The Enduring Pawn

Judit Polgár never chose to be a foot soldier. The kingdom chose for her. One day, she was a girl in the forge, hands blackened with soot as she shaped metal beneath her father’s watchful eye. The next, she was in the barracks, no longer crafting weapons but wielding them. The Obsidian Dominion did not ask. It commanded. Now, on the battlefield, there was no choice left. Only survival. The sky choked with cinders, and the air stank of blood and burnt steel. Beneath the nation’s black banner, Judit advanced with her unit, their movements silent, disciplined, inevitable. Across the ruins of the Shattered Middle, the Ivory Court waited, their polished armor gleaming through the haze. They had chosen their ground well. Crumbling stone and broken bridges carved a maze of death, turning the field into a trap. Arrows rained. Shields locked. Bodies fell. No one screamed. The Obsidian Dominion did not waste breath on pain. And Judit moved forward, never looking back. The cries, the carnage—if she let herself see it, she would be lost in it. The melee began. Steel clashed, the sharp ring of blades swallowed by the guttural sounds of dying men. Judit struck without hesitation, her sword finding the gaps between plates, the weak spots beneath ribs. Blood sprayed hot across her face, but she kept moving. A brother to her left collapsed, throat slit. A sister to her right fell on a spear. Still, she pressed forward. There was no room for grief. Only duty. When the commander fell, she caught his banner before it hit the ground. When the vanguard was gutted, she led the charge. One by one, her comrades fell, some slain, others staying behind to block the chokepoints, their final act a willing sacrifice. She did not stop. She did not break. Judit has endured. By the time she reached the rendezvous point, she stood alone. Bloodied, breath ragged, she stood beneath the black sun of Endsquare.