The City Falls

You awaken to chaos, the acrid smell of smoke invading your senses and the distant, chilling cries of a city in torment. The glow of flames dances on the ceiling of your chamber, casting flickering shadows that twist and writhe like specters. Jolted into action, you spring from the bed, dressing hastily as your mind races. The air is thick with the scent of burning wood and charred stone, and the distant roar of battle reverberates through the walls.

At the window, the horror unfolds. Fires rage uncontrollably across the city, painting the night in hues of orange and red. The once-proud spires of Ariavel are now silhouetted against a hellish backdrop, their beauty consumed by the inferno. The air is thick with screams and the metallic clash of steel—a battle raging through the streets. Your stomach churns as you spot shadowy figures locked in deadly combat beneath the fiery glow, their movements frantic and ****.

You burst out of your chambers into a scene of frenzied chaos. Guards rush back and forth, their faces etched with desperation as they drag furnishings to barricade the palace’s entrances. The once-grand halls are now a maze of overturned tables, shattered vases, and discarded weapons. The Queen stands at the center of it all, her emerald gown singed and her crown slightly askew, but her presence is as commanding as ever.

“Get the men and children to the men’s quarters! Barricade the doors!” she commands, her voice cutting through the din like a whip. Her words spur the guards into action, fists clapping against armored chests in acknowledgment.

“What has happened, Your Majesty?” you demand, forcing yourself to stand tall in the face of her fierce gaze.

For a moment, she regards you coldly, clearly **** to waste time explaining herself to a man. But then she speaks, her words clipped and sharp. “We have a saboteur. Several gates were destroyed under cover of night. Duchess Persephone’s forces arrived in the darkness and breached the city walls. They are inside.”

The implication strikes you like a physical blow. “Is the palace secure?”

“Not in the slightest,” the Queen says grimly. “It was never meant to withstand a siege. Go to the men’s quarters. We will do what we can to protect you.”

Before you can protest, a guard—one of Viola’s, you think—grabs your arm. “This way,” she says curtly, her grip ironclad.

You’re ushered through the labyrinthine halls, past frightened courtiers and servants clutching heirlooms and children. The air is thick with panic, the sound of sobbing mingling with the distant clash of swords. Finally, you reach a thick wooden door reinforced with heavy iron bars.

“We’ve got one more,” the guard calls. “I think he’s the last.”

The door creaks open just enough for you to be shoved through. It slams shut behind you, and two burly women immediately set to reinforcing it with planks and beams.

“Get with the others,” the larger of the two commands, her voice gruff but not unkind.

“I can fight,” you insist, your voice trembling slightly but resolute.

She gives you a long, appraising look. “Can you now?”

The smaller guard tosses you a short sword, its edge nicked and bloodied. “Prove it. Anything comes through that door, you cut it down.”

You nod, gripping the weapon tightly as you take position beside them. The weight of the blade feels foreign in your hand, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins sharpens your focus.

Hours crawl by in agonizing tension, every sound setting your nerves alight. The distant cacophony of battle draws closer—the screams of dying women and the guttural cries of bloodlust echo through the stone halls. The air grows heavier, the scent of smoke and blood permeating the room.

Then, like a hammer blow, the palace’s front gates collapse with a deafening crash. The screams of crushed defenders are drowned out by the furious roar of Persephone’s troops flooding inside.

“We’re fucked,” the larger guard mutters under her breath, though her grip on her broadsword doesn’t falter.

The battle outside the door rages for what feels like an eternity. The shrieks of dying guards mix with the guttural orders of invading soldiers. And then, silence—terrible, oppressive silence.

The muffled sound of voices beyond the barricade reaches you.

“We’ve secured the Queen and her youngest daughter,” a soldier reports, her voice muffled but triumphant.

“What of the Crown Princess?” a melodic yet chilling voice asks.

“No sign of her yet.”

“No matter,” the melodic voice continues. “She can be dealt with later. Bring the captives to the throne room. I want to thank Her Majesty for the lovely new accommodations personally.”

“And the men’s quarters?”

“Take them. Do not harm them. Those of worth will be held for ransom, the rest will be distributed amongst the troops.”

A resounding crash against the door snaps you to attention.

“Get ready,” the smaller guard whispers, her knuckles white on the hilt of her blade.

Another crash. The hinges groan under the strain.

The third blow shatters the door, sending splinters flying like shrapnel. The first figure through is a towering woman clad in blackened armor, her eyes cold and calculating.

“Lady Katarina,” you whisper under your breath, instantly recognizing Persephone’s Amazonian knight.

The larger guard charges with a bellow, her blade swinging for the intruder’s throat. The armored woman sidesteps effortlessly and, with a single swing of her massive axe, cleaves the guard’s head from her shoulders. Blood sprays in an arterial arc, painting the walls crimson as the body crumples to the floor.

The smaller guard screams in rage and lunges, but an arrow punches through her eye socket, silencing her mid-cry. She collapses, twitching, as more soldiers flood into the room behind the towering figure.

Adrenaline surges through you as you grip your sword and strike at the armored woman. The blade connects with her helm, the **** causing her to stagger back. A thin trickle of blood drips from beneath her helmet, but she barely seems fazed.

“Bold,” she growls, her voice surprisingly soft and feminine despite her immense size.

Before you can strike again, soldiers seize your arms, twisting them painfully behind your back and forcing you to your knees.

The armored woman removes her helmet, revealing a face streaked with blood and fury. She stalks toward you and, with a gauntleted hand, backhands you across the face. The blow explodes in white-hot pain, and the taste of blood fills your mouth as your vision blurs.

“Big mistake,” she snarls, wiping the trickle of blood from her ear as she looms over you like **** itself.