Someone's Being Promoted
Someone’s Being Promoted
"Chess is ruthless: you've got to be prepared to kill people (Short)"
The clock ticked louder than it should’ve. In the silence of the tournament hall, it sounded like a war drum.
Eight minutes left on white. Sixteen on black.
Elias leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the board like a general surveying a battlefield. Thirty-seven moves deep, and he was down a rook, up a pawn, and completely out of breath. He didn’t remember breathing during the last ten moves—he might not have.
Across the board, Vasili’s fingers twitched near the clock, but didn’t press. He was patient, like he always was. A world champion, old and cold, with eyes like stale ice.
Elias, the challenger. Just twenty-three. Undefeated in the candidates’ tournament. A miracle, they called him. Or luck.
But this wasn’t luck. Not now. He’d seen something.
His hand hovered over his pawn—the one on the A-file. The lonely survivor. It had crept up slowly, while everyone else died screaming. The pawn had reached the sixth rank. Two more steps. Two. Then—
Promotion.
It was a basic idea. Obvious, really. But that’s the trap of chess—seeing is not the same as understanding. Everyone sees the pawn. Only one sees the truth.
Vasili was watching him. Not the board. Him.
Elias smiled. That was good. Let him think it was bluff.
He played the move. a6. The pawn stepped forward, soft as a whisper.
Vasili blinked. Not confused. Just…watchful.
He replied. Ra8. Obvious. Preventing the promotion. Caging the pawn.
Elias nodded slightly. That was the bait.
Now came the storm.
He played b5, sacrificing the pawn on the B-file, opening the lines. Vasili took. axb5.
Then Elias slid his bishop diagonally, a move so quiet and venomous it practically sang. Bd4.
The board changed. The air changed.
Suddenly, the a6 pawn wasn’t just a pawn. It was a threat. An inevitability.
The path was clearing. The rook was trapped. If Vasili moved it, Elias would push. And if he didn’t—Elias would still push.
Someone’s being promoted.
The phrase dropped into his mind like a prophecy.
Vasili’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the board again, but this time, slower. Less like a man in charge, more like someone lost at sea. He played Ke7, trying to reposition, realign.
Too late.
Elias whispered the move to himself before he played it: a7.
The pawn stood on the doorstep. One square away from becoming a queen.
One square from rewriting its fate.
It was strange, how chess mirrored life. The pawn, the smallest, weakest, most overlooked piece—if it survives the war, if it walks the long road from the start to the end—it becomes something greater. A promotion. Not a gift. A reward. A right.
His heart thundered. This was it. This was the moment.
Vasili spent four minutes thinking. Four long, aching minutes.
Then he pushed Kd6.
Elias knew instantly: it was wrong.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. He pressed the clock with precision.
a8=Q+
The pawn disappeared. In its place stood a queen—glorious, tall, and terrifying.
The transformation sent a ripple through the crowd. The spectators behind the glass didn’t clap—this wasn’t that kind of game—but a few leaned in closer. History was happening.
Vasili stared at the queen like she’d betrayed him personally.
The game dragged on another fifteen moves, but the outcome was set. With the new queen, Elias picked apart the defense. Rook traded for bishop. King chased like a stray animal. A final checkmate on move 62.
Silence.
Then the clock was stopped. The arbiter stepped forward. Handshakes were offered. Photographers clicked like insects.
But Elias didn’t hear it.
He was still staring at that square—a8. The place where a pawn became a queen. Where a boy became a champion.
Where someone was promoted.
Hours later...
Elias sat in the locker room alone. The medal hung around his neck, heavier than it looked.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
A woman entered. Mid-fifties. Sharp eyes. Chess Federation blazer. She wasn’t a coach or a journalist.
“Elias Novak?”
He nodded.
She handed him a card. No name. Just a black rook embossed on it.
“We’d like to talk about your future,” she said.
“What kind of future?”
She smiled faintly. “There’s a game beyond the board. A longer one. With higher stakes.”
He tilted his head. “You’re recruiting me? For what—coaching?”
She shook her head. “Something more…strategic. Let’s just say: we look for people who can see twenty moves ahead. Who understand sacrifice. And who know what it means to promote.”
Elias looked down at the card again. It felt cold. Heavy. Dangerous.
“I just play chess,” he said quietly.
“No,” she replied. “You win at chess. That’s different.”
She left before he could answer. The door clicked shut behind her.
Elias looked at the card one more time.
The rook stared back at him.
Later still...
Far from the tournament hall, in a room with no windows and no clocks, a man watched the replay of Elias’s final game.
He paused the video on move 57—a8=Q+.
He smiled.
“Another one promoted,” he murmured.
A voice came through the intercom: “Shall we initiate contact?”
He nodded slowly.
“Yes. Let’s see how far he’s willing to go.”
*** I used to be a tournament director for a USCF club. One of my predecessors liked to create stories based on the players and the results of the event. Thank you for reading!!
