As night draped its cloak over the city, the guards atop the walls moved across the walls, their footsteps echoing softly on the stony ground as they went on their usual and most uneventful patrol.
Each one held a torch aloft, its flickering flame allowing them to see some meters ahead. With keen eyes, they scanned the darkness beyond, sweeping their torches forward and down in search of any sign of movement or intrusion.
They found none.
The moon, offered little assistance to the vigilant patrols below.Its pale light struggled to penetrate the thick veil of night and clouds, leaving vast stretches of the city's perimeter shrouded to common eye.
However, in the cloak of darkness, hundreds of men stood poised and waiting.
No torches illuminated their presence, for stealth was their ally in this operation. With eyes narrowed against the gloom, they maintained close proximity to their comrades, shoulder to shoulder, ensuring that their formation remained intact in the shadowy expanse untouched by any light.
These were no ordinary foot soldiers; they were the elite infantry of the prince of Oizen , distinguished clearly by their equipment.
Clad in the finest chainmail, breastplates, and helmets, they were the vanguard of the prince's forces, entrusted with holding the hardest of positions during battles.
Reserved for pivotal moments, they were accustomed to being held in reserve until their expertise was required to turn the tide.
Their numbers were cherished by the prince, who recognized their irreplaceable value and took care not to squander their lives needlessly.Each soldier always trained in times of peace, and many of them were even literate.
Now, as the city lay besieged by their forces, their skills were indispensable in reclaiming what rightfully belonged to their liege.
Which in this case was the same city they were looking to get in.
A short distance away from the core forces, the officers stood clustered in a tight circle, their eyes fixed on the lone figure before them, Shamla, nephew of the Prince of Oizen and also their direct commander.
He was the son of a hero, his father having perished on the battlefield saving the prince's life. Since then, Shamla had lived under the ruler's favor, treated not merely as kin, but as a son.
Despite the cold confidence etched on his features, Shamla's heart drummed a different tone.He found himself surprised at the tension tingling on his palms.
Would their hidden agent succeed in his mission? Or would their entire plan unravel before it ever began? He kept his eyes locked on the gate, trying, and failing, to not let doubt creep in.
Then, suddenly, a flicker broke the darkness. Torchlight danced atop the city walls, four flashes, back and forth, the signal.
A tight breath escaped his chest as the gate began to groan open, slowly, but clearly. Happiness and cautious hope surged in equal measure.
"Men, forward!" Shamla commanded, spurring his horse into motion. "Take the city for your prince!"
His voice rang clear, brimming with conviction, and the vanguard surged to life. Three hundred soldiers marched forward under the banner of their ruler. Shields raised, lances at the ready, they advanced in perfect formation, disciplined, silent and above all fast, who knew for how long that gate would stay open?
Behind them, the levied peasants watched with bated breath. Their grip tightened on spears and axes, ready to follow should the vanguard secure a path.
The gate yawned open wider, and the vanguard slipped into the city like a blade through flesh. They met no resistance, only shadows and the eerie stillness of empty streets. The very guards who had opened the gate handed it over without a word.
Shamla passed through the gate alongside his men, surprised by the lack of resistance.
Something felt off. The silence was wrong, too clear? Surely their entry had caused noise: echoing footsteps, clanking armor. But no alarm rose. No challenge came. The only light came from their own torches.
His gaze swept the dark alleys, eyes narrowed. Where are they?
He turned to look back through the gate. More of his soldiers were pouring in, their armor catching the dim flickers of firelight, nothing that normally would spell something that wasn't elation at a plan gone well. But something else caught his attention.
The torches atop the gate had gone out.
A chill crept down his spine.
Where is the captain? Fahil? he thought his name was, as he scanned the ramparts. Why hasn't he shown himself?
Did he stay behind? Did he want to make sure to stay as far away as possible in case things turned south as to proclaim ignorance?
He lifted his gaze toward the battlements, hoping to spot the men they had seen earlier atop the gate, perhaps even the captain among them. But the darkness was near impenetrable. Shadows clung to every surface, and Shamla could make out little beyond the faint outlines of figures just a few meters away. No torches were lit. He couldn't even be sure they were still there.
But it didn't matter anymore. The gate was open, and they were inside. Doubt had no place now. He had orders to give anda city to take.
"Sir, the gate is secured! Permission to advance and seize the walls?" an officer asked, his posture straight, eyes gleaming with anticipation. There was no hesitation in the man's face, only the expectation of direction. The army couldn't wait for uncertainty.
They looked to him urgency in their eyes, as they sure as hell could not waste the opportunity that was given them.
Shamla straightened in the saddle and replied without pause.
"Send word to the rest of the host outside, tell them to enter the city at once. Then take your men and sweep the walls. Eliminate any resistance you encounter. I want the city in our hands before dawn. No looting until orders are given. Am I clear?"
"Crystal, my lord!" the officer barked with a salute, before turning to his unit. "Men, with me!We take the city in the name of the Prince"
With a force of one hundred, the detachment advanced forward, hugging the base of the inner wall. At each watchtower, they stormed up the stairs, steel clashing briefly before silence returned. The sentries were either killed or fled in disarray, and the advancing soldiers pushed on, meeting no meaningful resistance along the way.
Their confidence grew with each bloodless step.
Boots rang against cobblestones, echoing through the deserted streets. Moonlight now glinted faintly off armor and spearheads. Soldiers began to murmur among themselves, their voices low but cocky, laced with premature triumph.
"Easy doesn't even begin to describe this," one of them said, a grin tugging at his lips.
"We're not even fighting, we're strolling into someone else's home and taking the keys," another laughed, nudging his companion. "Just wait till we see the riches waiting inside."
The promise of plunder danced in their minds. Victory felt inevitable. Death didn't even cross their thoughts.
But among them, one soldier, maybe more curious, maybe more cautious, turned his head as he exited a captured tower, glancing down a narrow side street that cut deep into the city's dark heart.
Perhaps it was the gods' bitter humor. Perhaps chance.
A single shaft of moonlight had pierced the gloom, falling just right, just once, on the steel of a sword. And then another. And another.
There, cloaked in black and unmoving, stood rows upon rows of figures. Their blades caught the light like a warning. Their eyes burned beneath shadowed helms. Silent. Still. Ready.
The soldier's breath caught. The street ahead was not empty.
It was waiting.
The mirage of easy victory shattered in that instant. This city was not their prize.
It was their tomb.