The world narrowed to the thundering of hooves, and the cacophony of steel and stone.

  Alric rode for the gates of Khal-Drathir which were still clogged with debris and men. The ram lodged like a broken tooth, while imperial soldiers poured through every breach in the city’s armour.

  The stench of sweat, death and burning smoke clawed at his nostrils, thick as fog.

  A stray arrow struck his right pauldron and clattered off. An annoyance, little more.

  He signaled with his hand.

  One of his men raised the warhorn and let loose a sound that shattered the dusk. A howl of brass and thunder slammed against the city walls like the gods had stirred in their graves.

  When the men saw their commander’s standard raised, they roared in answer; a primal surge of sound.

  The gate had been conquered, cleared enough to force a path.

  Rebels fled into the city’s narrow guts, rallying around towers and keeps, vanishing like rats into the bones of a burning house.

  Dismounting, Alric slapped his horse’s flank, sending the beast galloping back toward the Valekyrian camps.

  His men followed suit.

  There was no room for cavalry in the brutal slog that lay ahead.

  “With me!” he bellowed.

  With locked shields, and poised spears, his retinue formed a protective shell around him before stepping into the ruins.

  They moved and breathed as one, and into the maw they ventured.

  The city swallowed them as a jackal would its prey.

  It was a scene from a nightmare given form, a twisted fairy tale of blood and ruin.

  Corpses lay mangle: siege engines, fire, blades, maces, spears, such were the instruments for this opera.

  The streets ran thick with viscera and shattered bone, the air choking with the scent of decay.

  Alric spared the carnage no glance.

  “Regulus, east flank, keep clear of the watchtower. The siege line will take care of it. Sweep the sector. No survivors, meet me at the Bastion.”

  He continued, “Veracles, west route, same orders.”

  He turned. “I will take the main plaza.”

  They saluted, voices ringing. “For Valekyr!”

  Before the words had faded, they disappeared into the alleys and crumbled avenues, famelic war hounds in search of prey.

  With Alric at the heart of their formation, they surged forward, relentless and unyielding.

  Every step met with blood, each breath thick with sweat and labor.

  Every thrust found its mark; bodies crumpled, blood baptising the earth behind them.

  A man lunged from an alley wailing, sword raised above his head.

  A shield met his chin with a sickening crack. Bone snapped, teeth shattered.

  Before the rebel could even collapse, a spear thrust tore through the soft meat of his throat.

  He collapsed to the ground writhing, hands clawing at his neck, blood and spittle gurgling from his lips, but Alric had already moved on.

  Another emerged.

  Barely more than a boy. Grease-streaked face, cracked lips, weilding a sword too dull to matter.

  Alric saw the blade tremble. His grip tightened but gave no order.

  Silence did the work for him.

  The lad froze, shook, then raised his weapon with uncertain resolve.

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  A Stormguard drove his shield against his chest, flinging him to the ash-covered ground.

  He landed hard and gasped, scrambling for breath that wouldn’t come. Something inside him had snapped.

  So he tossed the sword and begged.

  He was met by a thrust between his ribs, shattering lung and heart asunder.

  His death came before his last breath.

  His body was forgotten the moment it struck the ground.

  Alric said nothing. Mercy was a currency Khal-Drathir no longer dealt in.

  The city had made its choice. So had he.

  The formation continued forward unceasing.

  No arrow could pierce the shield wall.

  No sword could pry it open.

  No spear could find a seam.

  Every mistake met swift punishment; any act of valour, a cruel rebuttal.

  Flank by flank, alley by alley, home by hollowed home. Each rebel fell, and every step taken became proof of imperial hegemony.

  Yet the deeper Alric pressed into the city, the less he saw of it.

  His eyes remained open, but his mind traced only memory.

  The same curled bodies.

  The same blackened archways.

  The same walls smeared in ash.

  Another city ground to soot under imperial resolve.

  Another oath trampled underfoot.

  He had walked these streets before not by stone, but in shape.

  Caladras. Veleroth. Liliare.

  Each time, he had sworn it would be the last.

  The next he’d do it quicker, cleaner, more humanly, more... justly.

  But the fires burned the same.

  The children bled the same.

  The women scorched the same.

  The men broke the same.

  The wails… always the same.

  Was this the price of peace? Or merely proof of power?

  None knew, not even the court.

  The wind shifted and the smoke thinned.

  No longer did he see through the lens of memory, but through the grit of now.

  Out of recollection, and into ruin and fire.

  The Lord’s Bastion of Khal-Drathir loomed ahead, shrouded in a dark haze.

  Proud as it was, built in stone, oak and gilded glass, it bore the scars of trebuchet fire.

  Its stained-glass eyes shattered, seared arrow slits, and bowing towers recounted the story of a malevolent assault.

  Still it stood.

  With a final push, his cohort broke through the last street barricade and entered the principal square.

  Desolation met them like an old friend.

  Stone rubble strewn across the slick earth.

  Firebrands drifted in the wind like dying stars.

  The ground beneath their boots was charred black with pitch and fat.

  The very air reeked of sulphur and loss.

  Across the square, a final knot of rebels clung to the steps of the scarred Bastion.

  Ragged and near broken, they still fought with the desperation of those who had long given up hope of living.

  They aimed not to survive, but to hurt. To bleed the Empire before being bled dry.

  Alric observed them from the ruined square long enough to register a movement from the edge of his vision.

  To his right, a single boulder arced through the ash-laced air like divine retribution.

  It struck the parapet of the eastern watchtower, sending chunks of stone plummeting to the ground.

  It split apart with a sound like the world breaking its back.

  Dust bloomed in every direction, painting the ground grey.

  Shards fell from the sky like man-made meteors.

  He did not know how many more it would take to bring it to the ground, only that he had no intention of waiting for it to happen.

  “My Lord, the gate will hold. It’s too reinforced.” Klethiar said, stepping to his side, voice sharpened by smoke. “We’ll have to wait for the engines to reach us.”

  “No.” Alric replied. His gaze searched the Bastion’s shape until it found a wound.

  A rupture in the western wall, torn by a previous strike. Not large enough for an entire host, but wide enough for a small group to infiltrate.

  “Klethiar” he ordered, already shifting his stance, “I’ll take fifteen men through the breach. Position the rest.

  Archers on what vantage points remain. Crossbowmen behind the barricades.

  The rest, blades and spears to cut down any who flee or attempt to reinforce.

  Also, help those poor bastards die at the far side of the square. Pull a few from that detachment and wait for Regulus and Veracles to rejoin us.”

  Klethiar gave a sharp salute, fist thumping against his chest, “For Valekyr’s Peace, my Lord.”

  Peace? The word coiled bitterly in Alric’s mind.

  We won’t have peace until we’ve all died of war.

  He cast the thought aside. “To the Bastion, Move!”

  They advanced like a wedge through the open square.

  Smoke clung to their armour like rotted silk, ash swirled between their legs.

  The wounded rebels saw them coming, but did not flee.

  Instead, they struck.

  From a haze-choked alley to Alric’s left, four rebels charged burst forth. Crazed, hollering obscenities, brandishing spears and swords.

  An arrow from the rear line struck the spear-wielder in the eye before he could take another step.

  The other three had already committed.

  They threw themselves into the Stormguard’s shield wall, smashing and stabbing, seeking any way to hurt them.

  The few seconds they bought, were paid with their lives.

  The line held: blades pierced flesh, the rebels fell.

  Nearing the entrance, the Bastion’s western breach came into full view.

  The enemy had attempted to cover it with makeshift barricades. Stacked furniture, overturned tables, broken doors, anything to stal for time.

  A child’s effort against the storm.

  Alric raised his fist. “Stormguard, halt!”

  The formation stopped in unison. Silence fell over them like a velvet cloth.

  Only the distant battle still raged behind him, echoing across stone and flame.

  He eyed the keep.

  Too easy. Too quiet.

  Where was the final push? The fanatical resistance? The final blaze of glory?

  Something is wrong. I can feel it.

  He gave a small gesture. “Two forward. Scout. Three minutes. Return.”

  The men exchanged a glance, then stepped toward the barricade.

  And then, the air cracked.

  A ceramic pot shattered against the barricade, igniting it at once.

  The blockade became a funeral pyre.

  “Just a distraction” Alric said, his voice steady. “Press forward.”

  With no hesitation, the Stormguard raised their shields and surged ahead into the heat, the smoke, and the fire.

  The barricade crumbled beneath their weight, flames breaking apart under boots and iron.

  Ash billowed, cinders danced. And with one final heave, they pushed through, into the burning throat of the Bastion.