Waiting for the Night to Fall
Things were falling apart.
It should’ve been a sweep, a dust-off of the North Side, a few hard drops on what was left of the Schoolboy’s empire. Instead, every corner had cost. Strategies crumbled from the inside; she paid for pawns with knights and bishops.
Quick was calling, and she didn’t know how to answer.
Now the chaos was spreading. Riots in the East, South, West. Stitch-storms. Tinquakes. And here she was, huddled in this sickly room with its peeling walls, her King by her side, listening to the highcrows screech through the window, waiting for the night to fall.