Lars — Council Hall Capital of the Kingdom of Larrak, now without crown or future.
The once-glorious marble hall had dimmed.
Dust clung to the tall glass chandeliers. The tapestries sagged with moisture. The nobles, draped in furs and velvet, now looked more like beggars than rulers—haggard, gaunt, and hollow-eyed.
A voice broke the uneasy quiet.
"We have no king, you idiots! What do you want to do?" shouted Lord Alben of House Fhaeros, his voice shrill from fatigue and desperation.
A noblewoman stood, her once-pristine robe now patched crudely at the sleeve. "I've sent letters to the Empire and the neighboring realms. We must beg for assistance."
"And what good will that do?" snarled a gruff baron. "Rebellions are burning across every province. Larrak Valley is gone. Norhadar was taken. Our armies are dead, scattered, or defecting. The humans control the east—and our people have stopped believing we can protect anything, let alone them."
Another noble hissed, "That's not our fault. If the peasants lose faith, let them fix it themselves."
"Heartless wretch," someone muttered.
Another voice rose above the tension. "I say we look beyond. We need outside aid—mercenaries, alliances, anything."
"None will come," replied Lord Garesh, shaking his head. "Every neighbor we ever loaned to is watching closely. If we fall, their debts vanish. They'll cheer our collapse from across the border."
"The Empire might help," Lady Calen offered weakly.
"The Empire?" Lord Therom let out a bitter laugh. "They'll bury it in parliament. Judges, petitions, votes, then to their puppet-king, then back again. That system takes years. We don't have months."
"And even if it's approved," added another grimly, "they'd still need to march through three mountain passes. By the time their soldiers arrive, this land will be ash and bones."
"Winter ends in three weeks," someone murmured. "When the snow melts… they'll finish us."
Silence.
A weary noble stood and said quietly, "Any ideas?"
No one spoke.
"What can we do?" Lord Brelmont finally said, standing stiffly. "Revolts have spread from the midlands to the coast. We've lost contact with the north. Entire counties are no longer sending reports. The humans have even occupied supply depots and old border forts."
A younger noble, perhaps no more than twenty-three, slumped in his chair. "I'm leaving. Like the king. I've prepared a carriage. My family's heirlooms, what gold we could carry. I've seen enough to know we won't win."
"You coward," hissed another.
"No," the young man snapped back. "You saw it too. When Norhadar fell, our scouts watched from the cliffs. The humans used thunderous machines. They tore through stone walls with bursts of flame and smoke. I don't even know what it was—Artillery? Sorcery? It doesn't matter. Nothing we have can match it."
"And they didn't even need demi-human help," added another noble, trembling. "That's what makes it worse. No monstrous allies. Just men. Just humans. And yet… we couldn't stop them."
A duchess leaned forward, her face pale. "Some noble families have been captured alive… they're not being executed. They're being held for trials. Public ones."
A wave of dread passed through the hall.
"I won't wait around for a noose and a stage," Garesh said. "Not for the sake of a kingdom that no longer exists."
"You would abandon your duty?"
"I would preserve my children," he answered. "You think these humans will show mercy to those who resist? I say we flee while we can."
Others began to nod. Quiet, slow, tired agreement.
"This is a lost cause," someone whispered.
"What about the people?" Lady Calen asked, almost pleading. "The townsfolk, the farmers—they're starving. We were supposed to protect them!"
"No one's fed in weeks," someone else muttered. "The storehouses are empty. The villages have nothing left. We can't protect ourselves, let alone them."
"The east is feeding their people," came a cold reply. "The humans are distributing grain. Some of our subjects are defecting just to survive."
"There are no rebellions anymore," murmured the advisor who had entered quietly. "Only a rising. They've unified. Dozens of human resistance leaders from across the realm have joined the new government in the east. It's not chaos—it's organization."
"And we have nothing," whispered an elder. "Not a flag. Not a coin to our name."
A final noble stood, voice shaking. "Then we do what the king did. We flee. There's no kingdom left to rule."
One by one, the nobles stood.
Some muttered about safe houses hidden in the mountains. Others whispered of wagons being loaded under cover of night. A few stared at the crumbling marble columns, as if only now recognizing the rot that had long since eaten the palace from the inside.
And then the walls shook.
BOOM.
A shout followed—distant, but inside the palace.
The nobles froze. Eyes darted. Breathing grew louder.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
It was getting closer.
Then came a different kind of boom.
Not artillery. Not distant war.
Doors. Being kicked in.
Hard. Fast. Precise.
One floor below. Then another. The sound traveled upward like a chain of lightning.
Guards in the room drew their swords. Others ran for the exits. Screams erupted, then silenced. Then more doors fell, splintered under iron boots.
Nobles backed away from the chamber entrance. Panic broke through their well-bred stoicism. Some stood frozen, others rushed to arm themselves.
A man tore a ceremonial sword from a statue. Another ripped a dagger from an old general's wall plaque. A woman grabbed a polished fork from a banquet set and gripped it like a weapon.
"What is happening?!" Baron Haelos shouted.
"It's them—the rebels! The humans!" a trembling countess cried.
"SPOTTED!" a voice roared down the hall.
The doors of the throne chamber exploded inward.
Twenty men in black stormed through. Their faces were obscured by black masks. Their uniforms bore no insignia. Their rifles were raised—but they did not shoot.
The nobles screamed. One threw a chair. Another lunged forward with a sword.
The soldiers didn't fire.
They swung their rifles like hammers. One struck a noble in the stomach, sending him collapsing. Another parried a dagger and slammed the butt of his weapon into the man's chin, knocking him cold.
Cries of pain echoed.
One woman tried to stab a soldier with a fork. He dodged and elbowed her across the face. She crumpled to the floor.
Within minutes, the throne room was filled with groaning, bleeding nobles—subdued, but not dead.
The soldiers stood still.
And then came the scent of smoke.
Boots crunched across broken glass and marble.
Lieutenant Brandt stepped through the entryway, dragging a half-burned cigar between two fingers.
He exhaled.
"Are these all of them?"
One soldier saluted. "Yes, sir. Other units are clearing the west and servant wings. We have the royal wing sealed."
Brandt nodded once.
"Good. Round them all up. Transport them to Camp Yarrow."
Gasps broke through the room.
Baron Haelos struggled to his feet. "Please—my wife and daughters—they had no part in this."
Brandt turned his head slightly. "Don't worry about your wives and children."
The baron slumped, a sigh of visible relief escaping his lips.
Others muttered similar thanks.
"At least they will survive," whispered a viscount.
Brandt took another slow drag of his cigar.
"Your children were sent to labor camps. They'll be assembling rifles and packing shells until their fingers fall off."
Silence. Then:
"And your wives..."
Brandt blew out smoke.
"...were sold."
Gasps. A woman screamed. A noble began sobbing.
"Sold?! To who?!"
Brandt shrugged.
"To the highest bidders. Some for food. Others for steel. A few were taken for magic rituals. Others were traded to underground networks."
"You monster!" someone cried. "You'll burn for this!"
Brandt didn't blink.
"You people ruled for centuries. You enslaved, raped, tortured. Now you're reaping the seeds you sowed."
A noble lunged toward him.
He didn't make it two steps before a shot rang out. A leg shattered. The noble hit the floor, howling.
Brandt stepped over him casually.
"You don't get to cry now."
Another noble glared through bloodshot eyes. "Even war has rules."
Brandt looked at him with ice.
"Tell that to the freak who came into our auction line asking for a mother and her two children. Boy and a girl. Wanted them for 'family experiments.' Said he wanted to watch what would happen if they were left alone for weeks with nothing but a bed."
"Gasps."
"I almost shot him right there. I had my pistol drawn. But the handler waved me off. Said 'buyers are buyers.'"
"I walked out. Didn't say a word. Nearly puked. I don't even know what happened next. But I realized they aren't human. They were beasts. And beasts don't deserve sympathy."
The silence settled.
"You raised your sons to be tyrants. You raised your daughters to be tools. And now your legacy is being bought and sold by the ounce."
A baron screamed in rage. Another broke free from two soldiers and charged at Brandt.
BANG.
Shot in the leg. He collapsed, blood painting the tiles.
Brandt didn't flinch.
"You still think you're in charge. That your lives matter. But you're just noise now."
He turned to the others.
"You will all be put on trial. Your failures will be read aloud. Your people will watch you weep. Then they'll return to work—digging, forging, dying. Every breath they take will be under the shadow of what you let happen."
A soldier entered from the side hall.
"No one left in the building, sir. All floors cleared."
Brandt flicked his cigar to the floor and crushed it beneath his boot.
"Good."
He turned to the soldiers.
"Chain them. Rip every ring and pendant off their hands. Strip them of titles."
"The Leader will be pleased."
He smirked.
"Maybe I'll get a promotion."