Lenna's (POV)
Power.
People loved to romanticize it.
Dress it up in silk and legends.
Pretend it was something noble.
It never was.
Power was simply the right to decide.
To move pieces on the board rather than be one.
Even as a child, I understood that much.
I was three when I first solved the strategic puzzle of my elder brother — the one meant for ten-year-old heirs.
I was four when I claimed a sword for myself.
I was five when I first ordered to kill someone.
Not out of malice.
Just logic.
He was a spy.
I and my guard were closest.
Problem → solution.
My father praised my reasoning.
My mother — Peak Lord of the E.G.G. Sect — corrected my mistakes in report.
Neither told me I was wrong.
So I assumed I wasn't.
People assumed I was cold.
Emotionless.
The truth was simpler:
Emotions were wasteful unless controlled.
They made people impulsive, short-sighted… manipulable.
A person driven by fear?
Predictable.
A person driven by desire?
Even more predictable.
Children of powerful houses were always raised with these teachings.
But unlike others, I learned one lesson far earlier:
If I am not powerful, I will become someone else's pawn.
Great Houses breed wolves, not sheep.
If you don't bare your fangs early, you get eaten.
So I sharpened myself — blade, mind, Soul.
Every day.
Every hour.
Not for pride.
Not for glory.
For survival.
Chess pieces did not survive.
Players did.
I chose which I wanted to be.
...
My childhood was… comfortable, in the way gilded cages always are.
Everything was handed to me.
The best tutors.
The deadliest techniques.
Artifacts children should not touch.
But comfort was never security.
Only strength was.
I grew.
I trained.
I ascended.
And people, naturally, became chess pieces.
Not out of cruelty.
Just practicality.
Pieces had roles:
Some attacked.
Some defended.
Some existed to be sacrificed.
Few were worth keeping on the board long-term.
Fewer still were interesting.
By the time I reached my sixteenth year, I had already chosen the path I wanted:
Dungeon Division.
The only path where talent mattered more than pedigree.
Where danger was honest, predictable, measurable.
Where strength was not given — but earned.
That was the path of a future Matriarch.
Or a corpse.
I was willing to accept either.
...
Then came the Council room after Awakening.
The moment my name was spoken, the elders straightened.
The Patriarch — my father — watched me with concealed pride.
The System offered me the classes I knew it would: Master Manipulator (SS) & Sword Maiden (SS).
I Chose Sword Maiden.
Afterall! strength comes first.
A class that demanded perfection.
A class I can use to it's fullest potential.
I thought nothing of it.
Then the other heirs arrived—predictable. One of them looked somewhat useful, so I asked for him.
I expected the same old response: "It will be my honor."
But then that heir, Augustus Ironcreed, did something... Unexpected.
He looked straight at me and said:
"Can I appraise you first?"
The hall froze.
Elders panicked.
Father nearly laughed.
And I… blinked.
Not in offense.
Not in anger.
In surprise.
Pure, honest surprise.
No one had ever spoken to me like that.
Not with arrogance.
Not with fear.
With logic.
He wanted to know who he would be following.
Whether I was worth his life.
Rational.
Direct.
Irritating — but entertaining.
And that alone made him different.
He could think.
Most heirs couldn't.
Most were predictable.
He was not.
A foolish boy with low Luck and high Intelligence.
Soft in body, but hard enough in mind to ask the question others wouldn't.
A useful contradiction.
A pawn with potential to become a knight.
Naturally, I claimed him.
Naturally, he accepted.
Naturally, chaos followed.
...
He amuses me.
That is the truth.
He complains.
Panics.
Speaks too boldly.
He is terrified of everything and still does it anyway.
And more importantly:
He thinks.
He sees angles others don't.
Catches patterns I miss.
Understands people in a way I cannot — instinctively, messily, and most importantly humanly.
He is a puzzle.
An interesting one.
Not a friend.
Not yet.
Not a lover.
Not ever — emotions are a battlefield I do not waste time on.
A piece.
A valuable piece.
His appraisal, his instincts, his absurd survival ability — these are tools I will use.
And I will shape him until he fits into the exact role I require.
A shield.
A sensor.
A thinking blade.
A piece that moves itself.
...
But there is… something else.
Something curious.
He is not blinded by me.
Not intimidated by me.
Not charmed.
Not terrified.
He sees me as I am — an apex threat —
and still speaks to me like I'm merely another mortal with a temper.
Bold.
Reckless.
Consistently irritating.
And yet…
Predictably unpredictable.
A rare piece indeed.
One worth keeping.
One worth sharpening.
One worth moving into battles most pieces would never survive.
And perhaps…
One that might surprise even me.
...
As I stepped onto the training grounds that morning, watching him grip his new blade with a mixture of awe and panic, watching Arial latch onto him like a frightened shadow, watching Alfred quietly evaluate him…
I made a decision.
A simple, cold, logical decision:
Augustus Ironcreed will not die.
Not until I say he may.
I turned away from the three of them, sword resting against my shoulder.
"Formation," I ordered without looking back.
"Now."
Pieces moved.
The board shifted.
And the game continued.