A man gently opened the shutters, inviting the warm glow of Nuragar’s morning light into their home. The familiar aroma of freshly baked bread wafted in from their neighbor’s house, a daily greeting that set a comforting tone for the day. Stretching his arms, he observed the lively bustle outside, where people were already engaged in their daily routines, and children brought the streets to life with their playful activities.

After reveling in a good stretch and inhaling the crisp morning air, he descended to the main floor of their house. There, he found his wife meticulously preparing breakfast, arranging the delicious offerings on the table. Taking his seat, the anticipation in the room heightened, as their eager son, Matty, awaited the commencement of the family meal.

“Now, Matty, let’s not play with our food. Mama wouldn’t be pleased,” cautioned the father. Despite his fatherly advice, Matty sported a mischievous grin, holding his spoon with proper decorum but hesitating to take the first bite.

Observing this, the father couldn’t help but notice the curiosity in his son’s eyes, which seemed to follow his mother’s every move.

The boy, breaking the breakfast serenity, suddenly posed a question, his innocent curiosity shining through. “Mama, how come you and Papa never talk?” The question hung in the air, prompting a shared glance between the husband and wife. The humor in the situation wasn’t lost on them, and a shared laugh rippled through the room as the father playfully tousled Matty’s hair.

Despite his father’s jest, the boy quickly transformed his expression from a frown to a radiant smile. “I’m sorry, Mama. I always forget that you can’t talk,” he exclaimed, finally ready to enjoy his meal. The mother responded with a warm smile, pinching his rosy cheeks and placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.

As the family savored the concluding moments of their breakfast, the father rose from his seat, expressing his appreciation. “That was a truly delightful breakfast, Marya,” he praised his wife, the love and gratitude evident in his words.

She couldn’t help but return her smile. The boy giggled, finding amusement in his parents’ sweet gestures. Matty, witnessing their affection, was thoroughly entertained. The father rose, strolling toward Marya, and gently planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Marya, I’ll be back by sundown,” he announced to his wife. Marya smiled warmly as she wiped her hands. Leaning in for another kiss, the father felt her hands cradle his face as they shared another tender moment.

“Matty, be a good boy for Mama, okay?” he instructed as he boarded his wagon, laden with goods.

“Yes, Papa, I will!” the boy joyfully shouted. Laughter echoed between the father and Marya as he gently urged his horse onward. Waving to each other, their affectionate exchange lingered in the air.

Matty dashed outside to bid farewell to his departing father. To his surprise, he witnessed his son running after him, waving enthusiastically. As the boy turned the corner, he headed straight to the market to set up shop.

The town buzzed with anticipation for the upcoming Umorkon festival, the Festival of the Last Harvest. Everyone worked fervently to prepare for the night of honoring their Great Animos, Freigurd.

With an exuberant grin, he felt an overwhelming excitement. This annual celebration was his chance to provide his family with new clothing, toys, and delicious food. The prospect of purchasing the dress his wife desired thrilled him, and the idea of surprising Matty with a new toy filled him with joy. He could already envision the delight on their faces when he brought the gifts home that night.

After a while, he finally arrived at the public market. Before setting up his shop, he surveyed the bustling surroundings, glancing at the towering Arazan Mountain that dominated the cityscape. Taking a deep breath, he began arranging his wares for display.

As he completed the setup, the market was already teeming with activity. He took a moment to hydrate, sipping water from the bottle strapped around his waist. Wiping his face, he adjusted his appearance to present himself well to the customers. Before long, an elderly man with a cane approached his shop.

“Ah, Mr. Abrock. Are you searching for something for the wife?” he politely inquired. With weak eyes, the old man looked at him and smiled.

“I believe I may need another pot, Mr. F’yoris,” the old man said. He chuckled and rummaged through his items, presenting a suitable pot.

“Here you go, Mr. Abrock,” he said, handing it over and patting the old man’s hand. “And as I mentioned last time, Mr. Abrock, you can just call me Marq.” The old man paid him and slowly secured the pot in his backpack.

Observing the tremor in the elderly man’s hands, he assisted him in placing the pot securely. Business picked up, and as the day progressed, he gazed at the coins he had earned, hopeful for a successful day ahead.

He attended to his horse, securely tethered to a tree behind his shop, offering it a refreshing drink as midday approached. Another customer then approached his store.

“What can I offer you, friend?” he politely asked, showcasing his array of wares. The man scrutinized the items, searching for what he needed.

“Uhm, Marq, do you have some, umm, what do you call this?” the man gestured, trying to convey his request. He nodded and swiftly went to the back of his wagon, retrieving two items.

“Here you go,” he handed over a wok and a wooden spoon.

The man chuckled, admitting, “I always forget what these things are called.” He accepted the utensils and made his payment, expressing gratitude, before hurrying back to his destination.

Shaking his head with a smile, he looked around, stashing the earned coins in his purse, eagerly anticipating his next customer. He then began chanting his wares to capture the attention of potential buyers as the market continued to bustle.

The day progressed, and it was well past noon, yet the market remained vibrant. He seized the opportunity to savor his packed lunch. Opening it, the delightful aroma of his wife’s cooking greeted him—chicken with potatoes on the side. Though not extravagant, Marya’s culinary creations always made him feel cherished. Today was no exception, with the addition of extra steamed corn.

While indulging in his meal, a distant shout disrupted the usual market sounds.

“Get out of the way! Move!” A man rushed through the marketplace, his horse galloping towards the headquarters. Recognizing the telltale sign of a scout—the glowing pink owl trailing behind—the rare sight heightened his curiosity. Normally, scouts inside the city departed with calm composure.

Despite the unusual occurrence, he resumed his lunch, with his shop buzzing and people flooding the markets in search of festival gifts. However, his energy was met with an unexpected contrast—the city’s army and guards were converging near the imperial guards’ headquarters by the marketplace.

Perplexed about the situation, his unease grew as his heart beat irregularly. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. Although he attempted to dismiss it, his mind connected the dots, sparking concern and wonder. Observing the soldiers and guards, he noticed his friend from the city guard running toward him.

Curious, he called out, “Yosak! What’s going on? The guards and the garrisoned soldiers seem to be active today.” Yosak seized his arm, offering a brief explanation.

“I don’t know, Marq. But a scout from the East just came rushing in a while ago. We were suddenly called into the headquarters,” he conveyed before rushing off. “You need to leave the city now, Marq. Bring Marya and Matty with you,” he added urgently.

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“My daughter and wife and sister too, Marq! Take them with you!” Yosak’s urgent plea echoed as he hurried toward the headquarters.

Dumbfounded, he found himself the subject of a customer’s curiosity. “Was that your friend?” the man asked abruptly.

“Yeah, why?” he responded.

“Why would he say that? Your friend is nuts,” remarked the customer. Choosing to sidestep the inquiry, he dismissed it with a laugh. However, beneath the surface, worry festered. Yosak, typically exuding confidence, appeared uncharacteristically anxious during his dash to the headquarters.

“Well, we are fine here, right? I mean, where was Tamiron’s army last spotted again?” he inquired, attempting to quell his growing concern.

“As I read it on the daily bulletin board, he was last spotted heading north from Go’Renhor.”

“Go’Renhor?” chimed in another merchant.

“Yeah, the bulletin said north of Go’Renhor.”

“Isn’t Go’Renhor an island?” questioned someone else.

“It is, but it has some lands on the mainland,” added another voice.

“Nah! Can’t be. You have to go through here or by boat if you wish to go to Go’Renhor! The only other pass to go there is deadly!” protested a merchant beside him.

“Well, we have the Imperial Army in this city, anyway. Melgrace is like Tamara, but of Huertian anyway,” boasted the other customer, leading to shared laughter. Hoping for reassurance, he joined in the camaraderie.

He acknowledged the logic; Melgrace was akin to Tamara but lacked the guardian buttes. Confidence swelled within him—they should be fine, or so he thought. However, the ominous tolling of the headquarters bell shattered his optimism.

His heart sank with the disheartening sound, cold sweat trickling down his temple. A collective hush descended as all eyes turned toward the somber chime. Glancing toward the headquarters, he witnessed a man hastily departing on horseback, accompanied by a stream of guards heading eastward. Panic seized the air. In that moment, realization struck—Tamiron was coming.

The resounding march of the city garrison and guards tore through the marketplace, an unsettling symphony that heralded their urgent advance toward the eastern walls. Panic swept through the populace like a tempest, prompting a frenzied exodus as people sought refuge within their homes.

A mounted guard, draped in a cloak, cut through the chaos, his voice desperately trying to rise above the chaos. “All able-bodied men defend the city! Head to the Eastern walls!” The commanding words echoed in the air, but their significance was lost amidst the tumult of screams and the stampede of frightened citizens.

Caught in the swirl of confusion, he acted on instinct, sprinting toward his horse with the intention of returning to his family. However, his desperate bid was thwarted when a soldier commandeered his steed. Before he could comprehend the situation, another guard seized him, dragging him toward the armory.

“Let me go! I must reach Marya and Matthos!” he pleaded as the guard, unmoved, bellowed, “You look able! You will defend them!” Fear gripped him as he had no choice. He was quickly taken to the headquarters’ armory. It was his turn to take some equipment. As he stared at them, he could only think of one possibility.

“You! Move it!” another guard shoved him, prompting him to hurry. With quivering hands, he hastily collected the necessities—armor, helmet, greaves, a short sword, and a shield.

With a sense of dread hanging in the air, they embarked toward the eastern walls, the cacophony of their hurried steps matched only by the frantic beats of his heart. The faces of his comrades mirrored the trepidation that gripped them.

As they approached the walls, the trebuchet defenses came into view, engaged in a desperate dance against the impending threat. Suddenly, the sky erupted in blinding brilliance, colossal fireballs streaking across the heavens, sending shockwaves through the onlookers. The wall trebuchets bore the brunt of the assault, crumbled by the fiery onslaught. Booms reverberated through the city as a larger fireball traced its arc, culminating in a thunderous explosion that shook the very foundations of the besieged city.

What was that the bridge? Was the bridge the only escape? Such thoughts raced through his mind as, once more, he found himself forcibly guided toward the eastern walls, the urgency palpable. His breath quickened, mirroring the fear etched on the faces of those around him.

Upon their arrival, he observed the entire stationed army within the walls, poised as if bracing for an impending onslaught. A puzzled voice broke the tense silence, “Why aren’t they outside defending us?”

“Didn’t you hear? Three regiments outside got wiped out,” another revealed, and a collective shudder swept through the crowd. An uneasy swallow betrayed the man’s anxiety.

“Are they insane? We won’t stand a chance against the Xerxecian army if wiping out three regiments was child’s play for them!” someone exclaimed, their voice trembling with fear.

Murmurs grew louder among the militias until the head guard sternly silenced them. “All of you, quiet! We are here to ensure the women and children get out of the city safely!” The head guard drew his sword as enemy bombardment rattled the city. “Now prepare to hold them off for as long as we can!”

He could see the head guard’s face. He saw nothing in his eyes. Not even hope. His hands trembled at the thought that even the head guard knew this was futile.

The remaining garrison forces advanced slowly, a determined but somber march when the colossal gates and gatehouse were abruptly obliterated into a thousand fragments. Portions of the wall collapsed entirely.

Thrown off his feet, ears ringing, he witnessed the emergence of Xerxecians, their roars flooding the air as they swiftly inundated the city from the smoke-laden rubble. The stationed army fought valiantly, but their sheer size and numbers began to overwhelm even the most stalwart defenders.

Some of his fellow militias stood their ground, frozen by the enemy’s sheer presence. Then, one by one, they began to flee. As some of his comrades abandoned their shields and swords to flee, he stood there, as he shakingly held up his sword and shield, his legs frozen to the ground.

He stood frozen in place, prepared to defend. His gaze shifted to the dust-cleared remnants of the gate and gatehouse, where despair fully consumed him. His eyes fixed upon a figure.

It was the Red Prince.

Prince Tamiron strolled leisurely, his eyes ablaze with a malevolent red glow, directing his menacing army in various directions. Soldiers surrounded him, but the anguished cries of pain and death drowned out all other sounds. Tamiron effortlessly turned the remaining forces into lifeless bodies.

Holding his shield aloft, he pointed his sword towards Tamiron. Their eyes locked, and as Tamiron continued his approach, the heartbeat in his chest quickened. Inches away, Tamiron halted, towering over him. Gently, Tamiron pulled his sword, nudging away the shield. Trembling, he pointed his sword at him.

“Tell me,” Tamiron spoke with a haunting voice, “Why do you stand before me?”

With his legs shaking, sword and shield trembling, he answered. “To protect my family. To ensure their safe exit from the city,” he answered with a stutter.

“You are brave,” Tamiron acknowledged, his iron fist returning to its normal size as he firmly grasped the man’s shoulder.

His grip was heavy on his shoulders, but the sheer weight of knowing his fate right after their talk weighed heavy the most. “Please have mercy, my Prince. Spare their lives,” he implored, tears streaming down his face.

Tamiron remained indifferent, stating, “You will see your family soon. I assure you, you will be together, forever.”

Overwhelmed, he sank to his knees, weeping, as the prince stood before him.

“A quick and painless death is the most generous gift one could receive,” Tamiron remarked.

Feeling utterly helpless, he slowly presented a folded paper to Tamiron. He only looked at the paper, he saw that the Prince was surprised by what he did. He looked at him and the paper several times before he accepted the paper. Tamiron studied it briefly before folding it neatly and concealing it within his gauntlets.

With the Xerxecians swiftly infiltrating through the ruined wall, Tamiron held his head in both hands, a solemn gesture. As he stared at the prince’s emotionless face, a sense of nothingness emanated from his gaze. Closing his eyes, he braced himself for the inevitable.

In one anticipatory breath, a crack echoed, bringing a sudden, unexpected relief.

On the other side of the city, Marya gazed outside, convinced that Marq wouldn’t be returning. Swiftly retrieving her son from under his bed, she carried him away from their house, witnessing the inferno of burning homes surrounding them.

Driven by a surge of fear, she ran, as fast as she could as she held her son. Matty, peering at a sky cloaked in smoke, was besieged by the cacophony of pain, agony, and fear. The sight of houses consumed by flames, including those of his friends, terrified him, and he cried as his mother hurriedly moved him to safety.

The advance of Xerxecian soldiers obstructed her path. Desperate to retreat, she found herself confronted by another soldier behind her, closing in rapidly. In a moment of instinctive maternal sacrifice, she swathed Matty in cloth and threw him as far from her as possible.

“Leave none alive,” growled a Xerxecian.

“The city is on its knees...” remarked another.

As the soldiers closed in, one attempted to approach the bundled cloth. Fearing for her son’s life, without hesitation, she seized a large rock and hit one of the soldiers, striking its head repeatedly.

The Xerxecians were surprised by this as they tried to take her off from their brethren. Another soldier successfully pulled her away and threw her to the ground. Crawling to safety, she glimpsed her son slowly navigating beneath a colossal heap of debris.

She quickly turned around to face her would-be captors, or so she hoped they would.

“Feisty one we have here!” a Xerxecian declared, advancing menacingly toward her.

“The Prince will like this one. We should present her to him!” exclaimed another.

“Yes, yes! Present her to the Red One! He’ll reward us!” the third one chimed in.

From behind a pile of debris, her son peeked, tears streaming down his face as he observed the grim scene. In response, she mustered a trembling smile, managing to convey reassurance amid the chaos. Seizing a nearby rock, she hurled it defiantly at the Xerxecians. Though the act angered one of them, the others promptly restrained him.

“Grab her legs! Drag her to the Red One!” commanded another, donned in heavier armor.

Seized by the legs, she screamed in silence, claws scraping against the paved ground as they forcibly pulled her away. Desperate to break free, she cast a fleeting glance back at where her son had been, only to find him gone. In that moment of terror, she felt a peculiar mix of anguish and relief, knowing, at least in her heart, that Matty was safe.

End of Chapter XIII