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The cathedral stretches into infinity — a vast hall carved from black marble and white stone, its floor a perfect chessboard. Candles burn in suspended chandeliers, their flames frozen in place as if time itself refuses to move.Traeven sits on a throne‑square at the center of the board. Only then does he realize: He is seated in the king’s position.
But his board is missing a queen. All around him, the other pieces are alive — players sitting on their squares, eyes glowing in unnatural colors, faces unreadable. Some smile. Some stare. Some don’t blink at all. A white pawn — shaped like a werewolf with bone‑white fur — steps forward, crossing the boundary line into Traeven’s territory. Its claws scrape the marble.
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Then—BWAAAAAAM—An intercom horn blares overhead, the sound ripping through the cathedral like a shockwave. Music crackles through static, then scratches out violently. A woman’s voice booms through the air, echoing inside Traeven’s skull: “Pawn to E5.” The werewolf moves again — now close enough to touch the black king’s structure. Traeven’s pulse spikes.The white pieces begin to glow. A bishop’s eyes burn red.
Another bishop glows orange.
A knight radiates yellow, its armor humming like a hive of bees. He sees himself in multiple players. They rush him. Traeven rises from his square, but the board tilts, warps, bends around him. His own pawn turns — its face shifting, reshaping—It becomes his face.
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Green eyes.
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Mouth open in a silent scream.
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Then not silent.
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Traeven’s Pawn (his own voice):
“AAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH!”
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The scream detonates through the cathedral. Traeven jolts—He wakes. He is on a throne. Someone is holding a goblet to his lips — a rainbow‑colored chalice that glows like oil on water. The liquid inside swirls in impossible colors. He's appalled and recoils. Veronica stands over him, dressed as a servant, her aura a ghostly gray‑white that coils around her like smoke. On her chest: a skull‑and‑bone emblem… except the skull is a kitten’s head which morphs into a skull.
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Traeven’s stomach drops. He looks around — Then the throne melts into his sofa.
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His breathing slows.
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His mind drifts.
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He feels awake… but not anchored.
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He forgets what he was worried about and why he should move. He forgets everything except the moment. A woman sits on the carpet before him — dark‑skinned, beautiful, wearing a black undershirt and leggings. Her brown eyes are wide, warm, reflecting the faint red glow of a fireplace behind her. Her aura flickers like embers. Traeven marvels at her. Then—TWANG—A bowstring snaps. He turns. His office walls rise around him — black stone, cold and towering. Kathryn stands there, bow drawn, eyes blazing the same red as her hair.
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Her expression is the angriest he has ever seen.
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Kathryn:
“Who’s THAT!”
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She releases.
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The arrow flies—Traeven jerks awake in his real bed, sheets white, tank top clinging to his skin. Sweat beads down his temples. His breath shakes. He looks around the dark room. Everything is still. Everything is normal. But his eyes shake shallowly.
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