“When the Myndiri finally subdued the Dark Tide, their attention turned to the insubordinate humans who dared to defy their will. At first they were content to let humanity live in its own little bubble. But it is speculated that an artifact of such great power was acquired by mankind that the Myndiri responded in force. Such was the devastation that even to this day, many question the existence of the first kingdom, with even their name lost to time, forever to be known as simply the first kingdom of mankind. Whilst many still debate its importance, I would suggest that perhaps we should focus on just what exactly the artifact was that provoked such a reaction from the Myndir.”

- Historian and Anthropologist Berian Flynn, Arterian Academy of Archeological Studies, Lecture: “On the Artifacts of the Myndiri Arneath”

A barrage of spells rained down on the city, vaporizing the very stones that held the buildings together. People screamed as their last moments were spent in agony before the magical wave reduced them to nothing more than ashes. Crowds fleeing towards the palace slowed their advance to a crawl, like wading through a sea of molasses. The cohort raised their shields once more, the magic crashing over them with the force of a thousand men. Yet, despite some faltering, the men held the line, a brief sense of relief washing over them.

“Custodian, inform Warden Forta that our line can hold for a bit longer. But the enemy is closing in.” The officier barked.

“Understood Centurion!” The praetorian replied.

Centurion Kermenadies gestured for the rest of the cohort to stand ready, the gaps between fleeing civilians growing more sporadic. A clear sign that those left behind were already with the Gods. With a small prayer, he flicked his visor down, a sign that had the troops readying their shields once more. He was a primus centurion of the eighteenth, a leader of one of their first cohort centuries. But with their leader missing and most of the men scattered, he had rallied most of the first cohort behind him, the men exhausted but still ready to jump into battle once more.

His men wore dull enchanted steel armour, their dark grey warpaint reflecting the stoic loyalty that a soldier must have in service to the throne. Their helmets were all flared and fitted around their heads, a small ward inscribed onto all of them to keep what stray magics there might be at bay. His own at least had a visor, and more often than not he liked keeping it down. Not because he enjoyed looking more menacing or commanding, but merely he could pretend the thin strips of metal would protect him just that much more. Each man held an almost full body round shield and an enchanted gerrian pike, the halberd-like weapon capable of piercing even the toughest of armour, or so it was said. They then also had an additional karthyan curved short sword strapped to their belts, made formerly en masse with adamantium but now, they were nothing more than steel swords emulating a legend.

He listened to their staggered breaths, the men well trained but still nervous against a foe that had so far beaten them at every turn. But they were here now, at the capital and between death or desertion, the cohort here vowed to stand until the very end.

“Steady men! If they break through here then the palace will surely fall! We must not fail now! Even while the city bleeds, our king, his royal majesty has been all the necessary preparations to unleash doom on our enemies. Just a little longer men! For the Eighteenth Legion! Proud guardians of the Aetosi Aquila! May this be our last stand!” He shouted.

“For the Aetosi!” The men chanted with him.

Together they fell into a phalanx, their pikes leveled down the street. Glorious stonework and marble buildings once marking the pinnacle of their civilization crumbled into nothing, the rubble littering the street as if it were but common trash. Crowds thinned out as those capable retreated behind their lines, the unmistakable rumbling of wraith like elven boots clattering in the streets nearby.

Kermenadies scowled and grit his teeth, his hand gripping onto his pike with a death grip. The 18th legion was supposedly the king’s personal guard and capital guard, through recent years had seen the Praetorians replaced by a newly raised legion. Their scope then slowly shifted to the protection of key sites across the empire and, for some of the less than scrupulous missions that needed to be undertaken. Yet they were also prideful, for the man who formed their legion had been one of the few outlanders openly supporting their cause. Hence he bestowed upon them the name of Praetorians, the chosen guardians of Aetosi throne. And with other sites in the kingdom in ruin, and their city in chaos, there was nothing left for them to do but to stand and fight.

With a howl and a shout, the first invaders finally came into few, a barrage of spells immediately smashing into the front lines. One man staggered and was immediately boiled alive from the foul sorcery, another found neat little holes cutting through his chest and fell alongside his brothers behind him. Yet, the line held, the troops filling the gap as their foes drew close.

Bracing for impact the men hardened their stances, brother supporting brother as their foes finally pounced. Under the barrage of spells the elves leapt into the fray, their very bodies like a swift breeze that brought death with every movement. But the men were resolute, determined to fight to the bitter end. Even as soldiers dropped, the rest held on, raising their spears and thrusting back at the invaders. With the enchantments active, more than a few of the elves found themselves boxed in before being jabbed to death by dozens of spears, their death rattle spurring the men onwards. Buoyed by their success the men hurled their jeers at the invaders, earning themselves heavier bombardments as a result. But the line held.

“Centurion! There’s a situation at the palace! They-ugh!” A voice began before a horrible squelching noise gurgled out from their throat.

One of the kynigos scouts had run in from behind the lines, the town guardsmen having rounded the corner to inform him of something when arrows rained down on them. The brave scout died quickly but his words brought a sense of foreboding that was shared between his officers and himself.

“The palace…” Kermenadies growled when he felt one of his officers bump his shoulder plate.

Rounding on the man, the centurion found his third in command looking at him with a grim look.

“Speak, Tesseiarch.” Kermenadies ordered, his eyes locking back onto the oncoming elvish magic.

“My squadrons can hold here, centurion.” Tesseiarch Theocracius stated matter of factly, his breath steady and calm, “We are ready to die for the Aetosi, and if this is where our sacrifice is to be for you to aid the king, then so be it.”

Kermenadies stilled for a moment, his hand gripping around the pike even tighter as he considered the words. To sacrifice one’s men so casually felt disagreeable, but if the kynigos’s words were true and something happened at the palace, then they needed to move. Gritting his teeth he nodded, tapping his pike onto his shield in acknowledgement.

“Hold here, and with luck Warden Forta will send some relief, Theo.” Kermenadies growled.

“We both know that won’t happen.” Theocracius snorted.

The centurion grunted before gesturing for his signaller to blow his trumpet. The man pulled back and blew loudly to signal for new orders, the cohort holding steady as they waited.

“Legionaries! The palace calls for aid but we cannot abandon the town. Tesseiarch Theocracius, shall take command here! Take your century and what remains of Astora’s troops and stand your ground here. The High Gates must not fall! The rest of you, rally around Optio Lyran and myself, we pull back to the palace grounds!” Kermanadies bellowed his orders.

A short series of rapid shield taps signalled the confirmation, and brothers exchanged their silent farewells as the three hundred odd men followed the two officers away. The remaining hundred or so men steeled their hearts, death ever more certain as their brothers marched away.

The elves cackled in the distance as they marched away, the jeers infuriating the centurion but there was nothing to be done.

They arrived at the capitol square to find a scene of carnage. Bodies littered the streets and more than one other cohort had tried and failed to make a stand here. Wading through the corpses they pushed towards the palace, meeting a few stragglers or civilians here and there who joined their advance. It was only once they reached the perimeter did they find the scene of an active battlefield. The last remnants of the Praetorians and the royal detachment held defensive positions around the glorious white marble building. The palace itself was scorched in places by mage fire and whatever wards protected it glowed a sickly yellow as more magic was hurled at it.

It was evident the crowd that escaped from earlier had only marched headfirst into their deaths, the mountains of corpses that covered the streets leading to the square saying more than enough. Kermenadies shared a look with Lyran, his second in command nodding. With a roar, the cohort charged against the backs of the invaders, the surprise charge taking the elves by surprise. In the vicious melee they struck down countless of the invaders even as more men fell in battle, reducing their numbers even further. Their heavy assault however, forced the invaders to back off for now and earned a hearty cheer from the surviving defenders.

“Centurion Kermenadies! A welcome surprise!” One of the other centurions yelled as they beckoned the cohort forward.

“Centurion Nyaxes, it is good to see you alive. Who commands the royal guard?”

With a heavy sigh his counterpart in the nineteenth looked towards the barricades before meeting his gaze with a grim expression. “For now? Just me. Warden Forta fell during an earlier assault, Primus Maxus sortied out towards the outskirts and hasn’t returned, I-I fear the worst. Your, Legate Gaillian, was here but entered the palace to meet the king and hasn’t reported back since.” Nyaxes grunted.

Kermenadies gave a nod and gestured for his men to take up defensive positions, offering some small relief to the beleaguered defenders.

“Lyran…” Kermenadies turned to his second and the man nodded before he even finished.

“Lads, form up with Centurion Nyaxes, show them the skills of the eighteenth aye?” Lyran ordered.

“For the king!” The troops acknowledged and Lyran’s century fell into line around the other cohort.

Before Lyran could move to join the men Kermenadies held onto his shoulder, a small shake of his head.

“Sir?” Lyran asked.

“You're coming with me to the palace, something feels…off.” Kermenadies scowled.

“Yes sir.” Lyran obeyed unquestioningly.

“Nyaxes, take some of my men and hold here. We’ll check for the king and the tribunus for you.”

“Don’t worry Kerm, we’ll hold.” Nyaxes reassured him.

Sharing a brotherly clasping of arms, the two centurions parted and Kermenadies headed towards the palace just as another wave of invaders began bombarding the defensives. As the defenders responded with a volley of their own the elves began pouring through the streets and he had to hold back his desire to jump into the fray. With a small tap from Lyran, he restrained himself and the two led their remaining century into the palace. Blessed be by those that die with glory.

When the doors swung open Kermenadies did not know what they would find, but his expression mirrored that of the other soldiers at the bloodstained walls of the palace. Horror and anger welled up within each one of them. For the invaders to so desecrate the sanctuary of the Gods, how dare, for them to potentially harm the king of the people, even worse. Yet, when he looked at Lyran the man shared a similar thought. How? How did they get past the guards outside?

“Spread out, squads of ten and shout if you see anything. Rally up back at this hallway if something goes wrong.”

“Yes, Centurion!” The men replied

“Lyran, with me.”

“Yes, Centurion!” Lyran agreed.

The century split up and began advancing down their corridors, the different groups navigating the labyrinthine hallways of the palace. Following the trail of bloodshed, Kermanadies led himself and Lyran towards what he recalled being part of the castle courtyard adjacent to the dining room. Propping open the hallway they found a massacre had occurred. Servants, staff and guards lay piled up in a heap, like some poor attempt at cleaning up the scene of a crime.

“I don’t like the look of this.” One of the legionaries murmured.

“Neither do I. Keep your head straight.” Lyran grumbled.

The team checked the bodies and their surroundings, most died with stab wounds but curiously, a few seemed to even have their royal blades still holstered. Like they were taken by sheer surprise.

“Adopt skirmishing formation. Lyran, and you four, with me. Ready to throw and draw swords. The rest of you, pikes at the ready and watch our backs.” Kemenadies hissed.

“Yes, Centurion.” The men tapped their shields.

Most of the windows within were frozen over, covered by a thick layer of protective ice that protected them from shattering from outside sources. Smart, but also decreases visibility, something I wish we had more of.

Pelarchus Osgil had taken point and now raised a hand to halt the party. The original commanding officer of this century, the easterner had enlisted alongside a few others, rising quickly through the ranks to squad leader. Though his distinctly tawnier shade of skin marked him out from the others, in battle, he was a berserking force second to none and Kemenadies respected that. His sudden halt brought everyone to a standstill as the Pelarchus put his hand to cup his ear. The men froze in their tracks, straining their ears to pick up what little sounds and could hear something of a cry and muffled words coming from just beyond them in the first courtyard.

Wordlessly, Kermenadies gestured for Osgil and the rear five to advance down the hall to a secondary doorway. Lyran and the other four crowded around the door Kermenadies leaned against and watching his hand signals, the legionaries drew out their short-swords in preparation for close combat. Opening and closing his hand into a fist, he signalled for a hard breach, for an explosive entry to stun the enemy.

A shrill tearful cry that snuck under the courtyard doors was all they needed. Two men rammed the doors on either side, the remaining three bursting through with weapons raised, charging forward with a battlecry in their throats. Two elves were the first targets they fell upon, the invaders too surprised to react before they were cut down. Rapidly scanning the situation, they found the courtyard stage, a place where once the aristocrats and nobles would host plays, turned into an execution stage. Nay, a torture stage surrounded by a dozen odd legionaries in dark green.

Laying headless under the stage was someone dressed in the uniform of first prince Orion, a small basket nearby likely containing his head. A few of the praetorian kingsguard also lay scattered, their bodies desecrated by hundreds of wounds. Kermenadies felt his heart stop as his eyes traveled upwards. The naked and writhing form of first princess Pyra lay curled up, a multitude of lacerations all across her bloodied and flayed skin. Beyond her, locked in a pillory was second princess Luna, her clothing torn and the legate standing behind her with his armoured skirt on the floor of the podium. Horror and fury in equal measure filled the centurion, with barely a moment of pause he pulled out his pike and launched the half meter long weapon directly at his legate.

“Traitor!” Kermenadies yelled with rage as the pike speared the legate with such force the man was blown off the stage with the weapon still in him.

“Save the princesses!” Lyran yelled after, himself leading the men forward in an onslaught of violence as they cut down the traitorous legionaries.

Kermenadies boiled with fury, rushing past the occupied legionaries to reach the legate. One of the aristocratic tribune’s stood in front of him and the commander, the man waving a decorated spear at him, the sign of wealth.

“Enough! Centurion, the war is over. Our people will only survive if -”

Without letting him finish, Kermenadies launched himself at the man, battering away his spear before viciously tearing into the noble with his sword. Though it was but steel, it did its work and the noble gurgled his last, leaving only the weakened legate to pitifully plead for mercy.

“We cannot win, Kermenadies. They will and can destroy us, only if we cooperate can we-ugh.” Gaillian choked as Kermenadies pushed the pike down further.

“You told us that if we die, we die united. Traitorous swine. Murdering the royal family and defiling the princesses. I sentence you to death.” He growled.

“W-wait, I can explain-”

Wasting no time, Kermenadies decapitated him with a swift strike from his sword. Turning around he found his troops executing the remaining traitors. Once cleared they rushed to free the crying princess from her torment, Lyran and himself quickly removing their cloaks to clothe the princess however they could. The princess was inconsolable, her sobs rending the very emotions in his heart and the soldier’s. To their dismay, when they examined the first princess, it was already too late.

“Centurion, orders?” Lyran queried solemnly.

Kermenadies searched around for survivors but found none. Reluctantly he gave them their new orders, “We evacuate the capitol, survival of the royal family is paramount. And…and…I do not think we’ll find much else.” He said with a heavy sigh.

“Understood, Centurion.”

“Osgil, go alert the rest of the century, have them rally at the entrance to the eastern sewer. We need to go before the barricades fall completely. We have been betrayed.”

“Your will is my command, centurion.” Osgil saluted and rushed away.

The palace had been gutted from the inside out. Survivors were few and far between. Aside from a few critically wounded Praetorian’s who warned them of the legate’s betrayal, they found no one else alive. Instinctively the soldiers formed a defensive square around the princess, moving her along all the while aware that her distressed sobs would draw attention. Yet to their relief no one came for them, despite the sounds of battle still echoing from elsewhere in the castle.

Lost in his mind, Kermenadies only prayed that the king and queen were fine. Alongside that they had also kept an eye out for the second prince and third princess, the latter being naught but a child. I only pray they died in their sleep rather than to witness this carnage. But, to their increasing misfortune, neither had been discovered and when Osgil returned with only a handful of surviving legionaries, he knew the chances of survival for the rest of the royal family was minuscule at best even if they assumed the nineteenth had not joined the traitors.

After the death of the previous queen he knew there were tensions within the kingdom. When the king wed a Myndiri, the uproar that arose was only suppressed through the generous granting of concessions that nearly bankrupted the kingdom. Yet, there was a decade or more of peace that followed, the new queen birthing the second princess in her first years and then the third only a few years ago. To many it was like the Gods blessed this land, for rumors swirled that the elven consort was only wed for she was infertile. It seemed too good to be true, and it was. As he looked around at the devastation around him, he wondered what could’ve happened differently to have avoided this outcome, what could’ve changed. But it matters little now, it is too late.

Descending down into the depths of the palace and into the underground harbor that sat below. They endured the nearby sewers that flowed into the river that passed from the mountain and through the city. It was when the royal barges were finally in sight that Kermenadies halted his advance, his men falling in behind him.

“If any of you would like to desert, turncoat, or simply return to your families for their last moments I will not fault you.” He began, the tension from the men growing with every word, “Clearly the Myndiri are willing to...accept...our troops into their ranks and I will not stop you if you leave now. Otherwise, we shall flee the kingdom and head to the northern plains where hopefully the Myndiri won’t hunt us down. So please, consider your choices and know that wherever we go, we would likely not return from.” He stated heavily, his words sending the gathered soldiers into a quiet contemplation.

A few walked back up the stairs, their head hung low at the thought of leaving their brothers and more than one voice jeered at them. But Kermenadies silenced those who did, understanding that sometimes when a cause is lost, there was just reason to abandon it. Yet the majority of them remained, Lyran, Osgil and most of the remaining praetorians standing shoulder to shoulder.

Secretly satisfied that they didn’t all leave, Kermenadies gestured for them to ready the two royal barges. It was a gamble for them to take these and flee the city, but Kermenadies saw no other choices remaining, to protect Princess Luna was now their only goal. The Praetorians were sworn to defend the Aetosi throne, and the princess was likely the last of their line. If this is to be our last gambit, then so be it. Let us give our lives for a just cause, and in the name of the Princess. May the Gods grant us the strength to persevere.