Chapter Twenty-Four #2
By taking that pawn, Ciara had destabilized her center and opened the a-file for Shea’s rook.
Shea coordinated her pieces to ruthlessly apply pressure—to dog her queen, crowd her king, beat back her knights.
Move by move, she chipped away at Ciara’s unshakable composure.
Ciara slumped lower in her seat, pressing her fists into her cheeks—and then she marched her pawn forward to its death on an underdefended square.
Shea’s gaze slid from that doomed pawn up to Ciara’s face.
Still, she wore no expression. If she’d blundered it on purpose, she’d be gleeful—mocking, even.
If she really thought that was her best move, had Shea missed something?
She studied the board for five minutes, ten, and nothing revealed itself to her.
No, Ciara had simply made a mistake.
Shea took the free pawn. For the first time since the game began, Ciara reacted viscerally.
She flinched as though she’d truly been struck, then raked her hair out of her face.
Shea delighted at that glimpse of weakness, like a hound sighting an injured hare.
It had knocked her off-balance, but it was not yet a winning blow.
The game wore on. Pieces fell off the board, one after the other, until they were stripped to the bare bones: a pair of rooks, a single bishop, and the most stalwart of their pawns.
Their bishops danced around one another.
Their rooks confronted each other on the open files.
Their pawns crawled forward. The haze of bloodlust had long since faded, replaced instead with a miserable frustration.
Shea should’ve known better than to believe she could best Ciara so easily.
At this rate, the game would fizzle out into a draw, and all of this effort would be for nothing.
Ciara played rook f2: a trade offer. It was all but a request to officially draw.
Shea considered it. It’d be a mercy to get them out of this miserable game.
But then, something about the move struck her as odd.
She sat up straighter, then leaned closer, because … no, she couldn’t be seeing this right.
This wasn’t possible.
Just to make sure, she closed her eyes and envisioned the position.
They’d trade the rooks, which would then force a trade of bishops.
Their kings would be stripped of everything but their pawns.
In many positions, king-and-pawn endgames were draws.
But in this one … Shea could escort one of her pawns to the other side of the board and make a new queen.
It was a red carpet, rolled out directly to her victory.
In chess, it was often not the first mistake that killed you—but the second.
And Ciara’s second mistake would quite literally kill her.
Shea realized, dimly, that her hands had begun to tremble.
Across the board, Ciara looked too pale.
She dragged a hand down her chin fretfully.
She’d realized what she’d done. How had this happened?
How many times had Ciara collapsed completely under pressure?
Shea did not think she’d ever seen it before.
She could practically hear the commentators now: a heartbreaking loss for Ciara.
But it wasn’t just heartbreaking. It would be a fucking tragedy, because she’d gambled away her life like an idiot.
Ciara laid her cheek on her forearm. In one hand, she twirled one of Shea’s captured knights around and around her fingers. She watched Shea expectantly through her eyelashes.
Shea couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She’d won, and it felt more terrible than anything she’d ever known. If she accepted a draw, neither of their stakes would be claimed. They’d adjourn for today and play a tiebreaker tomorrow. In the interim, Shea could talk some sense into her.
Shea thrust her hand into the space between them. “Draw.”
Ciara jolted, as though the very suggestion shocked her.
Some in the audience gasped. Ciara’s eyes flickered down to the board and drank in her ravaged defenses, the sheer hopelessness of her situation.
Shea could see she was tired. There was a bone-deep exhaustion written on her face, in the slump of her shoulders. Still, Ciara said nothing.
“You’d be a fool not to take it,” Shea pressed.
“No draw,” said Ciara.
Shea could not compose herself. She slammed her palm flat onto the board. The pieces quaked. “It’s over, Ciara. You’re lost.”
“Am I?”
Understanding slowly dawned on Shea. Ciara was pressing the one advantage she had: Shea’s flimsy mortal conscience. Worse, her affection.
“Fuck you,” Shea whispered. They weren’t supposed to talk, and they really weren’t supposed to swear. But it wasn’t like FIDE was here to nail her with a fine. “You’re bluffing.”
“I’m willing to risk everything to get what I want.” Ciara held her gaze. Her black eyes were a dark mirror, reflecting nothing but Shea’s own agonized expression.
She had to be bluffing. Surely, she wouldn’t let Shea play it out.
Shea’s hand wouldn’t stop shaking. She knocked over her rook in her haste to pick it up. They traded rooks, then bishops. It would be almost painfully easy to win at this point. “Draw. I won’t offer again.”
“No draw.”
“Was this really your plan?” Her voice trembled. “All the oaths, all your help, all the things you said to me … Were all those just half-truths and misdirection?”
Shame flashed in Ciara’s eyes, but she did not reply.
“You knew it would come down to this. You were just manipulating me the whole time.”
“It’s your move, Shea.”
A hollow feeling opened within Shea, dragging her down and down, into turbulent seas. Sweat slid down her temple. She was teetering on the brink of collapse. Everything she’d worked for over the last six years had come to this moment. In a matter of moves, it would be checkmate.
All she had to do was claim it.
The air was thin. Ciara stared at her, her wide eyes shining with raw, terrible fear—and worst of all, resignation.
Shea picked up her king by his crown. She could feel the heady power of it against her fingertips.
Rather than push it forward, she let it go.
It wobbled on its base, then toppled over with a clatter that resounded through Shea’s entire body.
“I resign.”