Flashing crimson strobes still pulsed from the hall beyond the doorframe, painting the battered desks in alternating war paint and shadow. Dust, jarred loose by the earlier tremor of Michael’s uncontrolled aura, drifted in thin shafts of alarm light like ash after a bombing run. Outside, klaxons wailed on repeat—an ugly, nasal drone that gnawed at nerves the way termites chew at timber.

  “What did you say?” Michael’s voice shook despite his attempt at composure, the blood draining from his face.

  He vaguely sensed Orland and Olivia closing in around him, reading the alarm on his face. The professor hovered nearby, clearly torn between rushing out to address the academy-wide crisis or staying to understand Michael’s dilemma.

  “Nia’s missing,” Alex repeated, sounding both angry and terrified. “I’m at the academy’s main courtyard. We got separated, and then some group—I don’t even know who they are—grabbed her. They vanished before I could even react. They’ve holed up in the west courtyard. But we can’t go in without information.”

  “And what about Hubert? Can he do anything?” Michael asked, in a soft exhale.

  “He said he only cares about Miriam’s progeny,” Alex scoffed in a bitter tone.

  “I see,” Michael clenched the phone, his knuckles turning white. The alarm continued to blare, echoing along the hallway outside. “Stay where you are,” he said, voice tight. “I’ll fix this, In my own way.”

  “I know you will,” Alex stated. “That’s why I called.”

  He ended the call with a swift jab at the screen, forcing himself to take a steadying breath. Reining in the rising panic, he scanned the Chill Room. Olivia’s eyes had grown wide, worry etched across her features, while Orland stood poised, like a soldier waiting for orders. Professor Staton, still holding his device, asked nothing, but the concern on his face was obvious.

  “They’ve taken Nia,” Michael spoke, the words catching in his throat.

  A chorus of startled exclamations met his ears—Olivia gasping, Orland muttering a curse under his breath, and the professor stepping forward with alarm clearly etched into the lines around his eyes.

  “This is serious,” Orland said, tone grim. “Any idea who might be behind it?”

  “No clue. But whoever it is, they’ve stirred up an all-out invasion,” Olivia murmured, her hand drifting automatically to her phone, likely checking for any new intel or emergency broadcasts on the academy’s channels.

  “We have to move,” Michael said, swallowing hard. He cast a fleeting glance at Olivia and Orland. “I need you two with me. We’ll head for the courtyard first—Alex said he’s there.”

  Orland nodded, already rising from the battered sofa. His expression darkened, but the ice-blue steadiness in his gaze remained as he grabbed a worn jacket from the back of a chair.

  In that racket, Olivia’s single heel tap on the wooden desktop cut through like a metronome, abrupt and accusatory.

  “Michael,” Olivia intervened with a cold glaring stare. “Do you really think going there is the best course of action?” She asked as she sat down on a nearby desk, crossing her legs.

  The question landed like a sucker punch to the diaphragm. Michael pivoted, coat hem swirling, eyes wild from twenty different worst case scenarios. Between each alarm pulse, his breaths came ragged, fogging the winter air that sneaked through cracked windowpanes. He looked less the cool tactician and more a walking short circuit—sparks ready to jump.

  “What else is there to do?” Michael replied, his tone lacking his usual confident bravado.

  Olivia’s gaze sharpened, knife edge precise. A faint tremor of exasperation rippled her shoulders, but she kept her voice iron steady: teacher scolding an unruly pupil. Her gray irises seemed almost backlit, twin searchlights sweeping a blackout city for weakness.

  “Was it not you who told me that a fight is a chess game?” Olivia opened her eyes. “Then is it not moronic to send the king to the front line!” she screamed, with an angry expression.

  Her words cracked across the room like a pistol shot. Michael bristled, fists balling.

  “What do you expect me to do?!” Michael shouted back. “I lack proper pieces! And I don’t even know what pieces the enemy has on the board!”

  The shout tore from his throat raw, echoing around graffiti tagged walls. For a heartbeat, the alarms outside felt distant, replaced by the thunder of blood behind his eardrums. Panic—ugly, unfiltered—peeked through the seams of his tactics.

  “Yes, well, you have a rook, a king, and a knight. It’s best you use them!” Olivia shouted, slapping Michael across the face.

  Skin met skin with a crack. The force snapped his head sideways, a red bloom appearing on his cheek. Michael froze, shoulders quaking once… and then the tremor stilled. A glacier’s calm settled over him, frightening in its suddenness.

  Immediately, Michael exhaled. His expression turned cold, calculative, like that of a completely different person.

  “You’re right,” he replied with a calm tone. “The king is only a strong piece when defending. No point of using it to attack.”

  The words emerged measured, each syllable placed like a playing card on green felt. Olivia’s tension eased; she’d seen that mask descend before—the Strategist clicking into gear, empathy stowed away, gears meshing.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Olivia smiled, her face appearing more like its usual self.

  “Then my king,” she hopped down from her desk. “I await your orders,” she kneeled in front of him.

  The gesture, theatrical as a kabuki bow, felt oddly fitting amid broken chairs and scrawled profanity. The alarms gave it a crimson footlight, turning her white shirt the color of fresh arterial spray.

  “Excuse me,” the professor intervened. “Tell me, by pieces do you mean capable combatants that fulfill a certain role?”

  Jeremiah Staton had reappeared at the threshold, spectacles catching red glare..

  “Yeah,” Michael nodded.

  “And tell me, do you need these pieces to resolve the incident within the academy?” the professor wondered.

  “Yes,” Michael stated.

  “Alright, that’s all I need to know.” The professor picked up his phone. “In that case, I believe I could get you a queen.” He said, dialing a number on his phone before walking off into the hallway to talk.

  His coat swirled behind him like a mad scientist’s cloak; the door clicked shut, muffling his rapid fire negotiation with whatever power he’d summoned on speed dial.

  “So ‘King’, what do we do now?” Orland wondered.

  The buzz cut knight flexed his fingers, knuckles popping—stone statue limbering up. The red beads at his throat chimed softly, an omen or benediction depending on where you stood.

  “Let’s ignore him for now,” Michael grabbed his chin. “We need to gather intel. Olivia, can you inspect the west wing with your powers?”

  “I can,” Olivia said.

  She clasped her hands; lavender motes leapt from her palms, whirring past the cracked glass like tracer rounds, then banked hard toward the west wing. Michael tracked them until they vanished in the distance.

  “18 hostiles in total, all armed, 6 contractors. Your sister is being held on the second floor of the west wing. She has one contractor keeping an eye on her, he’s strong, I don’t think we can deal with him. There are 5 armed men with him all regular humans. The rest, are about mine and Orland’s level. They are on the first floor. They are waiting for something, wait, I’ll try to read their lips.” Olivia squinted, focusing. “Something about a convoy.” She paused. “Michael, these guys are from the Mercy guild.”

  “Fuck!” Michael exclaimed. “This guy, the strong one, what does he look like?”

  “Short white hair, dark skin, a scar cutting across his eye.” Olivia stated. “You know him?” she wondered.

  “Hex,” Michael mumbled, The name hissed through his mind like gun?oil catching fire. “This changes things. We will die if we fight him head on,” he stated. “On the other hand. We can’t just stay sitting ducks forever.”

  A fluorescent tube flickered overhead, strobing the room in sickly intervals. Each pulse seemed to stamp a new calculation across Michael’s thoughts: corridors, firing angles, patrol rotations, the iron geometry of murder. His fingers rubbed his chin, dragging across his glossy face as the plan maker inside him rifled possibilities the way a street hustler shuffles cards nobody else can see.

  His eyes raked the chipped walls—bullet pocks here, profane graffiti there—and the Chill Room became a tactical map. Desks became cover; the torn sofa, a barricade; the rattling windows, potential breach points. Somewhere in that swirl of options a single line glinted like a straight razor.

  “You’ve thought of something haven’t you,” Oland smirked.

  Michael didn’t answer right away. He just breathed—slow, deliberate—letting the oxygen scrub the panic off his nerve endings.

  “It’s a gamble but…” Michael paused. “Orland, head to the courtyard and pass this message to my brother. Tell him to open it when he hears a loud explosion coming from the west wing. Make sure Hubert Heck is nearby when you give it to him.”

  Ink scratched across torn notebook paper. Michael folded the scrap until it was barely larger than a cigarette filter.

  “Then, head straight to the west wing and charge inside. Use your shield to protect yourself, but do not rush inside. Give me a call when you attract their attention.” He said, wandering off to the corridor.

  Orland tucked the note in his sleeve like a confession. The red alarm light caught the beads of his necklace, throwing specks of blood colored glitter across the walls.

  “Professor!” he said, catching Staton mid argument on his phone. “How long till this queen of yours arrives?”

  “About 10 minutes,” the professor replied, still parrying objections from the other end.

  “Just so you know, if he’s late Orland will die,” Michael stated in a matter of fact tone.

  Staton’s jaw tightened; his only reply was a wavering thumbs up as fluorescent arcs jittered across his spectacles.

  Back in the classroom, Michael dropped onto a squeaking chair, the wood complaining like an old dog.

  “Alright, head out, you have 5 minutes to get to the courtyard. You think you can make it?” he asked.

  Orland sighed, shoulders rolling like a boxer about to toe the ropes. “Of course,” he smiled with a slight gleam.

  He unlatched the window. Winter air—cold, metallic—flooded in, whipping the polka dot curtains sideways. Without hesitation Orland vaulted through, boots crunching on the sill before his silhouette vanished into the distant gloom.

  “What about me? What should I do?” Olivia asked with a glimmer in her eyes.

  Michael’s grin was half mania, half math teacher: ecstatic, precise. “You and me– are about to do something really crazy,” he stated with a sigh.

  “In a sexual way?” Olivia winked.

  “Are you dumb?” Michael squinted.

  “Only if you want me to be,” she winked again.

  “I don’t,” Michael stated.

  “Then I won’t be,” she smiled.

  Somehow the banter lightened nothing; it only made the danger shimmer brighter, like neon over a dive bar doorway right before fists start flying.

  “We’re about to do something I only considered theoretically possible. Normally when I cast a curse, I channel my mana directly to a target. However, when I have my soul activated, I use the gem on my palm as a catalyst. This made me wonder if it’s possible to use another person as a catalyst. Theoretically, I should be able to use you as a catalyst to curse myself. And then if I inverse the curse of blindness, I should be able to see everything you see with your magic.” Michael explained with an anxious smirk.

  Olivia’s eyebrows climbed. The crimson alarm light licked across her pale face, turning delight into something feral.

  “Yeah, that is crazy,” Olivia remarked. “Doesn’t that require crazy magic control? I mean if you slip up even once, both of our brains will turn into mush.” She pressed her index finger to her temple. “I mean I’ll be fine since I can heal pretty quick. But you, you’ll die.”

  Michael chuckled, though perspiration had begun its slow slide from his hairline, cool beads tracing his cheekbones. Excitement—white hot, narcotic—pounded through him, chasing the fear in dizzy loops.

  “Yeah, piece of cake!”