The Draft Fiction is a home for complete short fiction ranging from punchy 500-word snapshots to rich, layered stories up to 8,000 words. We showcase original work from both new and seasoned writers, with a focus on storytelling that sparks emotion and stirs the imagination.
King’s Gambit
It is often said that it is safer for a ruler to be feared than loved but for King Virgil IV, the notion was a delicate burden. He would rather be cherished by his people than feared by those he deeply respected. Love, he believed, created a bond that fear could never forge; a bond rooted not in obedience, but in trust.
His father, King Virgil III, had been both respected and feared but never loved. And not without reason. He was a monarch born of fire and ash, forged in an era marked by unrelenting wars, economic collapse, and waves of pestilence that swept through the kingdom like a biblical curse. He ruled with the only tool he trusted: the iron fist. His commands were law, and his punishments, legend. Under his rule, the kingdom survived but barely breathed.
King Virgil IV was born into a different world — a world shaped not by conquest, but by reform. Where his father had built walls, he opened gates. His reign blossomed with revolutionary changes: the establishment of a national healthcare system that curbed disease, stabilized income policies that brought prosperity to the lower houses, and the introduction of trade regulations that protected merchants without stifling growth. Under his hand, the kingdom didn’t just survive; it flourished.
He was not a man without ambition, but his ambition was rooted in harmony, not dominance. He sat not above his people, but among them. To some of the old guard, he was too soft, too idealistic. But to the farmers, the teachers, the soldiers, and the merchants he was a king worth defending.
Much of his wisdom came from his mentor and tutor, Dante al-Ferren, a scholar of noble bearing and gentle soul. Dante had taught him not only how to rule a kingdom, but how to love its people. He showed him the strength in mercy, the power of listening, and the nobility in serving the sick, the elderly, the widowed, and the orphaned. In parallel, King Virgil was trained in the art of war by the most brilliant tacticians from the East. Men whose eyes had seen a hundred battles and whose minds worked like blades. It was because of their guidance that he expanded his kingdom far into the western reaches, doing so not through brute conquest, but through elegant precision.
He was handsome, sharp of mind, and possessed the eloquence of a poet. Where his father had grunted commands, Virgil IV spoke like silk — carefully, clearly, and with command that came not from volume, but from reason. Visitors from distant lands braved harsh deserts and treacherous mountains just for a moment in his court, to seek his counsel on disputes, alliances, and even personal dilemmas.
Yet, the most formidable reason why enemy kingdoms dared not move against him was not his army or his diplomacy but his queen, the radiant and enigmatic Soraya bint Al-Rafiq. The eldest daughter of the great Muslim leader Caliph Umar Al-Rafiq of the Dunes, Soraya was as tactful as she was feared. Raised in the golden courts of the east, she had learned not only the teachings of scholars and the languages of traders, but the tactics of warfare from her father — one of the most brilliant military minds of the eastern deserts.
It was said that behind her veil of grace, there existed a mind sharper than any general’s sword. And any kingdom that dared threaten Virgil IV would have to contend with her gaze — a gaze that once dismantled an entire rebellion without lifting a blade. Together, they ruled not as sovereigns above their people but as guardians beside them.
But in the dark corners of the world, jealousy festers. And peace, no matter how sweet, is always temporary.
King Virgil IV had long preached unity through mutual prosperity, and as his kingdom flourished, so too did its reputation. Envoys came bearing gifts. Letters arrived bearing praise. And among them, came an invitation from the opulent kingdom of Ivory, a realm cloaked in velvet diplomacy and perfumed words. Its ruler, King Maeric, welcomed Virgil with open arms and a court bathed in gold. There was feasting, music, dancers spinning like flame, and wine that tasted of warm honey. Unbeknownst to Virgil, while he toasted his hosts, his home burned.
As he sat among silken tapestries and false smiles, Maeric’s forces descended upon the kingdom in silence. They attacked with a precision that could only come from intimate knowledge. Every gate, every weakness, every routine had been calculated. The betrayal was not just brutal; it was surgical.
They struck first at the outer bastions — the soldiers, brave and numerous, who fell like the twin towers of might, their banners torn, their voices silenced.
Then came the cavalry, heavy and relentless — like warhorses made of iron, the kingdom’s great engines of defense. But even they were crushed beneath the weight of Maeric’s treachery. The ground quaked as steel beasts collapsed, their engines hissing one last breath.
Next, the invaders targeted the commanders, the tacticians, the old masters of formation and fire. The bishops of war, clever men with minds sharp enough to bend entire campaigns to their will. They were cut off, eliminated before they could utter their commands.
Then, the palace was breached. The Knights; the king’s elite bodyguards, defenders not just of the throne, but of the man upon it — stood their ground. They held until the very last. All but one fell. But there was no king to protect. King Virgil IV, still days away, knew nothing of the devastation. And when he finally returned through winding roads and burning horizons; he found not the kingdom he had nurtured, but death and destruction. Corpses littered the marble courtyards. The great domes had collapsed. The sky was thick with ash, and the air wept with the stench of death. And there, in the heart of it all, stood King Maeric. His blade still crimson, his banners raised atop broken towers. He stood alone in the square of ruins, waiting.
Virgil dismounted in silence. His face was streaked with dust, but his eyes were iron. Without a word, he unsheathed his sword. The duel began not with taunts, but with a silence that thundered. Maeric lunged first — a downward arc that could split an ox. Virgil parried, sparks flaring like fireflies. They circled amidst the dead, blades clashing like bells of judgment. The rhythm of war returned to Virgil as if it had never left. He fought not just for vengeance, but for memory — for the sound of children in the courtyard, for the baker who sang at dawn, for the old widow who kissed his hand in prayer. Maeric was ruthless, but Virgil was resolute. The dance of steel between them was brutal and beautiful. They exchanged blow for blow across the square, toppling statues, cracking stone, turning fountains red. Each strike told a story of betrayal, of history, of a love that refused to die.
But even kings bleed.
Maeric’s sword found Virgil’s side, slicing deep. The king faltered, blood rushing down his leg. Maeric moved to finish it — but Virgil, with one final scream, disarmed him and drove him to the ground. Both men collapsed, broken, breathing heavily, their shadows tangled in the firelight.
And now, as torches flickered against the stone walls of the shattered citadel, King Virgil knelt in chains; his crown shattered. Across from him stood King Maeric, his armor still warm from the kill, his eyes unreadable.
Virgil’s lips cracked as he whispered, “Is my Queen still alive?”
Maeric gave a slow nod.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Virgil smiled. “You fools,” he muttered, his voice rasping like a blade pulled from a sheath.
He began to laugh — hoarse and broken at first, then deeper, rising in rhythm with the tremors beneath their feet. The ground quivered, dust cascading from cracked stone. Far off, the valley roared with what sounded like the awakening of gods.
A shadow crossed Maeric’s face. Virgil tilted his head upward, blood streaking his brow, eyes wild with something not even death could quiet.
“You were so focused on the king…” he said, his grin wide and knowing, “you forgot the rest of the court.” And then he leaned closer, his breath ragged.
“Your death will be made an example,” he whispered. “You’ll learn why I wasn’t ruthless.”
Before Maeric could process the weight of those words, his fury overtook him. With a guttural growl, he drove his blade deep into Virgil’s stomach. The metal slid between ribs and history. The king gasped, a shuddering breath slipping between clenched teeth as he collapsed to the ground.
Maeric stood over him, victorious… or so he thought.
Then silence broke.
A single step echoed through the crumbling hall. Then another. And another.
From the shadows of the sundered citadel emerged the Queen.
Her silver armor was scorched and bloodied. Her eyes were not tearful — they were fire. Her once-gentle face bore the hard edges of vengeance forged by loss. In her hand was the ancestral blade of House Cael — the sword that had not been unsheathed in two centuries.
She did not run.
She walked — like death itself.
Maeric turned, startled. He raised his sword.
But he was too late.
The Queen moved with unrelenting precision. Her sword arced once, cleaving Maeric’s wrist. His blade clattered to the floor. She plunged her sword forward — straight through his chest, eyes never leaving his.
“You played your part well,” she whispered coldly. “But the queen always outlives the board.”
Then she turned to the throne room doors and raised her arm.
All around them, from the sewers, from the cliffs, from beneath the very stones her hidden legion rose. Loyalists. Outlaws. Shadow-born fighters who had waited, silent and starving for justice.
They swept through Maeric’s forces like wildfire through dry grass. Screams rang out. Men who had razed villages now begged for mercy. They received none.
The Queen heard none. They had destroyed the one thing that had chained her wrath.
Her sword did not stop until every last invader lay dead beneath the banners of the old kingdom.
When it was over, she stood amidst a sea of silence — moonlight gleaming off her blade, blood dripping from her gauntlet.
She knelt beside Virgil, whose breaths were faint, fading like the last embers of a fire.
He looked at her, pain flickering behind his smile.
“They know now…the world knows, what my court is capable of.”
She nodded, her fingers gently tracing his cheek, her touch tender, almost as if to reassure him. “You always did understand the board.”
As his eyes closed, she rose, stepping onto the dais where the throne once stood now rubble and ruin. She looked out across the dead, across the broken city.
And from her lips, soft and final, came the last move.
“Checkmate.”
