.

The silence was absolute.

Then, a voice:

— Victory for Caelen Sareth.

Theon remained seated. Trembling. His eyes lost in the collapsing zone.

Around him, the mirrors shattered. The masks melted.

Only the Plateau remained. And his fallen king.

Caelen stood, picked up his piece, spun it once between his fingers... then set it down again.

Venhal awaited him at the exit.

— You still haven't invoked your zone.

— No.

— Not even against Theon.

— I'm saving it for the only opponent who watches without judging.

— Elwin.

He nodded.

— His zone is a dream.

— And yours?

— A dream that bleeds.