The queen hung free on the E file, ripe for her knight. Una’s thoughts darted ahead, to the bishop behind, the rook on the eighth file. It was a trap! She looked up at Robin. He could keep the smirk from his face, but not his eyes. But there was more, if she ignored it, he could follow up with his black bishop, it was no good, she—.

“This is taking forever,” Robin said. She shot him a withering look, thinking he meant the game. He glanced up at the IV to say he meant the treatment. The new drug took twice as long. They were both afraid of how he’d feel at the end of it.

“It will pass. Focus on the game,” Una said.

“I did. Your move, Tita,” Robin smirked.

“A month ago you couldn’t tell rooks from bishops.” Una shook her head and wondered how she’d gotten into this mess. If she wanted to know, the composition book was right beside him. The insufferable jodón recorded all their moves everything in his BATTLE LOG, just as she’d taught him.

“You could always surrender,” he said.

“You’re talking crazy,” Una said. She turned her eyes back to the board to look for a way out.

* * *

The weight!

The trap was unsprung but she was crushed, just the same. Cinabinathi was caught mid-step, dying as she stood. The warning she meant to cry stuck in her throat. Her eyes were locked ahead on the angel’s, she could not turn away or even blink. There was no sound, no breath, only all-seeing scorn. Every lie she’d told, every life she’d taken. All her dark deeds and bad decisions, all the debts she could never repay, all at once, heavier than lead. She would have begged for death if she could.

The Reconciler’s Crypt was an octagon of purest jet. The eight walls rose into darkness, farther than she could see, and fell into a bottomless pit. The floor was a sheet of purest quartz, clear as water. Even Cinabinathi was afraid to step out, but the slab was solid beneath her feet. The thief who preceded them was ten paces ahead, long dead, a skeleton. A bony hand stretched towards the goal, never to be attained. Inside the crystal casket, the body had crumbled into dust.

Between the thief and the Reconciler’s remains, a stone sentinel kept an eternal vigil. Her sword and armor were onyx, a style like none Cinabinathi had ever seen. They stung her eyes, a symmetry that should not be. The face and wings were a sable that drank light and gave almost nothing back. Cinabinathi searched her, feeling the a twinge of recognition. A dangerous thing she ought to know, forgotten long ago. She tried to cry out a warning but it was too late. The others were inside.

The black angel opened her eyes. They shone like molten gold and at once, all was revealed. The onyx of the her armor was every color at once, an interplay of resonant prisms. The sable of her skin was the space between the stars, her eyes two merciless suns that burned away all pretense. Unwittingly, Cinabinathi’s troop had intruded upon a celestial being.

They were fools! And she’d led them here, it was all her fault. Her purpose drained away as her empty lungs screamed for air. The thunder in her ears faltered, fainter by the beat. A cold certainty spread through her core, all was lost. Spasms of desperate prayer screamed through her mind but it was all in vain. The angel knew her. Beneath that golden, unforgiving gaze, Cinabinathi and her warriors had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Everything faded to gray.

The boy strode forward towards the casket with Hilg’s hammer in hand.

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The angel turned her gaze and Cinabinathi fell to her knees and gasped for air. Behind her she could hear others hit the floor, their weapons clattered to the ground. Bobbert rushed at the crypt with the heavy hammer drawn back, he meant to smash it. With fluid grace, the angel intervened and drew back the black blade to smite the intruder. Cinabinathi had no breath, no time to think, still she found herself in flight. She dashed at Bobbert, flung the boy aside, and tried to get Falflets up in time to parry. The angel was faster, the black blade was over her guard. The ebon point hovered, an inch from her face.

The angel pressed no further. The golden glare cooled to a soothing silver. Without words, cool understanding flowed into her. The judgment found no purchase on young Bobbert because his soul was new and clean. He’d never taken a life. His brave charge to save them had not surprised the angel, nothing could. It was all a test. When she sacrificed herself to save the boy, Cinabinathi became worthy.

In epiphany, she saw it all. There was a hole in the world, a spring where chaos crashed in and carved through the banks. The horde was simply the banks overflowing. The forces of order had been betrayed, the stewards were weak and corrupt. The goblins would rise again and again, until the world was a barren waste. They would perish with the land they’d ruined and the Void would reign again, over another dead world. The rot had to be cut out at the core. A new force was needed to bring the balance back. The angel needed her to explain to Bobbert, he was too young, too small a vessel to contain this understanding. They had to choose, the sacrifice could not be compelled.

“The Reconciler is long gone. Another must take his place. She offers you a chance to surrender yourself. To raise a great army, and fight the final battle to save our world.”

“But I—I’m just an apprentice,” Bobbert sputtered. “What if I fail?”

They looked to the angel for answers. She gave none. The angel closed her eyes and came apart. The skin broke into fine black dust, the motes split, again and again until she was divided by zero. Only the sword and armor remained. They were all silent, stunned by what they’d seen.

“You will not go alone. I too, am called,” Cinabinathi realized.

Bobbert took a deep breath.

Once more, he raised Hilg’s Hammer.

* * *

It was so bad. Dr. Suarte had warned her, but somewhere in all the talk of Doxorubicin, Anthracycline, and a dozen other long and ominous words, the message was lost. There was a period where Robin just couldn’t hear Una. The chess game was forgotten and he stared unblinking into space. She called a nurse over. The nurse took a look at the label on the IV.

“That happens,” he said. “Some people faint. Let me check his pulse.”

He did, and looked at Robin’s chart. Something bothered him. “Let’s give him twenty minutes, then we’ll call a doctor if he doesn’t come around.”

The nurse spoke in a soothing voice but it didn’t help. Una’s heart raced. She must have looked at the clock a hundred times. But the Nurse was right after all. Robin snapped out of it and looked around the room in a fog.

¿Estás bien? Una gripped his arm.

“No tan bien,” Robin admit. He was in pain.

She was overcome with relief. Even the bad news was better than what she’d thought, that he was hurting so bad he couldn’t talk.

“Did you find it?” Robin nodded at the board. His voice was distant and dreamy.

She knocked over her king. It was mate in five, queen or no.

“You’re not letting me win, are you?” Robin worried.

“Never,” Una promised.

Robin closed his eyes and didn’t open them again until it was time to go. They wheeled him out in a chair. The emesis basin was in his lap, unused. The nausea wasn’t as bad with the new drug but everything else was so much worse. He was able to get up and get into the car on his own, but his legs were shaky and the Nurse was there to steady him.

Some day I’ll come here and they won’t let me take him home. Una worried.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” Robin said.

“It will get easier,” she lied. Her eyes went to the Jesus figurine on the dashboard and she remembered.

“Open the glovebox. I got you something,” she said.

Inside there was a brown paper bag. Robin reached inside.

It was a toy soldier. A pewter wizard rested inside a plastic bubble backed by cardstock. Beneath the Lords of Rapaxoris logo, Bold gothic letters proclaimed the little silver wizard was Abaxios Oslune - The Great Uniter.

“I spoke with Duncan at the story. He says you need a new general, and this one is a good fit for your army.”

Robin’s mouth was open.

“Thank you!”

“You have to paint it. I suppose all that practice will pay off. There’s more. If you keep painting birds, so will I. Every time you you make it through treatment, there will be a new one of these waiting for you.”

She knew those words would cost her dearly. Hours of sitting, squinting, and arthritis. But for a moment, Robin seemed to forget he was hurt. He was just a boy, excited to paint his little soldier.

It was worth it.