“Your Imperial Majesty, our preparations are complete. Your men only await your word.”

The previously boisterous room grew quiet, heated debates turned to silent murmurs. The tension, once palpable, now felt like concrete. It clogged throats and froze limbs. No one could move, no one dared move. The room stilled. Yet, even in stillness, one thing would not be subdued. Despair. In fact, it was liberated. It danced, it pranced, it waltzed through the air completely unrestrained. Whether it found creased foreheads or drenched backs, all became its dance floor.

Their preparations were inadequate, lackluster at best. The enemy before them was without question the greatest force the continent had ever seen, the world even. Each day brought fresh horrors. Week after week, their scouts discovered new terrors in their ranks, new equipment they could not match, and new technologies they could not fathom. How they built such military power right under their noses, no one knew. They could not fret over the past, however, the future that awaited them was too grim.

Too long had they reigned unquestioned, the great bastion of hope for humanity. Their perceived might kept would-be conquerors at bay, maintaining the illusion that humans were still the supreme rulers. For decades, they hid behind the mirage of might and grew rich. Sat along both major sea and road trade routes, wealth flowed in from all directions. Enough to not only fund their façade but also begin making it a reality. Unfortunately, with wealth came luxury, and with luxury came complacency.

Years of decadence had rusted their blades, rounded their stomachs, and dulled their senses. A table surrounded by kings, dukes, and generals and there was not one warrior to be found. They had forgotten their roots, their heritage, and now time would do to them what it did to so many before. While their long, storied history would save them the disgrace of being mere footnotes in the legacy of an even greater Empire, that offered no solace. It would not save them from their upcoming demise. They were merely turkeys waiting to be slaughtered for their rich and flavourful meat. None could deny that to be true.

But one man had a plan. A scheme of sorts. Only he knew the true history of humanity’s rise and fall. With that knowledge, the truth behind this invasion was clear for him to see. He would not die here. He had much to accomplish, much to set in motion. Failure here was a setback, but one his forefathers had foreseen. They had made preparations for this outcome decades in advance. While the rest of the room swirled in fear and anxiety, he was calm.

“Then it is time.”

Emperor Andreas DiAltamont rose from his throne. Eighth emperor of the Altamont Empire, his bearing fit his title. He was a hulk of a man, towering over most of the room as he stood. Assurance seemed to ooze out of his pores as he gazed down at them. His emerald green eyes pierced through the despair, supplanting it with the tiniest glint of hope. His existence was one of the very few things that could provide any. Andreas, like his father before him and his father’s father, knew only victory. He donned the armor of the great Alexander DiAltamont, the first emperor. In the hundreds of battles it had seen, it had never known defeat. Its green and gold exterior now synonymous with supremacy. As he rose, they all turned towards him in reverence.

His voice, fierce and powerful, reassured them. “War is at our gates. You are the men and women who sit at the summit of the greatest empire to grace the planet. The time for dallying and debating has passed. Our strategy is set and our soldiers at the ready. It is now the time for action. I trust none of you will disappoint me. Come, Balas.”

Leaving his council with those stern remarks, he marched off to address his soldiers. As emperor, it was tradition to give a rousing speech before warfare began. The practice was somewhat old-fashioned. Armies were far too massive to congregate in one place. Most of his soldiers would only get to read it or hear a superior officer recount it. Nevertheless, it was a time-honored tradition. He would not forego it. Plus, all things considered, Andreas was a soldier himself. He wasn’t just speaking to a mass of walking armor. Those were his men. He had walked beside them, ate with them, laughed with them. The coming war would be bloody. The least he could do was address them.

His brother and retinue followed behind him as he strode through the castle’s halls. Besides the clinks of their armor and the weight of their steps, they moved silently. Neither joy nor gloom on their faces, they merely walked with purpose. With each passing staircase and each passing hallway, a member diverged from the group. Soon, there was only a single doorway separating Andreas from his destination. Beside him stood only his brother.

He chuckled, “You fret like a child.”

Balas frowned, “You’re reckless.”

“A plan, one hundred years in the making, is reckless to you?”

A flare of anger singed Balas’ frown, “You still take me for a fool. Even if yo—”

Andreas pivoted and gripped Balas’ shoulder, “You are no fool. But you are ignorant. There is much you don’t know, too much. Soon though..” He turned back to the door, “Soon you’ll learn everything. Trust me.”

They both walked through the doorway and onto the wall separating the castle at the center of the fort to the outer sections. Below them stood thousands of elite soldiers in perfect formation, not a single foot was out of place. Of course, Andreas expected no less. He had trained them personally. They even boasted a replica of his famous suit of armor. A bitter smile crept onto his face as he gazed down at them.

This must be done. I must do this.

Taking a deep breath, he began his speech, “Soldiers of the great Altamont empire, your response pleases me. Your dedication to protecting our people is no less than exemplary. We have not seen an army brazen enough to seek our land for decades, yet still you train hard and you train diligently. You are the finest soldiers this world knows, the most devastating of blades and the most impenetrable of shields.” This spurred a cheer from the thousands of men and women below him, “Today’s enemies, ignorant to your might, think us pitiful turtles hiding within our shells. They think our bones brittle and our blades dull. The fools!” Another cheer, “They pray a day comes where the bards no longer sing tales of our triumphs. A day where the artisans no longer edge our victories in stone. Where our walls are not lined with the finest of silks and the purest of gold. Where the great Altamont Empire no longer sits at the summit of Leberah. But that day will never come!” An even louder cheer, “Tomorrow our campaign begins. I know none of you fear it. For tomorrow, another line in our long history is written. Another tale of our triumphs is told. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we remind the world who we are. We are conquerors, we are kings! We are the greatest! We will not submit, we will not surrender. We, proud men of the Altamont Empire, know only victory. And tomorrow. We. Are. Victors!” The soldiers roared in response. The cheers were nigh deafening, shaking the very wall Andreas stood on. It was a magnificent moment and it should have filled him with pride, but all he felt was shame.

The Altamont Empire fought bravely, fiercely. What they lacked in technology, manpower, and equipment they made up for with ingenious tactics and sheer force of will. They drove off wave after wave of attacks, holding firm under the unrelenting pressure. Each victory brought not only confidence, but experience as well. The constant struggle of life and death birthed many gifted fighters and tacticians. Some showcasing brilliance humanity hadn’t seen in centuries. It was an unprecedented time of growth and advancement for mankind. A miniature arms race even formed. Although it was largely one side scrambling to catch up with the other, there were hopes they could eventually overtake their opposition. Those hopes were short-lived.

For as fast as they grew, their enemy was simply too far ahead. They could not weather the storm long enough to match them. After one city fell, so too did another. After one fort fell, another followed suit. One crack in the dam was all it took. Three long, gruesome years at standstill were rendered meaningless in mere months. They lost the war in a landslide defeat.

Yet. When the enemy marched on the capital, when they stormed the Imperial palace, Andreas was nowhere to be found. Only silent halls and vacant rooms greeted them. The emperor didn’t disappear empty-handed, though. He carried all of his family and belongings with him. He left only a barren palace, stripped of all but its walls. They searched his other properties; his estates, his manors, his villas. No land that had a connection to him escaped inspection. They found nothing, not a note, not a coin, not even a distant relative. As if whisked away by ghosts, they all vanished.