POV: Elijah (King ♚)
The Ember base was quiet.
Too quiet.
Elijah sat alone in the central chamber, hunched over a table of cracked obsidian, watching a stream of static roll across the projection feed. The hologrid above him pulsed with faint lines—dead tiles, monster hotspots, null zones—but none of it showed the one thing he wanted to see: his team.
He was the King. But he felt like a hostage.
The Ember Wastes stretched just beyond the thick metal doors, heat bleeding through the walls like a fever. The base was half-buried into a blackened hill of slag and vitrified stone. A bunker. A tomb. Its entrance was locked from the inside, sealed by protocol the moment the first squads were deployed.
For now, this place was safe.
But Elijah knew better than to trust safety in the Board.
His wrist device blinked red once—then green. A pulse. Routine. A reminder that his heart still beat, and that if it didn't, everyone else would stop too.
He flexed his hand, watching the device track the motion.
One break in the skin. One heartbeat gone. And it's over.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Elijah straightened, fingers curling around the hilt of the short sword resting beside him. He didn't call out.
Seconds later, the curtain shifted.
It was Mira, one of the unevolved Pawns—small, wiry, with sun-browned skin and a narrow scar beneath one eye. She held a canteen in one hand and a sealed ration bar in the other.
"No one's out there," she said, voice soft but clipped. "No movement. Not even ash devils."
Elijah let out a slow breath. "And the ridge?"
"Still quiet."
She passed him the bar. He didn't reach for it.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday."
"I'm not hungry," he repeated.
Mira stared at him for a second longer, then set the bar down beside the console and left without another word.
The door swished shut behind her.
Elijah leaned back in the chair and let his head rest against the cold metal. His muscles ached from tension, not exertion. There were no drills for Kings. No warm-ups. Just waiting.
He could still hear the drillmaster's voice in his head: You are the tether. The rest may be blades or shields or hounds, but you? You are the lock. You die, they all die. So don't die.
Easier said than done.
One of the screens blinked again—this time showing a heat signature cresting the southern ridge. Not close. Not urgent.
Yet.
He marked it anyway.
The second occupant of the base wasn't silent. Or helpful. Or sane.
Elijah stood and walked down the corridor toward the infirmary, where the injured Rook was housed. He knocked twice, waited, then entered.
Jace—tall, pale, blond curls plastered to his forehead with sweat—was sitting up, fiddling with a broken transmitter in his lap. His left leg was wrapped from thigh to ankle, the bandages already darkening from beneath.
"You're not supposed to be moving," Elijah said.
"I'm not moving," Jace muttered. "I'm recalibrating."
"That transmitter's fried."
"I can still hear things through it."
Elijah crossed his arms. "What kind of things?"
Jace blinked slowly, head cocked like he was listening to something beyond the walls. "…voices."
"From the field?"
"From the walls."
Elijah exhaled sharply and rubbed his temples. "You were barely cleared for combat, Jace. You should've never volunteered for injection."
"Didn't volunteer," Jace muttered. "Just didn't say no."
Elijah crouched beside him, resting a hand on the bed frame. "Are you in pain?"
"Only when I breathe."
"I'll have Mira get more meds."
"No. Don't dull it." Jace's gaze met his, and for a terrifying moment, it was perfectly clear. "I need to remember it hurts."
The silence stretched between them.
"I'm scared, Eli," the Rook whispered.
"I know," Elijah replied.
"You think they'll come back?"
"They have to."
"And if they don't?"
Elijah didn't answer. He couldn't.
The walls pulsed.
Not with sound or light, but pressure. Like the base itself had started to breathe. Elijah stood in the corridor for a moment longer after leaving Jace's room, letting the cool shadows settle around him. The air was warmer now—barely noticeable, but he noticed. Because there was nothing else to focus on. And when all you did was listen, the smallest changes became impossible to ignore.
He returned to the central chamber, boots scuffing softly against the smoothed tile. No alarms. No blinking alerts. Just silence.
And then Wren appeared.
She stood in the doorway like she'd been carved from it—tall, quiet, jaw set with something halfway between exhaustion and resolve. Her dark eyes flicked to his, then to the ration bar still untouched on the table.
"You didn't eat," she said.
"I will."
"You said that yesterday."
"I'm fine."
"You're not," she replied calmly. "And if you drop, we all do."
That silenced him. She walked in and sat down across from him, back straight, hands resting on her knees.
"Elara told me you don't sleep much," Wren said after a beat.
"She exaggerates."
"No, she doesn't." Her voice was soft now. "I hear you pacing. Every few hours. Like you're waiting for something to come through the wall."
Elijah looked away.
"I'm not scared," he said.
"I didn't say you were."
"Then what are you trying to say?"
"That it's okay to be tired."
He exhaled slowly, hands folded in front of him.
"You think they're coming back?" he asked her.
Wren didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to her wristband. The green light pulsed there—steady, slow. Life.
"If anyone can make it through that jungle," she said, "it's Cael. Pax and Lyndra too. They'll be back."
"And Vera?" Elijah asked.
A longer pause.
"She's harder to read."
He nodded.
"Do you think I should've gone with them?" he asked, quieter now. "Into the Labyrinth?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're the King," Wren said simply. "You're the reason any of us are still alive. And if you walk into the forest and die—"
"We all go."
"Yes," she finished. "All of us."
They sat in silence after that, the heat settling back in like a thick blanket. The Ember Wastes didn't rest. The base groaned once, metal shifting under pressure.
Then came the sound Elijah had been dreading for hours.
Three taps.
Not footsteps. Not random. Three, spaced evenly.
Wren stood in an instant, hand going to her blade. Elijah didn't move—he was already focused on the monitor bank. The southern ridge, where Mira had said all was quiet, now glowed faint orange.
Movement.
But not the steady crawl of ash drifters or the sweeping tail of a Virewolf.
This was slower. Heavier.
A shape emerged on the thermal display. Humanoid. Alone.
Wren leaned over the console. "That's too big for Pax."
"Or Lyndra," Elijah said.
"Monster?"
"Possibly."
He keyed the external mic and toggled the infrared feed. The outer door camera activated—dust swirled across the barren lava-flat, glowing faintly with residual light. The figure came into view like a shadow cut from the air itself.
It was a person.
But not one of theirs.
Not a Pawn.
Not White team either.
This one wore a black coat. No insignia. Bare hands. Bare face.
"Elijah," Wren said quietly, "who is that?"
"I don't know."
The figure stopped ten meters from the base, head tilted.
They raised one hand—and waved.
Slow. Deliberate.
"What do we do?" Wren asked.
Elijah stared at the screen, heart hammering.
He didn't know.