RAVEN'S GAMBIT

The chamber was lit by no sun, only the dim shimmer of shadowed feathers drifting in the air. Raven’s faithful knelt in a wide circle, cloaked in silence, eyes lifted to the obsidian dais where he appeared. His wings stretched outward, vast and jagged, blotting out the torchlight.

For the first time since his unbinding, he looked… satisfied.

“You came when I was bound,” he said, his voice rolling like thunder over broken stone. “You watched as I twisted the games of gods and liches alike. You bled, prayed, and offered me your laughter when the world denied me mine.”

He stepped forward, talons clicking against the stone. His eyes swept across them, merciless yet gleaming with something close to amusement.

“And now…” His beak curved into a cruel smile. “…the gambit is won.”

The shadows around him pulsed, pressing in like a heartbeat.

Raven paced, wings dragging along the floor, feathers leaving trails of black fire.

“Keraptis, the would-be eternal,” he sneered. “I have bound him to the very mountain he sought to rule. Acererak, jewel-eyed fool, now is the tomb he crafted to ensnare others. Both scream for release—screams that feed the dungeon’s marrow. That prison is theirs, not mine.”

The faithful stirred uneasily, their awe mingled with terror.

“You wonder what becomes of you now,” Raven whispered, tilting his head. “Will I make you kings? Corpses? Eternal jesters in my court?”

He leaned closer, voice a razor in the air.

“No.”

The single word echoed like a blade drawn across stone.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the chamber, their fate hanging by a feather.

Raven’s wings snapped wide, feathers spilling into the air like shards of midnight. They drifted over his followers, settling on their shoulders, their brows, their chests. Each feather burned cold, then vanished, leaving a mark seared into flesh—runes of unbinding.

“I free you,” he declared. “Your prayers no longer amuse me. Your songs no longer echo sweetly in my ears. I release you from service. Go. Stumble. Die. Thrive. Crawl. I care not.”

A hush fell. For the first time in their lives, the faithful felt the void where Raven’s will once pressed against their thoughts. It was liberation… and terror.

Sir Cedric dared to speak, voice quaking: “M–Master… why spare us at all?”

Raven’s laughter burst forth, wild and mocking, filling the chamber until the stone trembled.

“Spare you?” His eyes glowed with cruel mirth. “No, little sparrow. I cast you into the world naked of me, so you may struggle. And your struggles will amuse me more than your devotion ever could.”

The chamber itself began to collapse into feathers and shadow, dissolving around them.

The dais shattered into a thousand shards of obsidian. Raven rose above them, wings blotting out all light. His voice boomed, final, undeniable:

“The game ends here. My gambit is complete. I have broken my jailers, shattered their dungeons, and written my will upon Athyx itself.”

He looked down one last time, eyes like void-stars.

“Remember this gift. You live now not for me—but despite me. Let the world be your cage, your stage, your punishment, your freedom.”

His wings beat once, and a cyclone of feathers engulfed the chamber. The faithful were hurled outward, scattered across Athyx—flung into deserts, mountains, seas, and cities, each marked but unbound, forced to find their fate anew.

When the storm cleared, Raven was gone.

Only his laughter remained, echoing in their ears, in their bones, in the very wind.

The laughter did not fade.

It never would.

THE END...