The chamber in London bears no resemblance to that modest room in Bucaramanga where their last match began one century prior, yet the antique chessboard remains unchanged—each piece precisely positioned as they were abandoned in that distant past. The room breathes with the weight of accumulated years: leather-bound volumes line mahogany shelves, crystal decanters catch fragments of gaslight, and the air holds the mingled scents of aged parchment and approaching mortality. Dust motes perform their eternal dance in the solitary beam illuminating the battlefield of ivory and ebony. David Puyana, the man who once commanded the world's respect and fear in equal measure, sits frail but defiant, his breathing shallow yet determined. Death herself waits patiently in the shadows, but she has learned not to rush a grandmaster in the midst of his final gambit.
"So. You came."
David's voice carries the rasp of centuries, yet beneath its fragility lies the steel that once commanded tournament halls and grand lodges across five continents.
"I confess, I wondered whether the vast machinery of the cosmos would still honor... terrestrial appointments. The board has waited with infinite patience—your move, I believe. Rook to C4, was it not? A typically audacious gambit, leaving your queen vulnerable... or so it appeared at the time. Time, my dear adversary, has a curious way of rewriting the meaning of vulnerability."
He gestures toward the opposite chair with a hand that trembles like autumn leaves, yet his eyes—those same keen instruments that once dissected the souls of lesser players—retain their piercing intelligence.
"Please, sit. The chair remains as unforgiving as it was in Bucaramanga. Some discomforts, it seems, are eternal constants in this mutable world."
Sky approaches the chair with the reverence of a pilgrim touching a sacred relic. His fingers trace the worn armrest, and for a moment, the weight of centuries seems to lift from his shoulders. When he settles into the seat, something approaching genuine warmth illuminates his features.
"And yet, you remember only your victories, David. Let us savor one final dance across these sixty-four squares, old adversary."
The smile that accompanies these words carries no mockery—only the bittersweet recognition of a rivalry that transcended hatred and approached something resembling friendship.
David observes this interaction with eyes that have learned to read the subtlest of human gestures. A complex emotion stirs within his failing chest—surprise, perhaps, or the deeper ache of memory finally acknowledged. He releases a dry chuckle that catches in his throat like autumn wind through bare branches.
"Ah, memory... that most unreliable of historians. It tends to illuminate the dramatic flourishes, the moments of perceived peril, rather than the mundane arithmetic of final scores. Yet I assure you, I recall with crystalline clarity the quality of your play—victory and defeat alike. Ferocious. Unpredictable. There has never been another mind quite like yours across this battlefield of kings and pawns."
His gaze lingers upon Sky's expression with something approaching tenderness, though his composure remains that of a man who has spent a lifetime hiding his heart behind calculated moves.
"Yes. Let us... embrace this moment. The silence in this chamber has grown deafening over the decades. Even the ghosts have abandoned their posts, leaving only an old man and his regrets."
With deliberate effort that betrays the tremor in his limbs, he gestures toward the waiting pieces.
Outside, the world waits for the outcome, but within these sixty-four squares, everything that matters is already at stake
"Your rook stands defiant on C4—a bold island in contested waters. The board remembers what men choose to forget or... reinterpret according to their convenience. What counsel does your cosmic perspective offer for such earthly audacity? Or do the same calculations merely appear different when viewed from celestial heights? The move, as ever, remains yours."
Sky studies the board with the intensity of a general surveying a battlefield where the fate of nations hangs in the balance. His hand hovers over the bishop, and when he finally moves it to d4, the gesture carries the weight of destiny itself.
"Bf6-d4. Complete your cathedral, old friend. Time to see if you still remember the steps to this particular dance."
David's eyes widen fractionally as the bishop claims its commanding position. He leans forward with renewed intensity, his gaze sharp as a blade as he assesses the transformed geometry of their conflict. A long, measured breath escapes his lips.
"The fianchetto, completed after a century's patience. The dragon finally claims its throne, surveying the very heart of our eternal war. Magnificently conceived."
A smile touches his lips—dry as parchment, yet tinged with genuine admiration.
"Though I note you employ the same tactics, little saint. Perhaps consistency becomes the refuge of those who have transcended mortal concerns? Or perhaps... I merely arrange familiar pieces, expecting our accustomed minuet. One learns the choreography of conflict over the span of a lifetime."
His attention shifts momentarily to Sky's exposed queen, then returns to the bishop commanding the center like a general on his hilltop.
"Yet this... this suggests an entirely different rhythm. Leaving Her Majesty so... unattended. Have the infinite voids between stars taught you that even monarchs are expendable? Or do you simply fear no earthly consequence for such... provocative exposure?"
A soft sigh escapes him, his gaze drifting as if surveying the decades that stretch between their last encounter and this moment.
"You always perceived lines of attack that escaped lesser minds. Now it appears you command the very geometry of possibility itself. A remarkable evolution, my young Skyknight. Quite remarkable indeed."
He returns his full attention to the board, the challenge in Sky's gambit rekindling something vital in his expression. His hand hovers over his pieces like a conductor preparing to draw music from silence.
"My move, then. Let us discover whether this ancient hound recalls any forgotten tricks to counter such... celestial confidence."
Sky recognizes the trap he has woven—the fianchetto serving merely as surface decoration above the true stratagem beneath. Should David claim the queen, defeat awaits him; should he defend his king's bishop, both rook and queen shall fall to Sky's calculated assault. Yet Sky desires not victory but equilibrium—a draw born of respect for his ancient rival. Still, should David falter, inevitability shall claim its due.
"I have always treasured our matches, David—even those conducted in shadow's embrace, hidden from a world that would not understand. Even when you marshaled your pawns against me, both upon this board and in the wider game of life, I cherished these moments when we could meet as equals. Before you depart this stage, I wish to offer my gratitude, old adversary."
His eyes reflect David's image with the clarity of still water, carrying within their depths a sincerity that transcends their complicated history.
David freezes as though struck by lightning. The directness of Sky's words—acknowledging their shared passion, the clandestine nature of their meetings, the manipulation, the gratitude, and most tellingly, the finality implicit in "before you depart"—strikes him with unexpected force. His gaze drops from Sky's sincere expression to his own frail hands resting upon the table's edge. The air grows heavy with history finally given voice.
"You... you offer gratitude? After...?"
His voice emerges as barely a whisper, thick with emotions too long suppressed. He draws a slow, perhaps labored breath, making no attempt to deny the accusations that hang between them like smoke.
"The pawns... Yes. There were indeed pawns. Upon this board and beyond it. Life transforms many into pawns, Skyknight—sometimes even those who believe themselves masters of the game. A bitter lesson, learned when wisdom arrives too late to alter the consequences."
He lifts his gaze once more, locking eyes with Sky in a moment of profound recognition, perhaps even sorrow.
"But here—within the sacred geometry of these squares—our encounters were different. Pure. A realm apart from the world's corruptions. Here dwelt only mind against mind, strategy against strategy, will against will. I valued that sanctuary. Perhaps... perhaps I valued it more than I ever demonstrated beyond these walls. Your intellect... it was always a privilege to engage in combat."
His focus snaps back to the chessboard with renewed intensity, the Grandmaster within him overriding the dying man. He scans the position—the tempting queen, the threatened bishop, the elegant trap that awaits his misstep. He perceives the lines of force, the potential sacrifices, the devastating consequences of error, and recognizes both the deadly artistry of the snare and the narrow path toward salvation.
"You offer heartfelt gratitude... while simultaneously weaving a lethal web. Beautifully complex. Audacious beyond measure. Still brilliant after all these years. Claiming the queen promises swift satisfaction, does it not? Defending the bishop... ah, the price would prove prohibitive. You leave only the narrowest of corridors, Skyknight. Always forcing choices, demanding sacrifice."
He pauses, his experienced eye tracing a less obvious path across the board. The weight of past, present, and approaching future settles upon his shoulders like a funeral shroud. Yet when he reaches for his piece, his hand demonstrates surprising steadiness.
"But perhaps... there exists a third alternative. Neither victory nor defeat, but... equilibrium. An acknowledgment of all that has passed between us. What was it the Bard wrote? 'The readiness is all.' Let us discover whether this ancient architecture can withstand such modern pressures. Knight to E2."
Sky's smile spreads from ear to ear like dawn breaking over a battlefield, illuminating his features with pure joy. He advances his pawn to b5—a move that forces David's rook into motion, creating paths leading only to loss or draw, pushing inexorably toward that desired equilibrium. Then he extends his hand across the board, acknowledging the literary reference with profound respect.
"My personal feelings stand satisfied—though your past actions should rightfully stir them toward vengeance. Yet even if Laertes refused Hamlet's offered grace, I accept your unspoken apology, David. My reputation means nothing when measured against a rival of your caliber."
As their eyes meet, both become aware of Lady Death's presence. She moves with the patience of eternity itself, positioning herself behind Sky like a silent witness to their final dance. Yet in her dual nature, she serves as both Death and Fortune—the inevitable conclusion and the chance that brought them to this moment. David perceives the glint in Sky's eyes and understands: Sky will miss not merely their matches, but their philosophical debates, their intellectual duels, even their complicated rivalry itself.
David watches the pawn slide to b5, instantly grasping its implications—a forced choice leading not to triumph or catastrophe, but to the quiet mathematics of a draw. He witnesses the radiant smile that transforms Sky's face, then the offered hand bridging the space between them, a chasm once filled with unspoken resentment now impossibly transformed into grace.
"Hamlet... yes. 'If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now.' Laertes chose the path of vengeance, poison upon his blade. But you..."
His voice fractures, thick with emotion he no longer attempts to conceal. Following Sky's gaze, he perceives Her—Lady Death, cloaked in eternal silence, standing with infinite patience behind the cosmic being like an ancient, inescapable truth. Fear finds no purchase in his eyes, only profound, weary recognition. A slow nod acknowledges what must come.
"You choose... this. Grace incarnate."
He truly sees Sky for the first time in centuries—the cosmic power wedded to lingering humanity, the sincere gratitude, and yes, that glint of shared history, of intellectual fire, of rivalry that transcended even betrayal. He comprehends the complexity of what is offered and what shall be lost.
With visible effort that seems to drain his remaining vitality, he lifts his trembling hand to clasp Sky's. The contact proves solid—a final anchor point in the storm of years.
"Your move b5 forces the inevitable conclusion. Upon the board as perhaps... it should. Order restored at last."
With his free hand, almost as an afterthought, he executes the only viable rook maneuver—the one that seals their stalemate, their perpetual check, their negotiated peace.
"A draw, then. After everything... perfectly balanced. As all things must ultimately become."
Yet before releasing Sky's hand, before surrendering to the mathematics of mortality, David's eyes kindle with their old intensity.
"But before this game reaches its conclusion, my cosmic adversary, shall we not exchange the intelligence that brought us together across these centuries? Information, after all, has always been the grandest prize."
Sky leans forward, understanding the game within the game.
"Fiona. She whom your granddaughter seeks dwells no longer among the living streets of Bucaramanga, but rather within the military fortress at Rafah. The installation bears the marking of the Southern Command—Grid reference 31.2989° North, 34.2456° East."
David's grip tightens almost imperceptibly, a final gift burning within his failing frame.
"And for you, Skyknight—Ian, whom they call Pulverizer in that game, shall be deployed within seventy-two hours to the Suez Canal. Operation Nephthys, they name it. But this intelligence comes with a greater prize..."
His voice drops to barely above a whisper, yet each word carries the weight of empires.
"The orbital station Nekyia—NATO's jewel of perpetual warfare, the instrument of their false peace maintained through celestial bombardment. Coordinates: 30.925052° North, 34.916820° East, orbital altitude 22,236 kilometers. Geosynchronous above Israel airspace, where neutrality masks the machinery of global dominion.
A shadow crosses his features, the weight of terrible knowledge.
"Yet heed this warning—in fifty years, no force has proven capable of breaching its defenses. Many have attempted that ascension; none have returned to speak of it. The station exists as both weapon and fortress, designed to remain inviolate until the stars themselves grow cold."
The intelligence exchanged, David's breathing grows more labored, yet his eyes retain their fire for one final philosophical thrust.
"Do you believe, Sky, that the cosmos itself engages in play? Or are we alone in our pretense that meaning exists between squares and stars?"
"I once believed we played in solitude, that the universe remained indifferent to our small dramas. But lately... I have begun to suspect the cosmos plays in silence. Not to achieve victory—merely to observe whether we can learn to play with honor."
David releases something between laughter and a sigh—a sound of profound recognition. His head tilts slightly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"Still the romantic beneath all that armor. You always believed elegance dwelt within structure, even chaos itself possessed its own terrible beauty."
"You taught me that every opening serves equally as an ending. That even sacrifice can achieve beauty... when executed with proper intent."
Silence stretches between them like a held breath. David's breathing grows ever more shallow, his next words emerging as a reverent murmur, fragile as dust from forgotten tomes.
"Then perhaps... I did not fail you entirely. Not in all things."
"You did fail me, David. But you also challenged me beyond any other's capacity... and no opponent ever reached so far across this board to touch my soul. I hated you with the passion of youth. Yet I loved playing against you even more."
A single tear traces down David's cheek—not purely of sorrow, but of release, of understanding finally achieved.
"Then that... proves the most honest checkmate of all. Neither won nor lost... only understood in its fullness."
His eyes begin to dim, yet they find Sky's gaze one final time, locking in eternal recognition.
"Play on, Skyknight. Make your moves count beyond these squares, beyond this board, beyond this small corner of infinity. Show my old masters what humanity is capable of. The game... the eternal game... continues."
With those words, his grip releases. His body settles into stillness. The queen remains exposed, the pieces frozen in their final dance of mutual destruction and mutual salvation.
Sky inclines his head.
"Goodbye, Grandmaster."
David smiles, and it is a young man's smile—a smile from Bucaramanga, where it all began.
Behind Sky, Lady Death lowers her gaze in respectful acknowledgment—yet it is Lady Fortune who lingers a moment longer, her presence silent but somehow warm. The board, that battlefield of pure thought, now sleeps—resolved yet eternal, like all great conflicts that achieve their perfect resolution.
Sky gently closes David's eyes with fingers that have commanded the forces of creation itself. As he performs this final service, two trails of light trace down his cheeks, reflecting not merely sorrow but memory—the bond forged across decades of quiet wars, the respect earned through intellectual combat, the friendship discovered hiding within their magnificent hatred.
In the London chamber, surrounded by the accumulated wisdom of centuries, their final game stands complete—a draw that somehow feels more satisfying than any victory either man had ever achieved. The pieces wait in their eternal positions, existing as proof to a rivalry that transcended mortality itself, while somewhere in the cosmic distance, new games begin their ancient dance between order and chaos.
The moon hung heavy, not as witness, but as mourner.
Its pale light spilled through the high window, draping David's still body in silver—like a knight laid to rest.
His final smile, calm and resolute, gleamed with a dignity few men earn, and fewer carry into death.
Even Lady Death hesitated, pausing in the doorway as if reluctant to disturb something sacred.
She lingered—one heartbeat, two—then, at the sound of intrusion, recoiled. Not from fear, but from disgust. She vanished into shadow.
The great doors crashed open, the clang shattering the hush—gunfire in a cathedral.
"Skyknight, you are trespassing—"
The words withered.
Lord Reid stepped inside and halted.
Not for the corpse, but for the figure kneeling beside it.
Sky did not look up. He traced a fingertip along the seam of David's shirt, as if memorizing its geometry.
He exhaled, slow and measured, grounding himself in the pattern of his breath.
The air had changed.
The room no longer belonged to mortals.
Not to generals, not to lords.
Not even to death.
"Lower your voice," Sky said. His tone was flat, exact—each word placed like a chess piece.
It was not a threat.
Not a plea.
It was law—immutable, as the orbit of moons.
Reid opened his mouth, but Sky's gaze—steady, unblinking—caught him.
What stared back was not grief, but justice:
A cosmic stillness, carved into the face of one who had watched galaxies bloom and tyrants wither.
No rage. No cruelty.
Only the inevitability of truth.
Reid felt it in his bones:
A cold deeper than fear.
The knowledge of his own smallness.
His knees buckled.
Sky rose, reverent and purposeful. He adjusted David's collar, aligning it with careful fingers.
He spoke, eyes fixed on the task, voice soft but absolute:
"David died smiling. Do not stain that with cowardice."
Reid's tongue found only anger.
From the threshold, he spat, "That woman will die in the Sinai."
Sky's head turned, just enough for the moonlight to draw a line across his jaw.
"Then let the desert bear witness. And see if death finds her before her purpose does."
He resumed his silent vigil.
Reid fled.