The night was heavy and cold.
The moon hung low, veiled by drifting smoke and ash from the distant battlefield.
The clash of steel and the roar of cannon fire echoed far above the plains the Eclipian forces were keeping the enemy occupied. Beneath that chaos, deep under the trembling ground, Marcus Fox Smith led his men into the shadows.
Torches flickered dimly in the cramped tunnel, casting sharp, trembling silhouettes against the dirt walls. The air was thick with dust and sweat, and every strike of the shovel echoed like a heartbeat beneath the earth.
"Faster," Marcus ordered, his voice low but firm. "We dig until we reach their bones. We stop only when we're buried or when they are."
The sappers men skilled in the art of digging and sabotage labored relentlessly, supported by soldiers who placed wooden beams along the tunnel to prevent collapse. The earth groaned above them, shaking from distant explosions. Loose dirt rained down, and for a moment, one of the men hesitated.
"Keep going," Marcus said sharply, tightening his grip on his saber. "The dead won't wait for us."
Minutes stretched into hours. Sweat and soil mixed on their faces. The muffled thunder of battle above seemed to grow louder, closer until finally, one of the sappers struck something solid.
"Sir! A wall!"
Marcus knelt beside him, brushing away the dirt with his gloved hand. Beneath it lay the stone foundation of the Asterian fortress.
"Good," he said, standing tall. "Now break it."
With pickaxes and enchanted tools, the men chipped through the stone until a faint crack widened into a hole. The smell of cold iron and torch smoke seeped through.
"Ready your blades," Marcus whispered. "No mercy. No noise."
The wall gave way with a dull crash, and the first of his soldiers slipped through the opening, emerging in the fortress's underground storage hall. The shadows came alive with movement.
The first Asterian guards barely had time to shout. Steel flashed, throats opened, and blood painted the walls. One fell. Then another. Then seven more. None lived long enough to raise the alarm.
When the last body dropped, Marcus stepped into the hall, his boots leaving silent prints in crimson puddles.
"Forward," he ordered. "We take the heart."
The Eclipian soldiers advanced through the corridors, bursting out into the open yard of the fortress. The main gate massive, iron-bound, and heavily guarded stood before them.
"Fire!" shouted one of Marcus's magic users. Flames roared from their palms, engulfing the wooden supports. The gate groaned, cracked, and then collapsed under the combined force of fire and steel.
Outside, the rest of the Eclipian army charged forward, their battle cries tearing through the night.
The Asterian soldiers, caught between panic and confusion, began to fall back in disarray. Muskets cracked. Men screamed. Smoke and sparks filled the air as the fortress fell into chaos.
By dawn, the banners of Asteria had been torn down.
Marcus stood atop the fortress walls, the rising sun glinting off his saber. With one swift motion, he cut the Asterian flag from its pole and let it fall into the dirt below.
He raised the Eclipian standard in its place a black banner marked with a crimson sun.
Cheers erupted from the soldiers below.
The Battle of Feoapian He Gar was over.
Eclipia had won.
Marcus watched the flag flutter in the morning wind. His men were celebrating, but his eyes were distant. Beneath the triumph, something hollow stirred in him a quiet voice whispering from the ashes of the past.
"Victory," he murmured, "but never peace."
And in that blood soaked garden of conquest, the war's roots only grew deeper.
The fortress was silent now only the crackling of fires and the distant groans of the dying remained.
The Eclipian banner waved proudly above the battlements, crimson under the morning light. Marcus Fox Smith stood before the courtyard, surrounded by his soldiers. Victory had been won, but the air still felt heavy, suffocating.
"Bring the prisoners forward," Marcus ordered.
Five Asterian soldiers were dragged out from the ruins and forced to kneel before him. Their uniforms were torn, their faces smeared with soot and blood. The Eclipian guards stood ready, muskets at hand.
Marcus walked slowly toward them, his boots echoing across the stone. His gaze was sharp, cold, and unreadable.
"Who are these men?" he asked.
One of his officers saluted. "Sir, these five were captured near the fortress gate. The man in the middle he's the Lieutenant Officer under the Asterian Fifth General."
Marcus's expression darkened. "Is that true?"
The captured lieutenant remained silent, head bowed but eyes defiant.
Marcus frowned. "I asked you a question."
The Asterian officer finally raised his head, his mouth twisting into a cruel grin.
"You Eclipian dogs think you've won? You're nothing but a Puppet to your false king."
A ripple of tension moved through Marcus's men. One of them tightened his grip on the musket, but Marcus raised a hand, silencing him.
"I only need information," Marcus said, calm and controlled. "Tell me your army's next move, and I may let you live."
The lieutenant spat blood onto the ground, his eyes burning with hatred and speaks in Asterian language.
"Go to hell, King's Dog."
For a long, cold second, no one moved. Then Marcus slowly reached into his coat, drew his flintlock pistol, and leveled it at the prisoner's head.
A single gunshot echoed through the fortress courtyard.
The Asterian lieutenant fell backward, lifeless, his blood pooling beneath him.
Marcus turned to his soldiers, his voice low and unflinching.
"Execute the rest."
The remaining four prisoners cried out as muskets fired in a volley. Their bodies slumped into the mud beside their officer.
Marcus said nothing more. He turned his back and walked away, his cloak dragging lightly through the blood-soaked earth.
Outside the fortress, Marcus mounted his horse. The victory cheers of his men faded behind him as he rode toward the camp. But the road was long, and with every step of his steed, memories returned burning, uninvited.