White Rook

Intro The wind cut low through the stone valley as the royal carriage moved between ridges, accompanied by his personal guard. Among them rode Gioachino Greco—silent, precise, the sort of man whose shadow fell straight even in chaos. The Ivory King himself rode south for delicate talks with frontier Bishops. He kept his crossbow slung low, hands always near it. He had a gift for stillness—watching angles, catching motion where others saw nothing. It was said he once shot a dagger from the air before it reached its mark. They were three days out when the trap was sprung. From the cliffs above, raiders poured down like a flood—cloaks flaring, blades drawn. The canyon erupted into chaos. Arrows slammed into the royal carriage, splintering wood and striking guards. The King was dragged from the door, stumbling into the dust. A raider raised a blade. Gioachino moved. Chrome flashed as he cut down two attackers, reached the King, and hauled him toward a rocky outcrop. Bolts hissed past. Then—a shadow above. A sniper. The crossbow fired. He turned, threw himself forward, knocking the King off balance. The bolt meant for the crown struck true, embedding deep into Gioachino’s shoulder. Pain. White-hot. He staggered, shielding the King with his body. “Go…” Gioachino gasped, but the King hesitated. “I will hold them here. Ride, my lord, ride!” The last thing Gioachino saw was the King’s form retreating into the distance, as the cloaked figures closed in on the guard. He was pulled onto the dirt and bound by his hands. His final words before losing consciousness, “Long love the King.”