The lights came on earlier than usual.
Cold. Blue. Too bright.
Cael stirred on reflex, the bones in his back groaning in protest against the thin cot. Around him, the barracks shuddered awake—bare feet hitting metal, breath fogging slightly in the recycled chill. Wren was already up, braiding her hair with quick fingers. Pax groaned softly from two bunks down, clutching a shoulder still purple from the last simulation. Lyndra sat cross-legged, sharpening the edge of her axe with a look that said she hadn't slept at all.
No one spoke. Not until the wall screen blinked to life.
NEW DIRECTIVE: TACTICAL UNIT PHASE 1
OBJECTIVE: INITIATE SQUAD-BASED MANEUVERS
ASSIGNED INSTRUCTORS: MAJOR PIECES
A second later, the Drillmaster appeared.
But it wasn't the usual one. Not the silver-haired woman with the baton and the hollow voice. This one wore a smooth white mask shaped like a Bishop's miter. Their coat was layered and silent, woven with threads that shimmered faintly as they moved.
"Black Team," the voice rasped. Neither male nor female. Machine-split. "You are no longer training as fragments. From this moment on, you operate as one body. Eight limbs. One survival. Each Major Piece will now lead a tactical subunit. Pairings will be determined by psychological profile and combat efficiency."
The screen blinked.
SUBUNIT ALPHA – KNIGHT ELARA
Cael. Wren.
SUBUNIT BETA – QUEEN VERA
Pax.
SUBUNIT GAMMA – ROOK THORNE / KNIGHT RUNE
Lyndra. Ryve.
SUBUNIT DELTA – BISHOP SORA
Mira. Jace.
SUBUNIT EPSILON – BISHOP DAGEN
Tessan.
Names filled the screen like pieces snapping into place. The final three Pawns—Jace, Mira, and Tessan—stood straighter when their designations appeared, like the words themselves gave them spine.
Cael caught a glance at them as they suited up.
Jace, tall and broad-shouldered, twirled his weighted staff like it was an extension of his arm. Mira checked the straps on her twin short spears, her movements crisp and clinical. Tessan barely moved at all—silent and focused, her bow already strapped to her back.
No one questioned the assignments. Not today.
Pax looked like someone had punched him in the lungs. "She's going to kill me."
"No," Wren muttered, tugging on her gloves. "She's going to train you so hard you'll want to die. There's a difference."
Cael's heart gave a strange flick at his own assignment. Elara. Again. He hadn't spoken to her since the match—just that glance. That one sentence.
"They're watching you now."
He wondered what she'd say now that they were expected to fight side by side.
Sector Twelve was narrow and jagged—like a wound cut into the side of the simulation wing. It simulated a fractured zone of Crown's Hollow: massive, slate-gray stones suspended in air like broken teeth. The terrain was pockmarked with pits of swirling vapor and gravity anomalies—some tiles heavier, some weightless. It looked like the aftermath of a world that had tried to tear itself apart.
Colorless light filtered through the ceiling, shifting with the same artificial logic that powered the arena's biomes. Sounds echoed strangely here—stretched, warped, delayed.
Elara was waiting near the edge of the platform, arms crossed. Her uniform clung like armor, but her eyes were the same—sharp, unreadable.
Wren gave a slight nod. "Knight."
Elara didn't return it. "You're late."
"We weren't told to report at a specific time," Cael said.
"You were told to be ready," she replied, and turned.
No warmth. No acknowledgment. Just command.
She led them down into the terrain. The sky above was hollow and gray, with fractured clouds crawling at unnatural speeds. A floating drone blinked overhead.
"Simulation parameters," the drone announced. "Escort protocol initiated. Core unit designated: VIP NODE. Mission: Transport target safely across terrain. Hazards will be randomized. Timing is strict. Failure will result in detonation."
The VIP Node appeared—hovering a foot off the ground, glowing a soft blue. Too slow to run. Too fragile to leave unguarded.
Elara didn't wait. "Flank it. Wren on left. Cael on rear intercept. I'll handle point."
Wren gave Cael a look but followed orders without question. The Node began to move.
Ten steps in, the first hazard hit.
A Detonation tile flared under Wren's foot. She barely twisted away before it clicked. Cael yanked the Node back just as the explosion knocked dust into the air.
"Eyes up!" Elara snapped. "Tile traps are randomized. Pattern logic won't save you."
"I wasn't using logic," Wren muttered, brushing ash off her arm. "I was improvising."
They pushed forward. The terrain narrowed. Vines whipped out of the walls—mechanical, razor-edged, twitching like they were alive. They moved with purpose, like they could smell motion.
Cael sliced through one with a sharp grunt, spinning his sword in a tight arc. Sparks flew. Elara moved like lightning, clearing three with her dual blades, each strike clean and silent. One vine lashed her cheek, but she didn't flinch—she only turned and cut it in half.
The Node pulsed brighter. Movement on the ridge.
"Drifter, upper left!" Cael barked.
It emerged from the mist like a phantom. Ember-skinned, ribcage exposed, too many joints in its arms and a melted-glass shimmer over its face. The eyes were wrong—blank and glossy, like it didn't see so much as sense.
Elara didn't hesitate. She vanished in a blink, reappeared mid-air, and struck the Drifter through its core. It dissolved into simulation pixels, but the delay had cost them. The Node had drifted too far forward—toward a glowing tile.
Amplify.
Cael lunged and stepped on it.
The surge hit him instantly. His muscles ignited. Eyes widened. Every sound sharpened into a symphony of motion. And just in time.
A Hollowborn burst from the vines.
It was grotesque—hulking and half-formed, like two torsos had been melted together. Its lower body dragged like wet stone. Its skin was bark-like, peeling and pulsing. One arm ended in a gnarled spike; the other, a bladed club of fused bone.
Cael moved on instinct—sprinting, dodging, spinning into the thing's path. His sword arced once, twice—each strike faster, deeper, cleaner than he'd ever moved. The final blow caught the Hollowborn beneath its chin. The thing hissed—wet, rattling—and exploded into pixelated gore.
The Amplify wore off like a gasp. He stumbled, breathing hard.
Elara was staring at him. Not judging. Just watching.
They reached the extraction point five minutes later. The Node docked into a receiving pad. The simulation ended with a pulse.
"Objective complete," the drone said. "Team efficiency: 87%."
Wren leaned on her knees. "How's that for late?"
Elara didn't respond. She walked past Cael.
But then she stopped.
"You've changed," she said without looking back.
"I had to."
She nodded slowly. "Good."
A beat of silence.
"You're not just a Pawn anymore. Not to me."
Then she was gone.
Back in the barracks, the air was thick with sweat and silence. Pax sat in a daze, arms trembling. "She didn't even yell. She just… looked at me like I'd already failed."
"She's training you to survive," Cael said, dropping onto his cot. "The yelling comes later."
Lyndra stormed in behind him. "Thorne nearly broke Ryve's collarbone for misjudging a flank. Rune had to intercept mid-swing. What the hell kind of team is that?"
"One that wins," Wren said simply.
Across the room, Mira stitched a long rip in her sleeve without looking up. Jace muttered under his breath as he disassembled and reassembled his weapon—checking it like it might betray him. Tessan cleaned her arrows in total silence.
The wall screen lit again.
UPCOMING MATCH CONFIRMED. PREPARE FOR LIVE DEPLOYMENT.
No simulation.
No safety net.
Cael stared at the words until they burned into his mind.
The board was waking up.
And soon… they'd be playing for real.