The first light of dawn crept across the rooftops of Ashenfall, spilling gold across the once-proud banners that now hung torn and bloodstained. Smoke curled lazily from the burning northern district, and the distant clang of steel echoed through the streets.
On the ramparts, Alaric stood among his men, the morning wind tugging at his dark cloak. His gaze swept across the city below — a maze of chaos and fire, where soldiers scrambled to form lines against an enemy already among them. His expression was unreadable, carved from the same iron as his will.
Behind him, Talia approached, wiping crimson from her blade. "The northern wall is ours. The defenders were crushed within an hour. They didn't expect us to move so quickly."
Alaric nodded. "Good. Have the engineers fortify the gate. I don't want any surprises from their reinforcements."
She hesitated. "You mean to hold the wall?"
"For now." His voice was calm but edged with calculation. "If we press deeper too soon, we'll overextend. Let them gather. The more they come to reclaim this wall, the more we can break."
---
Far below, the city reeled.
Ashenfall's army — once disciplined, now fractured — struggled to contain the chaos. The governor's orders clashed with the commands of generals too proud to listen. Street after street fell under Alaric's control, not through sheer numbers, but precision — squads of elite soldiers sweeping through alleys and plazas like a surgeon's blade.
By midmorning, entire districts had been cut off.
The people hid behind shuttered doors, praying to gods that had long since abandoned them. Every sound — a boot scrape, a creak of metal — sent shivers down spines.
Whispers spread: "He moves like a shadow… his soldiers don't speak… they just kill."
---
Inside the shattered hall of the governor's palace, Ren Voss stood over a war table, maps sprawled before him. His hands trembled as he traced the red-marked lines — positions that had existed only hours ago but now meant nothing.
"How many men do we have left?" he demanded.
A weary officer saluted. "Two thousand still fit for battle, my lord. The rest are scattered or dead. The civilians clog the streets — we can't maneuver properly."
Ren's jaw tightened. "Then clear them out."
The officer paled. "You mean—?"
"I mean move them!" Ren snapped. "If we must drown this city in blood to keep it ours, then so be it!"
---
At the northern gate, Alaric's commanders gathered around him — Talia, Ryn Tal, Hagen, and a handful of others who had survived more battles than they could count.
Ryn Tal unrolled a crude map. "The palace district sits on elevated ground. Three main routes lead there — the western boulevard, the river path, and the merchant ward. They'll fortify all three."
Alaric studied the sketch in silence. Then his finger traced a fourth path — a series of old aqueduct tunnels running beneath the city. "This route here… it leads straight into the lower palace."
Hagen frowned. "You plan to send men underground? That's a rat's crawl, Commander. Tight spaces, no visibility."
Alaric looked up. "That's why I will go."
The group went silent.
Talia's eyes narrowed. "That's suicide. You'll be cornered."
"Only if they find me."
He turned, fastening his cloak once more. "You'll lead the assault from the western boulevard. Draw their attention. When they focus on you, I'll strike from below and cut off the head."
Hagen grunted, clearly disapproving but unwilling to argue. "You always did enjoy walking into the lion's den."
Alaric's lips twitched — not quite a smile. "Only when I know I'll come out with the lion's head."
---
As dusk approached, the battle resumed with renewed fury.
From the western gates, Talia led the charge — her spear flashing in the firelight, her voice carrying above the chaos. Her troops smashed into Ashenfall's defenders with relentless precision, driving them back street by street.
Meanwhile, beneath the city, Alaric and a small strike team moved through the ancient tunnels. The air was thick with dust and the stench of stagnant water. Their torches burned low, casting long shadows across the walls carved with forgotten runes.
"Commander," whispered Ryn Tal, his tone low. "We're nearing the old reservoir. The passage splits from there — one leads toward the lower palace, the other to the temple district."
"Palace," Alaric said. "We'll deal with their gods later."
The faint rumble of battle above shook loose bits of dirt and stone. Somewhere distant, the roar of collapsing masonry echoed like thunder.
They reached a rusted gate — half-submerged, the metal warped with age. Alaric stepped forward, placing a hand on it. With a quiet hum, his qi surged through his arm — heat and pressure swirling as molten energy melted the lock away.
The gate swung open with a groan.
"Stay sharp," he murmured.
---
The tunnel opened into a vast underground chamber — the base of the old palace aqueduct. Pillars rose from murky water, and faint light filtered through cracks above.
And there, waiting in the shadows, was a figure.
An old man in ceremonial armor, his face lined and weary, yet his posture regal. A silver insignia gleamed at his chest — the mark of the First Guardian of Ashenfall.
"You shouldn't have come here," the man said, his voice echoing through the chamber. "You bring ruin to what little peace remains."
Alaric stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "Peace built on oppression is not peace."
The Guardian sighed. "Then I am sorry."
The air shimmered — and suddenly, the chamber was alive with movement.
Blades of wind howled through the darkness as spectral soldiers materialized around the Guardian, eyes glowing blue with magic.
Ryn Tal swore under his breath. "Illusions… no — constructs!"
Alaric's eyes hardened. "Then we destroy them."
He drew his weapon, the steel catching the dim light like a flicker of lightning.
"Form up!"
The chamber erupted in chaos — steel meeting phantom, fire and shadow colliding in bursts of raw power. The water churned crimson underfoot as Alaric's team fought to hold formation.
The Guardian's voice rose above the din — solemn, unyielding. "For Ashenfall!"
Alaric's response was cold and final.
"For conquest."
He vanished in a blur of motion, flames igniting around his blade as he charged straight for the Guardian.
---
The battle below would decide the fate of Ashenfall's palace before sunrise —
and above, the city trembled, its people waking to the sound of drums that promised only one thing:
The storm had reached its heart.