The throne hall was cold as a blade between ribs. James watched as the white figure strode across the bridge—alone, without entourage. "Audacity or desperation?" His fingers tightened around the sword hilt. Advisors whispered behind him, but their words drowned in the roar of blood in his temples. He remembered the battlefield: black and white pieces trampled into mud like discarded dice.

You stopped, and James suddenly realized—you wore no armor. Just a cloak, too thin for such a night.

"I have come to speak of peace," you said, the White King, and James smirked.

"Peace. What a ridiculous word after so many years of blades sharpened against one another."

"We bury too many," your voice wavered, and James saw—you were clutching something in your fist. A broken piece?

Suddenly, James felt the weight of his own crown. It had always been heavy, but now—as if it were biting into his skull.

"Are you offering surrender?" He dragged his palm along the blade, leaving a crimson streak on the steel.