Penraven1509
The void stretches endless, starless, silent. Suspended in that nothingness floats a cosmic chessboard - squares black as pitch and white as bone, every piece carved from souls and shadow.
Opposite each other stand the two players.
Lira watches two pawns take shape: Philip IV, burning with envy, and Jacques de Molay, gleaming with the quiet strength of the Templars. Her strawberry‑blonde hair falls in waves of autumn copper, and her gaze is steady, though heavy with foreboding. She knows what is coming. And she knows how hard she will have to fight.
Asmodeus stares at the board, and pure, unadulterated joy bursts out of him. He steps forward, golden eyes blazing, grinning so wide it looks like his face might split.
"Five hundred years," he purrs, rubbing his hands together in delicious anticipation. "Five hundred years of suffering. All because one king could not bear to see another stand taller than him. The Templars will burn. The throne will drown in blood. And the last of Philip's line... will lose his head."
He leans across the board, taunting and triumphant.
"Game on, Little Halo. Try not to weep when France falls."o