The black king or the white queen? The Black King it is. Ah, but he must still deal with the other white one, the knight. The queen was difficult. She could move as she wished, this way and that, from frontal assaults to oblique maneuvers, racing headlong for the length of the board and striking deadly poses. The black king stood and waited, drawing her in.
She took on the mantle of a knight, a Joan of Arc, rushing forward, dodging left and right. Neither left nor right seemed to suit her, each too limited at the magical shape changing she really needed. Her pawns had fallen away to the black pawns. The ramparts of the black rooks were too high, their steadfast immovability fixed her with a knowing gaze. Even her loyal bishops deserted her in the end. Even the black king's treasonous bishop could not undo him, and so he fell to the white. But his blood was now on the king's clothes, a stain so dark as perhaps never to be removed.
The magnanimous black king did not savage the remainders of the white queen's army. He offered them grace, an open hand, a chance to be redeemed as fair. His offer was brushed aside. The white queen, bitter in her defeat, had no desire to share a crown. She spat on the Black King. Fealty was her reward.
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