Fall of Asron

Fire and blood were all that remained of Eldertown. Once the kingdom's heart, its towering spires and white-stone walls had stood for centuries as a beacon of strength and civilization. Now, those very spires crumbled beneath the weight of the Imperial onslaught. Smoke coiled into the sky, choking out the stars, while the sounds of steel on flesh and the dying screams of its people filled the air.
From his vantage point on the royal palace balcony, Argial Morris, commander of the royal guard, clenched the cold steel of his sword. His knuckles turned white as he witnessed the unthinkable: Asron had fallen.
The city had endured countless wars and defended itself against barbarian hordes, invaders, and even internal strife. Yet it had never been taken until now. The Imperial Legions, the mighty war machine of the Vatian Empire, had done the impossible. After a year-long siege, they finally broke through the last great gates, flooding the streets like a tide of armored death.
The streets that he had once patrolled, the people he had sworn to protect, were being butchered. The famed knights of the royal guard fought desperately, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. The banners of Asron, blue and white, were being torn down, trampled beneath iron boots as the sigil of the Imperial Sun was raised high.
Argail’s mind raced. How did it come to this?
The war had been unprecedented. The empire never knew war with the kingdom, choosing trade and diplomacy over conquest. However, when King Athelstan took the throne, they saw a weakness in the kingdom that had been declining for decades. Then the war began, and for the last four years, they had been fighting a desperate battle that had led them to this: the fall of their kingdom.
But Argail knew the truth: The city had not fallen by sheer force alone; someone had betrayed them.
Even as the siege raged, the royal court had been rife with whispers, with greedy nobles seeking to position themselves favorably should Asron fall. Someone had opened the inner gates. Someone had let the Empire in.
And now, Argail stood atop the burning capital, the weight of failure pressing upon him.
Behind him, within the palace halls, the royal family's last remnants huddled in fear. Yet the king himself stood defiantly in the throne room, his crown straightened, his determined face remained with a sword in hand even as the eve of his doom came closer. Most his royal guard had gone to hold off the invaders. Only Argail and a few of his most loyal knights remained.
“Commander,” a voice called. It was Sir Robert, one of his most trusted men, his armor stained with soot and blood. “The palace won’t hold. The Imperials are inside the outer halls.”
Argail closed his eyes. He had sworn an oath to defend the king, but was there any point now? Athelstan seemingly had no means of escape now, and with his death and his family, he would end the royal bloodline.
Yet, should it be this way to meet such an end to know that all you have ever known perish upon their death?
A distant crash echoed through the halls, the throne room doors buckling under the weight of a battering ram. The Imperial Legions had reached the heart of the kingdom.
Argail turned to his knights. “We hold them here.”
Yet another voice spoke out against his authority, "No, I hold them here," as he turned to see his king before him.
King Athelstan stepped forward, his regal robes flowing behind him, a blood-streaked sword gripped in his hands. Though weary and battle-worn, there was still fire in his eyes. "Captain Morris, you are the finest warrior I have ever known. But you must do what I cannot. You must take my family and leave this place."
Argail hesitated, his heart torn between duty and logic. "My king, I cannot—"
"You will," Athelstan interrupted, stepping closer. "I will not allow my line to end tonight, not while you draw breath. Nothing is left for me, but this throne, but my wife and son must live. You must be the sword and shield that carries them away."
The throne room doors shuddered again, splinters flying as another ram strike tore through them. The sound of Imperial war horns echoed through the halls. Time was running out.
Sir Robert placed a hand on Argail’s shoulder. "Captain, the king is right. We must go."
Argail looked into his sovereign's eyes, seeing their finality. With a heavy heart, he bowed his head. "Then we will not let your sacrifice be in vain."
King Athelstan smiled grimly. "Go now. With a sword in my hands, I shall greet our foes as a king should."
Argial turned away, motioning to the remaining knights. Together, they moved swiftly, gathering the queen and prince from their hiding place deep within the palace. As they hurried through the hidden passages, the last thing Argial heard before disappearing into the shadows was the defiant battle cry of the last king of Ardania.
The throne room doors shattered. The Imperials poured in. And King Athelstan charged, his sword flashing in the firelight, meeting his fate as the kingdom he once ruled burned around him.