A drumroll resounded.
The shrill voice of Ngô Tuấn, the Imperial Commandant, rang out: "You have two khắc left. By the end of the Hour of the Dragon, it must be complete."
Chiêu Hoàng looked up at the sun. Its rays began to flood the surroundings with light. She knew that a day consisted of one hundred khắc, and two khắc equaled roughly fourteen and a half minutes. The Hour of the Dragon spanned from seven to nine hours in the morning, by modern reckoning. The end of this hour marked the conclusion of the daily court audience. Thus, the preparations were nearing completion.
Two wooden grandstands had been erected, forming two giant letters "I" shapes placed parallel in the vast Dragon Courtyard before the Thái Hòa Palace. At the center stood the Imperial Banner Platform, a symbolic structure where the Imperial Banner always fluttered whenever the emperor was present.
This banner was only lowered when accompanying her father, the emperor, on military campaigns to subdue the southern enemies. The Imperial Banner Platform was constructed from polished green stone, its surface paved with glossy golden ceramic tiles. Each step upward symbolized a stride toward the divine mandate. The platform rose high above the courtyard, embodying the stance of "ruling the world, commanding the universe."
Atop the platform, the Imperial Banner, the emblem of the emperor, stood erect. Its long pole, adorned with a coiling dragon, was crowned with a golden dragon gazing at the moon, gleaming brilliantly in the sky. The banner, made of ivory silk threaded with gold, fluttered fiercely in the wind.
A Lý dynasty dragon was embroidered on the banner, weaving through clouds and waves as if soaring to connect with the heavens. Each gust of wind sent the banner billowing, casting the dragon's shadow onto the Dragon Courtyard below, where thousands of slaves, hundreds of soldiers, and laborers stood in orderly ranks. They stood at attention under the command of the Left and Right Golden Tiger Guards, the two generals leading the Imperial Guard—the closest protectors of the emperor and the palace, akin to royal sentinels.
The Dragon Courtyard before the Thái Hòa Palace was divided into ninety intersecting points, forming a colossal Chinese chessboard. Ropes stretched between wooden pillars marked nine vertical and ten horizontal lines, creating a grid that, from above, resembled a celestial net cast upon the earth.
A Champa slave girl held a broom, dipping it into a wooden bucket of limewater to trace the straight lines formed by the ropes. In the center, she left a long gap and wrote a large character: "hà"—"river"—symbolizing the boundary dividing two nations. A massive, stark-white chessboard took shape.
It was not a real river. From atop the Báo Thiên Pagoda's tower, Chiêu Hoàng saw it as a chilling white fracture running across the earth. Once a chess piece crossed that divide, blood would spill, and lives would end. A line separating life from death.
At the intersections, the Imperial Guard began placing bamboo poles where Champa slaves, transformed into human chess pieces, would stand when the game began. The poles, made from bamboo trunks with their roots shaved clean to form stable bases, stood firm on the ground. At the top of each pole, the bamboo was shaped into an oval frame, with Chinese characters affixed to denote the chess pieces: Pawn, Rook, Cannon, Knight, Elephant, Minister, and King.
Chiêu Hoàng had once stood behind her father, watching him play chess with the Grand Tutors and Grand Preceptors on a small board, but she had never seen a game of this scale in her life. She was certain that neither the soldiers, slaves, officials, nor even her father had ever witnessed a chessboard so enormous and vivid.
Here, before this Dragon Courtyard, everything came alive. The chessboard was an entire plaza, the pieces were real people, and each intersection was a place where life could begin, or a death could end, witnessed by nearly the entire populace of the Thăng Long capital.
Another drumroll echoed.
Chiêu Hoàng heard the shouts of the Imperial Guard soldiers, signaling the arrival of a procession of Champa prisoners from camps outside the capital. She watched as rows of people passed by, chained together by iron links connected to shackles on their wrists. Each wore a tag on their chest bearing the name of a chess piece. The names of the pieces were now branded onto human bodies, marks of a cruel game. The slaves were herded to a corner beside those who had just finished setting up the game.
Chiêu Hoàng noticed a young slave, tall and gaunt, standing out among his compatriots. His head was held high, and he clutched a brass cannon tube. Without needing to look closely, she was certain he would be a Cannon. Tomorrow at noon, when the game began, he would load gunpowder into the cannon and fire directly at an opposing piece.
"What if the other person doesn't dodge the shot in time?" she wondered silently, but no one answered. The wind tousled her hair, carrying the faint smell of gunpowder from somewhere beyond the eastern city walls, where the military camps were stationed, creeping into her nostrils.
Chess was traditionally a game of intellect passed down from the North and used by scholars and officials as a measure of strategy. Two sides faced off, arranging their forces, each move reflecting knowledge, politics, and philosophies of survival. But human chess—a visceral, brutal version of the game—could only arise from the pinnacle of power. It was no longer a game of intellect for the wise. It had been transformed into a symbol of domination for royal authority.
The Imperial Guard was spreading dragon-embroidered mats and arranging seats for the court officials. On the opposite side, two elevated platforms were prepared for the two players—generals who did not lead troops on the battlefield but commanded human chess pieces in this arena.
Chiêu Hoàng shivered in the wind but kept her eyes fixed below. Her gaze flickered with curiosity and glistened with a mist of emotions she could not name. Pity? Doubt? Pride? Admiration?
She did not know. All she knew was that, amidst the vast capital, the wind whistling through the pagoda's bell tower, the clinking of iron chains dragging across the stone-paved courtyard, and the shuffling of slaves under the midday sun, she felt as though she were watching a cosmic chess game, uncertain whether she stood on the board or outside.
Three drumrolls resounded.
Chiêu Hoàng had no need to guess. She knew with certainty that her father, along with the civil and military officials, was about to appear to inspect the preparations for the grand national ceremony.
Emperor Lý Thánh Tông, the third king of the Lý dynasty, appeared on the grandstand in a resplendent golden dragon robe, woven from the finest silk and embroidered with soft, flowing Lý dragons weaving through clouds and waves, symbolizing divine mandate and wisdom. The imperial robe, styled with wide sleeves and draped to the ankles, was cinched at the waist with a red silk sash, exuding solemnity and regality. On his head, he wore the Bình Thiên crown, a meticulously crafted headdress with a round top symbolizing the heavens. Pearl-adorned veils hung from the front and back, forming a sacred barrier between mortals and the Son of God.
At his feet, he wore curved-toe shoes embroidered with gold thread, each step light yet commanding, as if the wind itself parted before him. His attire was a perfect blend of royal authority and the pervasive Buddhist spirit of the era, reflecting a powerful and benevolent Đại Việt court.
Beside him stood two prominent court officials, distinguished yet overshadowed by the emperor's golden radiance. From her vantage point, Chiêu Hoàng could see them leading the entourage of civil and military officials trailing behind. She did not need to look closely to know who they were.
One was the Grand Tutor and Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor Trần Thủ Độ, stepping forward in a warrior's garb. He exuded an aura of commanding valor. Clad in a deep red battle robe of thick brocade, tailored to his solid frame, his shoulders bore embroidered tiger emblems symbolizing strength and authority.
At his waist hung a golden talisman and a broad leather belt with a bronze clasp shaped like a mythical beast to ward off evil. His head was crowned with an iron helmet wrapped in a black turban, concealing the silver hair of a general who had fought a hundred battles. His calloused hand gripped a ceremonial sword forged from black steel, symbolizing justice and rightful punishment. Each step he took embodied discipline, strength, and unwavering loyalty to the nation's fate.
In contrast to Trần Thủ Độ's martial vigor, Grand Preceptor Lý Đạo Thành embodied elegance, caution, and sharp intellect. Dressed in a pale blue scholar's robe of soft brocade, embroidered with hidden dragons in clouds, he appeared like a wisp of pure mist in the court. His long, wide-sleeved robe, fastened with a jade pendant inscribed with calligraphy, reached his ankles.
On his head, he wore a black silk winged cap, its trailing ribbons symbolizing humility and integrity. In his hand, he held an ivory tablet. His calm yet piercing gaze seemed to see through the hearts of men. In him, one saw the archetype of a great civil minister, bearing the nation's fate through wisdom, virtue, and loyalty.
Behind them, the civil and military officials followed in two ranks. During ceremonies and court audiences in the Lý dynasty, civil and military officials stood according to East Asian tradition: "left civil, right military," from the emperor's perspective looking outward.
Civil officials stood to the emperor's left (the right from an outsider's view). And military officials stood to the emperor's right (the left from an outsider's view). This arrangement reflected the harmony between civil governance and military prowess, with civil officials representing morality, policy, and scholarship, and military officials embodying strength and national defense—a balance of intellect and power in the Lý dynasty's politics.
Another drumroll sounded.
Chiêu Hoàng sprang to her feet. From the bell tower of Báo Thiên Pagoda, she leaned nearly her entire body over the railing, straining to see what was about to unfold.