The first tremors struck at dawn, a low, rolling growl that turned the earth to liquid beneath Alaric's feet. The fortress shuddered as ancient stones cracked and split, the very foundation of their world betraying them. Screams rose from the courtyard—soldiers and servants alike tumbling to their knees as the walls crumbled.
Alaric stumbled forward, his sword clutched tight in a trembling hand. Smoke rose from the battlements where fire had found purchase in the ancient timber. The air smelled of ash and fear, each breath a struggle against the choking dust.
He forced his way toward the gatehouse, driven by a single thought: survive. A voice echoed in his head, equal parts desperation and fury: *This is your doing.* He had chosen the path that led here, the betrayal that had brought this ruin down upon them all.
Another tremor shook the ground, sending a cascade of rock down from the walls. A soldier—no older than a boy—collapsed beside him, his eyes wide and uncomprehending as the last breath fled his body. Alaric felt the weight of his choices press down on him, heavier than any armor.
*Was this the price of betrayal?*
The sky above split open, a jagged wound of light and fire that heralded the Sundering's arrival. Nature itself seemed to rebel—trees burning from within, rivers boiling, the air alive with a thousand screams. Alaric had heard the stories of the Sundering, the old tales whispered by grandmothers and priests alike, but nothing could have prepared him for the truth.
This was no mere calamity. This was a judgment.
Alaric pushed onward, every step a battle against the chaos that threatened to consume him. The Sundering had come, tearing apart the fragile order that had bound the kingdom together for centuries. He could feel it in the air, a raw, electric energy that rattled his bones and made his teeth ache.
He remembered the oaths he had taken, the promises whispered in the dead of night to the men who had trusted him with their lives. Those promises felt like lies now—empty words spoken by a man who had not known the cost of his ambition. The fortress was crumbling, the city beyond it a pyre of smoke and ruin. Everywhere he looked, he saw the faces of the damned: soldiers clutching shattered shields, women and children fleeing as the sky fell upon them.
The ground cracked open like a jagged maw, swallowing the old market square in a roar of dust and flame. Alaric barely had time to leap aside, the heat searing his flesh even through the thick leather of his armor. He tasted blood and ash in his mouth, the acrid sting of failure.
He thought of Drael, his captain, who had died because of his choices. The memory was a raw wound that would never heal. *This is my burden to bear,* he told himself, his jaw clenched against the pain. *No matter what happens, I will see this through.*
As the walls of the citadel trembled, Alaric raised his sword to the sky. Lightning danced along its edge, a promise of destruction—and of hope. He would fight, not because he believed in victory, but because it was the only way to atone for the betrayal that had brought this night upon them all.
The city burned, its walls crumbling like old parchment in a sudden wind. Alaric moved through the ruins, his steps guided by instinct and the desperate need to find survivors. Every street was a battlefield, every alley a tomb. Flames leapt from shattered windows, and the screams of the dying mingled with the roar of the Sundering.
He passed a family huddled beneath a fallen archway—a mother clutching her child to her breast, her eyes wide with terror. For a moment, he paused, their fear a mirror of his own. But there was no comfort he could offer, no words that would make the world right again. He left them with a silent promise: that he would fight until his last breath to protect what remained.
A column of soldiers stumbled past him, their faces streaked with soot and blood. One recognized him and reached out, his voice hoarse. "Commander Alaric! What do we do?"
The question struck him like a hammer blow. *What do we do?* He had no answer—only the knowledge that the world had changed beyond repair. But he could not falter. Not now.
"Hold the line," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Protect the gates. Every moment we hold them buys time for the others."
The soldier nodded, hope igniting in his eyes. Alaric watched him disappear into the smoke, a spark of belief in a world collapsing.
He moved on, his sword heavy in his hand, each step a prayer for forgiveness. If the gods still listened, he begged them to spare the innocent—even if they damned him in the end.
He found the main square unrecognizable, a wasteland of stone and fire where children had once played and merchants had hawked their wares. Statues lay broken, their features marred by flame and falling debris. The ancient fountain, once a place of laughter and solace, had become a cratered ruin, water mingling with blood.
Alaric's breath caught as he beheld the destruction. It felt personal, as though the Sundering had come not for the city but for him alone. He had set this in motion, his betrayal the spark that had ignited this hell. Even now, the knowledge gnawed at him. *If I had chosen differently…* But there was no mercy in the past, only the scars it left behind.
A sudden noise drew his attention—a girl, no older than ten, clutching a stuffed doll, her eyes wide with terror. She stood alone amid the ruin, a fragile flame in the darkness. Alaric approached slowly, his armor stained with ash and blood. "Come with me," he urged, his voice as gentle as he could make it. "I'll get you to safety."
She stared at him, unblinking, then took his outstretched hand. Her small fingers were ice cold, her trust a fragile thing he did not deserve. But he would carry it anyway.
Together, they moved through the shattered streets, a warrior and a child, both seeking redemption in a world on fire.
A tremor rattled the ground beneath their feet, sending a cascade of stones down from the broken rooftops. Alaric shielded the girl with his body, the impact bruising but not fatal. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself onward. Every step felt like a betrayal of the dead—a reminder that he had lived while so many had perished.
The Sundering's fury showed no mercy. Flames danced across the rooftops like living things, twisting and leaping as if they delighted in the destruction. The sky was a canvas of red and black, the sun choked by ash and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a tower collapsed with a sound like a dying god, its fall sending tremors through the earth.
Alaric reached the western gate, its massive doors hanging askew. A handful of soldiers remained, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair. He recognized one—a veteran named Harren, his beard streaked with white. "Commander," Harren rasped, his voice raw from smoke. "The line's breaking. We can't hold them."
Alaric's gaze hardened. "We hold," he said, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel. "If we let them through, everything we've fought for is lost."
Harren met his eyes, and for a moment, Alaric saw the spark that had once driven them both. "Aye, Commander," the man said, squaring his shoulders. "We'll hold."
As the enemy surged forward—an endless tide of shadows—Alaric raised his sword once more. He would not falter. Not while there was still breath in his body.
The clash came swiftly, a brutal collision of steel and fury that sent shockwaves through the battered walls. Alaric fought at the forefront, his sword a blur of motion as he met the enemy head-on. Sparks flew with every strike, each blow a testament to the desperation that had seized them all.
His men rallied to him, their battle cries ragged but determined. For a moment, amidst the chaos, Alaric felt a flicker of hope—that maybe, just maybe, they could hold the line. But the Sundering was relentless, its tide unstoppable. The enemy pressed in from all sides, their eyes alight with a madness that mirrored the darkness in Alaric's own heart.
Blood smeared his armor, a crimson testament to his sins. He cut down an enemy soldier—then another—each death a hollow victory. The weight of his choices bore down on him with every life he took. *Was this redemption or damnation?* He no longer knew.
A scream split the air—a woman's voice, high and terrified. Alaric turned just in time to see a figure in tattered robes collapse beneath a crumbling archway. He surged forward, ignoring the pain that lanced through his side. The child he had rescued clung to his cloak, her eyes wide with terror.
"Stay with me!" he shouted, though the words felt like a lie. Could he really save her? Could he save anyone?
A roar rose as the enemy broke through the western gate. The world seemed to dissolve into fire and steel. Alaric swung his sword, a last defiant stand against the inevitable.
*If this is my end,* he thought, *let it be on my own terms.*
The enemy was everywhere now, a tide of shadows and fire that washed over the last defenders. Alaric fought like a man possessed, his sword an extension of his fury and his grief. Each swing carved a path through the darkness, but still the enemy came, endless as the night.
His arms ached, his breath ragged, but he did not falter. The girl clung to him, her small hands gripping his cloak like a lifeline. He could feel her trembling, her fear a palpable thing that cut deeper than any blade. He would protect her, even if it cost him his life.
A horn sounded in the distance—a desperate cry that the gate had fallen. The last line had broken. Alaric turned, his heart a leaden weight in his chest. The Sundering had come, and with it the end of all things.
He gathered the girl in his arms, her weight a fragile promise of hope. "Hold on," he whispered, though he no longer believed in salvation. He forced his way through the enemy ranks, his sword flashing, his will unbreakable. Each step was a prayer, each breath a defiance of the darkness that sought to swallow them whole.
The courtyard loomed ahead, a place of final reckoning. Alaric's vision blurred, his strength failing. But he pressed on, driven by a single thought: *She must live, even if I do not.*
With a final cry, he reached the gates and pushed the girl through. "Run!" he shouted, his voice raw. She stumbled, eyes wide, and vanished into the smoke.
Alaric turned to face the enemy, his sword raised high. "Come, then!" he roared, his voice a challenge to the darkness itself. "I will not yield!"