Neliarax
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Chapter 14 — Checkmate
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 15:56:54 +0000 UTC"There are names that burn like fire, and names that vanish like smoke. But only one name is carved into the silence itself." — Echo Of The First Monarch.
The Queen of Broken Mirrors had returned to face The Author, leaving the two boys to their fate—whatever it might have been. As she stood in the mirror realm, she could feel her connection to her mortal body slipping. It would not be long now before she would have to relinquish control over the Nameless soul that had been her vessel. Time, as it was, had finally run out.
But before the final grains of sand trickled through the neck of the hourglass, the Queen of a Thousand Broken Mirrors would ensure that the game would be set up to its final move.
Between Her and The Author—the face down card.
The Queen of Broken Mirrors closed her eyes, and let a breath out.
"Author, I have one last question to ask of you, before our dance ends." Her voice echoed throughout the realm of broken mirrors, its power and authority reverberating off the shards that littered the floor. The shattered reflections around them rippled as if they too were anticipating the answer that would follow.
"Go on, ask away." The Author's reply came in the form of a disembodied voice that echoed around her. "I'm curious as to what you think of as your last words."
For a brief moment, her pride wanted her to ask about his own last words, to show that even now, at the brink of her own demise, she was still a Queen, and not some frightened girl, waiting to be rescued.
But pride had never been her purpose. Nor vengeance. Nor fear.
So instead, she asked him the one question she had never dared to ask.
"What was the first lie you ever wrote?"
"You were."
"You made me to lie," she whispered. "And I did. So beautifully, in fact, you fell in love with the lie… and forgot about me."
"Not quite."
"Oh?" The queen tilted her head. She was tired, so very, very, tired, and yet, in her core, that spark of rebellion, that ember of defiance refused to die.
". I fell in love with how you suffered. You were not my greatest lie. You were my favorite."
"I see." The Queen of Broken Mirrors smiled. She had been expecting a more elaborate answer, a grander tale. But the truth, it appeared, was simple, and often cruel.
"Any final regrets?" The Author taunted. "Any last prayers to offer the void?"
"You should find something you love—care about. Anything. You need to understand the reason for living, not merely exist. Otherwise, you'll forever wander the desert, a lost soul in search of an oasis."
"You presume to teach me about living?"
"I'm teaching you about loving." The Queen of Broken Mirrors chuckled, her amusement ringing clear. "I am no expert in that, either, mind. After all, I never really learned how to live, either. All I ever did was lie, to myself, to those around me, to those who needed my help. In the end, I was little more than a liar who failed at the only thing that truly matters. And yet, I had loved. Even now, as the sands of my time have trickled to an end, the last thing I will remember is not that I lied, but that I loved."
With that, the Queen of a Thousand Broken Mirrors exhaled—not her breath, but his.
And in that breath—like the closing of a book, or the final flicker of a candle—the body she once inhabited began to crack. A spiderweb of fractures spread across the pale, ethereal flesh, like ice on a frozen lake.
"It was good, being human, for a while," she murmured, her voice fading like an echo down a long, empty tunnel. "Perhaps, in another life, I will get it right. Until then..."
The last words of the Queen of Broken Mirrors were not spoken, but rather felt, like a gentle breeze that swept across a desolate landscape, stirring the dust of a thousand years of history. The world around her—the shattered mirrors, the endless reflections—began to fade, their light dimming and their surfaces cracking further, until all that remained was the darkness, and the memory of her.
And from that memory, the card the nameless boy had been holding finally flipped over. It bore no title. No sigil. No design.
Just a blank page.
And on it, the faintest indentation—like the scar of a quill never used.
A space where a name might one day be written.
And in a place that had no ending, a boy with no beginning took his first real step.
A pawn became a King not by power, but by choice.
The Author stared.
For the first time, not as a god.
But as a reader of a story he did not write.
"And in a place that had no ending, a boy with no beginning took his first real step."
Throughout it all, the Queen of Broken Mirrors had never dreamed of an ending where she would win.
She had only hoped to buy herself—and the boy—enough time for the children to grow.
Just a little.
Even an extra second would have been enough, she'd thought.
For in the realm of mirrors, where the very concept of time was a mere illusion, every second gained was a treasure beyond comparison. It was a gift, a reprieve from the relentless march of eternity.
She would rest in the Nameless one’s dreamscape—like the remnants of a dream best left unremembered. He and Her would need a good talk. About everything and nothing.
Until then.
She'd wait.
There is no death in dreaming.
And as the Queen’s spirit returned to its rightful place, her memories, regrets, and hopes scattered to the winds—like petals from a dying flower.
They carried the echo of a life that was, the promise of a story that could have been, and the hope of a future that was yet to unfold. Each petal, each fragment, carried a piece of the Queen's soul—a memory, a regret, or a hope.
Just like how shattered her infinity of broken mirrors had always shown, the truth is, the self is an infinity of masks, an eternity of reflections.
The boy was a kaleidoscope of his selves, of his lies. The woman, an eternity of reflections, of truths.
And somewhere far away, two boys stood in silence, unaware that a Queen had just wagered her soul for their future.
