The Queens Gambit

Jerrick drew back from the Queen, his mind racing through tactical possibilities. An escape was impossible—not with the children, the Queen’s injuries, and the fortified position of the High Cave. He was trapped in a political negotiation that he was inherently unfit for, forced to rely on the one thing he feared losing control of: his temper.
“A distraction,” he echoed, his voice low enough to be lost in the cave’s background hum. “Theron anticipates violence. He fears the Elder God because it’s uncontrollable. You want to give him a show of force that isn’t actually force.”
The Queen, despite the pain carving lines into her face, gave him a small, fierce smile. “Theron is Exile. He thinks in terms of steel and territory. He looks at me and sees a broken ruler desperate to trade a secret for safety. He looks at you and sees a volatile weapon that must be contained.”
She shifted slightly on the furs, wincing only briefly, then fixed him with her steady, regal gaze. “What do they fear more than raw violence, Jerrick? Unpredictable strategy. I will not pay the price they expect. They want control over the Elder God in your soul, but they have forgotten I control the kingdom that wields it.”
Jerrick knelt closer, utterly focused. “Tell me the parameters, my Queen. How do I survive the Council without unleashing a power that will doom us all?”
“You don’t,” she corrected simply. “You allow them to think you are on the verge of breaking. Theron’s greatest strength is his suspicion. I need you to play into it. Let your control fray. Let him see the Dragon Guard Captain who lost his Queen’s Shield and is barely holding onto his post. They will become so focused on managing your rage that they will miss the actual price.”
Jerrick felt the cold weight of the instruction. To allow his inner power to surface, even subtly, was a risk he hadn't taken since he was a boy. It was a terrifying release, a flirtation with the wildness that could consume him and threaten the very people he swore to protect.
“And the price?” he pressed. “What is the true Shard you will offer?”
The Queen leaned forward, her breath warm against his ear. She whispered for several long minutes, reciting precise instructions, coordinates, and ancient code-phrases. Jerrick memorized every syllable, the plan taking root in his mind—a daring, desperate gamble that relied entirely on the Queen’s political genius and his capacity for lethal control.
When she finished, Jerrick stood, feeling a strange mix of terror and elation. “A fortress, traded for a promise. They will be outraged.”
“They will be confused,” the Queen corrected. “And confusion is an opportunity. They want the Cold Forges, Jerrick. But the Exiles rely on honor and debt more than they rely on magic. I am giving them a verifiable, material asset that fulfills the old debt, allowing them to save face before Atlas. The Cold Forges are future dominance; this is immediate, undeniable power. They will argue, they will rage, but they will not, ultimately, refuse.”
She paused, then added a cold command. “And if they do refuse, Jerrick, you will activate the Red Protocol. Do not wait for my order. You will ensure the children escape, no matter the cost.”
Jerrick bowed his head, accepting the burden. The Red Protocol was the ultimate failsafe, the complete sacrifice of the Shadow Guard to secure the lineage.

The Whisperer of Legends

Jerrick moved away from the Queen, crossing the rough floor to the back corner where Kael sat, still whispering to Torvin. The boy, Torvin, was now sitting up, his small face wide-eyed and intent.
“...and when the Shadow Guard Lyra stood, the Troll was so surprised by her bravery that its strike glanced, and the Queen escaped. Lyra’s final command was for me to shield the Heartwood. So I am shielding you, Torvin. That is the honor of the Shadow Guard,” Kael finished, his voice raw but steady.
Torvin looked past Kael to Jerrick, his expression serious. “Captain Jerrick, are you the Elder God?”
The question, asked with a child’s simple honesty, was a punch to Jerrick's gut. The guards heard it; their heavy fur cloaks shifted almost imperceptibly.
Jerrick walked over and sat down cross-legged, facing the two children. He saw the potential for fear in Elara’s sleepy eyes, and the calculating intelligence in Torvin’s.
“I am the Captain of the Shadow Guard, Torvin,” Jerrick said, his voice deep and calm. “An Elder God is a label that people who don’t understand power use to feel safe. My duty is to the Queen. My power is her shield.”
He met Torvin’s gaze, offering the absolute truth he couldn't offer the Exiles. “A shield protects, Torvin. It does not attack unless the attack has already begun. People like Theron fear what they cannot see, and they fear what they cannot control. Do you understand?”
Torvin nodded slowly. “He fears you more than he fears the Troll.”
“He fears losing his way of life,” Jerrick corrected. “And if he takes the Cold Forges, he thinks he has won. But the Queen knows that duty is a greater weapon than steel.”

Preparing the Shield

Jerrick spent the next two hours in meditative stillness, focusing not on the lantern’s flicker, but on the faint, residual heat radiating from the small rune in his palm. He was systematically pulling his volatile energy inward, coiling it, and binding it under layers of control.
He had to be careful. The Queen needed him to look unstable, to radiate just enough psychic energy to make Theron sweat, but not enough to actually lose control and trigger the Red Protocol. It was a performance on the edge of a cliff.
He felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes, the subtle vibration in his teeth—the signs that the raw power of the Dragon-kin’s ancient ancestor was trying to surface. He locked it down, but only partially, allowing a low, aggressive hum to persist in the cave's environment. The two Exile guards shifted uneasily, their suspicion clearly piqued.
Good, Jerrick thought. The distraction is beginning.
As the low, grinding tension of the long night began to climax, Kael rose silently. He checked the children, placed an arming knife unobtrusively under the furs near Elara’s hand—a meaningless gesture against the Exiles, but a comfort nonetheless—and then came to Jerrick.
“Captain,” Kael whispered, his eyes now cold and functional, reflecting the steel in his hands. “Dawn is perhaps an hour away. They will be here soon. What are your orders?”
Jerrick opened his eyes. They were no longer simply watchful; they were dark, glinting, and held a predatory focus. The Elder God’s temper was leashed, but very close to the surface.
“The negotiation is a trap, Kael. Theron’s opening move will be to separate us,” Jerrick stated, rising. “When the Council arrives, you will take the children and stand with the Queen. You are her final shield. I will be her distraction. Do not look at me. Do not speak. Trust the Queen’s plan. And if I give you the sign of the Fallen Star—you run, and you do not look back.”
Kael nodded once, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Understood, Captain.”
The faintest hint of grey light began to seep through the tiny, rough-hewn gaps in the cave entrance, staining the eastern wall. Dawn was coming. The two Exile guards straightened, their axes raised slightly. The air thickened with anticipation.
Jerrick walked toward the cave entrance, blocking the meager new light. He stood, a looming, black figure, waiting for Theron to return and lead them to the Council, prepared to trade a kingdom for three lives.