The Chessboard Undead Prince

Chapter the Twelfth

The Stealer of Hearts gazed up at the wall encrusted with rubies, each one the size of a human fist. Their glow showed strength and power beyond what all lusted after.

What would you do for the price of immortality?

The Empire of Glass, Time crawled like a wounded beast and it was a man's greatest enemy. The Empire of Glass' inhabitants may be the oldest of all races on the earth, immortal and ageless, but sometimes the tiniest flaw in their life can cost them their souls. Being of a glass soul, enabled your life to be endless, as long the soul was whole. One chip. One break or crack. And you lose in one conflict— a rash decision, a century of life and love and joy.

For centuries, they had lived and loved, ruled and fought, their existence bound by the shimmering threads of their souls.

But power, like a venomous serpent, coiled around the heart of the King, driving him to madness in his pursuit of eternal life. His collection of souls, stolen from the corpses of his own people, adorned the walls like trophies of his depravity. Yet, even with his vaults overflowing with the essence of countless lives, his thirst remained unquenched. The Stealer smiled at the King's achievement.

For years he'd collected these beauties from the corpses of his people. The Executioner belonged to the Queen as she was of the true Bloodline. Her assassins were to use as her King pleased. The King was credited for over five hundred thousand hearts across the years. And yet he would never have enough. His trophies were displayed before the Stealer in an element of rock.

Within the fortress of ruby-laden walls, the air itself tasted of ancient power and the glow of countless souls illuminated the darkness. High above the blood-red stones was the mightiest of all. The Queen's Heart. King's prized possession, pulsing with a venomous rhythm that echoed through the chamber like a sinister lullaby. To possess such a treasure was to hold the fate of the entire realm in one's hands.

But the Stealer was not content to merely admire from afar. A dagger slid into their hand and they set to work, carving a path through the ruby-studded wall, each stroke opening small fissures in the wall of souls. As cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, the Queen's Heart trembled, its very essence threatened by the Stealer's touch. Cracks appeared in the stone anchor as the dagger was used to pry out one glass soul. Veins opened around the gem, beginning to ease the heart.

And then, with a final twist of the blade, the deed was done. A single soul, shimmering like a diamond in the darkness, lay cradled in the Stealer's palm.

What was left was a small well, exactly the size of a glass soul missing.

But the theft was not yet complete. With practiced precision, the Stealer replaced the stolen soul with a flawless ruby, a counterfeit so perfect that even the most discerning eye would be fooled. One of many gems sitting idly in the Royal Treasury.

The Stealer slipped away into the shadows, leaving behind a trail of darkness in their wake. For on the Eve of Tea Day, they had claimed a prize beyond measure, a soul so pure that it held the very essence of life itself. The night wind bellowed through the palace, chilling their bones despite the warmth of their heavy cloak.

The palace lay cloaked in darkness, the sentinels snoring from too much wine and petit fours.

Sleep deeply, my trusting enemies.

Even the usually bustling servants were silent, their absence leaving an emptiness that echoed in the empty halls. Even in the Queen's chambers.

The Queen. Her heart was the greatest of all. The ripest for plucking.

But it was not the Queen the Stealer sought tonight. No, their target lay deeper within the labyrinthine maze of the palace. The Stealer made their way through the silent corridors, their movements as stealthy as a black cat haunting the night. Wails of icicles from the north tower pierced the silence like a banshee's lament, sending a shiver down the Stealer's spine. For a moment, they stood frozen in place, the icy tendrils of fear clutching at their heart.