The sky above Eldrin burned crimson — a false dawn of fire and smoke. The royal banners that once shimmered gold in the morning light now lay torn and bloodied, trampled beneath the boots of traitors. The capital city, proud and ancient, groaned under the weight of betrayal.
Sir Cael Ardent stood at the gates of the inner keep, his sword slick with the blood of men he had once called brothers. The great bells of the cathedral tolled a desperate warning as the traitor duke's forces swarmed through the broken walls. Each toll was another heartbeat lost, another cry of the dying.
"Hold the gate!" Cael roared, his voice hoarse, his armor dented and blackened by flame. The soldiers beside him — half-trained guards, wounded knights, and even terrified servants — rallied for one last defense.
A storm of arrows rained down. Shields splintered. Men fell. Cael moved through the chaos like a storm given flesh, his sword cleaving through mail and bone. For every step he took backward, three enemies fell forward. But it was not enough.
A horn blared — deep and terrible — from beyond the burning courtyard. The enemy had breached the western walls. The keep was lost.
"Fall back to the throne room!" shouted Ser Garen, Cael's oldest friend. His face was pale, streaked with soot. "The King still lives!"
Cael's heart lurched. He turned, sprinting through corridors choked with smoke. Portraits of past kings stared down at him, their painted eyes condemning his failure. The great hall was chaos — courtiers weeping, guards clashing, and over it all the sound of steel striking steel.
At the dais stood King Aldric, crown dented, blood running down his cheek. He wielded his sword with desperate fury. "Cael! Protect Elara!" the king shouted, pointing toward the side chamber where his daughter stood — Princess Elara, pale and trembling, clutching a ceremonial dagger.
Cael obeyed without hesitation, cutting down a man who rushed for her. But even as he reached her side, a scream tore through the air. He turned — and saw the Duke of Ravengard himself, armored in black and crimson, his blade buried in the King's chest.
Aldric's sword clattered to the marble.
"No!" Elara screamed, her dagger falling uselessly from her hands.
The Duke wrenched his blade free and raised it high. "By my hand, the tyrant falls!" he roared, his soldiers echoing his cry. "Long live the new king!"
Cael charged. The Duke met his attack with a cruel smile. Their swords collided, sparks dancing like dying stars. Cael fought with every ounce of rage and sorrow left in him, but the hall was already overrun.
A heavy blow struck his shoulder, sending him to one knee. Around him, his comrades fell one by one. He looked up at the lifeless king — at the crown rolling across the blood-streaked floor — and something within him shattered.
He seized Elara's hand. "We have to go!"
Tears streaked her face, but she nodded.
As the gates of the throne room splintered and Ravengard's men poured in, Cael dragged the last heir of Eldrin into the shadows of the catacombs below — leaving behind a dying kingdom and a vow that would shape his fate forever.
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