The king, morose, sits upon a throne made of bone and blood and wears a crown forged from all the nations of the earth. His lashes curl to a vicious flare of black, his brows dark with coal and his cheeks rich with rogue. Ankle over knee, his knuckle fits perfectly in between the ridges of his top and bottom teeth; flushed pink lips brush the calloused skin of his slender fingers, chapped and cracked, bled out due to several years of quick rejuvenation and the screams of battle. Blood dyes strong hands, the piteous cries of man fall on deaf ears the longer he befits the world. Shattered glass by his feet and there are no more saints in the church’s windows, bowing over the commonfolk.
And yet, the pawn still blindly presses forward, a small, strong figure, blending plainly into a sea of black and white…