The Price of Kings: A Game of Shadows

The faint scent of parchment lingers in the air as a single candelabrum flickers between them, casting jagged shadows across the chessboard already littered with fallen pieces. Griffith leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, his velvet cape draped like wings. Lelouch, arms crossed, studies the board with a calculating gaze, the gold trim of his cloak glinting.

Griffith: “Chess is such a cruel game, wouldn’t you agree? The pawns march forward, believing they might become queens, but the board is always drenched in blood beneath the surface.”

Lelouch: “Only because people cling to sentiment. Strategy demands detachment. Every sacrifice is a calculated move toward victory.”

Griffith: “Victory… how mundane a word for what we’re building. I don’t crave a throne to rule mortals—I want to reshape them.” He plucks a white bishop from the board, letting it dangle between his fingers. “The world is a festering wound. Why not burn it clean to create something beautiful?”

Lelouch: “You speak like an artist, but your masterpiece requires annihilation. I prefer evolution. The people’s rage against Britannia became my weapon. Their suffering was the price for a better world.”

Griffith: “Your ‘evolution’ still relies on their tears. You taught your sister to smile through hers, didn’t you? How noble.” He smirks, setting the bishop down hard enough to rattle the board.

Lelouch: “Nunnally was never a pawn. She was my compass. You, though… you fed your comrades to demons and called it love.”

Griffith: “I gave them purpose. Guts, Casca—they were insects trapped in a world that despised them. I offered them a chance to be part of something eternal.” His voice softens, almost wistful. “Doesn’t love demand total surrender?”

Lelouch: “Love is protection, not possession. You wanted a kingdom where you could feel like a god. I wanted a world where my sister could walk freely.” He flicks a black knight forward. “Check. But let’s speak plainly: we both built our dreams on shattered lives.”

Griffith: “Ah, finally a truce of candor.” Griffith’s laugh is honeyed, sharp. “But you wear your grief like armor. Every lie to Shirley, every betrayal—was it easier to pretend you were cold?”

Lelouch: “You’re deflecting. You didn’t need to sacrifice the Band of the Hawk. But you did it because you wanted to. That’s the difference.”

Griffith: “The Crimson Behelit demands a sacrifice to crown the newborn world. How pedestrian to deny the hunger inside. You buried yours under rhetoric.” He leans forward, eyes gleaming. “We are the hunger, Lelouch. You’re no more ‘just’ a prince than I’m ‘just’ a mercenary.”

Lelouch: “Hunger doesn’t excuse cruelty. I chose to carry the weight of my sins. You bathed in yours.”

Griffith: “Weight?” He scoffs. “You made yourself a martyr to absolve the masses. How presumptuous. Did you think they’d cherish your corpse?”

Lelouch: “No. But they’d remember the day tyranny fell. Isn’t that what you want—immortality in the stories of those who survive?”

Griffith: “I want to touch the face of the divine. Let them hate me if they must—we all become myths in the end.” He pauses, fingers grazing the obsidian king piece on his side. “You speak of legacy, but did you ever consider… perhaps the true horror is not becoming a god? Finding the summit empty?”

Lelouch: “You fear irrelevance. I feared stagnation. But we agree on one thing: the world is a lie. The only question is who gets to rewrite the truth.”

Griffith: “And who’ll be left to read it?” He tips over his king, the sound like a tomb closing. “Stalemate?”

Lelouch: “Hardly. But today, we’ll call it a draw.” He rises, pulling his cloak over his shoulder. “Next time, bring a better army.”

Griffith: “I’ll bring a legion of stars.”

The candle snuffs itself out as the door closes behind them.

On HoloDream, you can ask Griffith what he whispers to the wind in his tower, or challenge Lelouch to a rematch where the stakes are secrets instead of lives.