Smoke still clung to the sky like a dying breath, the once-blue horizon choked in gray as ash drifted between twisted steel, shattered glass, and broken stone.
The streets of the City of Dunes were silent now—but not peaceful.
Gunshots echoed here and there, sharp cracks from back alleys or half-fallen apartments. Small pockets of resistance still clung to life: cornered demi-human scouts, wounded beastmen hiding under debris, priests trying to summon runes with trembling hands.
But there was no central command. No orders. No reinforcements. Their banners had burned days ago, their generals either killed, captured, or vanished into smoke.
The city was dying in slow motion.
Human soldiers moved in squads of five or six, sweeping buildings, clearing tunnels, checking every corner. Blood stained their boots, soot covered their coats, and the smell of rot and gunpowder clung to every breath.
One squad marched toward what remained of the financial district—a cluster of high-rises that once towered proudly above the city. Now only three still stood taller than the rubble. One, the old grain exchange, leaned at a precarious angle, its top blown open by a shell.
But its roof was still reachable.
And the moment was right.
Corporal Weber gripped the iron shaft of the flag in both hands, glancing over at the four soldiers behind him. His helmet was cracked, his face dirt-streaked, but his eyes burned with something deeper than pride. Something older. He tapped the flagpole once on the ruined ground—then began to climb.
"Cover him!" Sergeant Jäger barked.
The others followed, rifles slung, boots stomping up the ruined staircase, their hearts pounding against ribs sore from days of fire and fury.
A shell whistled in the distance. Someone screamed across the boulevard. But the rooftops stayed clear.
When they reached the top, Weber stood at the highest point—the rusted metal frame where a decorative statue once stood—and jammed the iron shaft deep into the twisted beams.
The swastika unfurled, crimson and black, catching the wind like a blade through the smoke.
He stepped back, turned to the city, and raised both arms.
"Sieg heil!" he shouted, voice raw but proud.
The words echoed across the roofs, bouncing down craters and rubble-strewn streets.
From below, hundreds of throats answered in unison:
"SIEG HEIL!"
"SIEG HEIL!"
"SIEG HEIL!"
The city trembled with it—not from mortar fire, but from the voice of victory.
All across the blocks still held by human forces, men paused mid-step, mid-sweep, mid-fire to look up. Some dropped to one knee. Others raised their fists or rifles. A few wept—quiet, grim tears after losing comrades, limbs, or brothers.
But they all knew.
The City of Dunes had fallen.
This wasn't just a battle won.
It was a chapter closed. A wound opened.
And the beginning of something far more terrible than the beastmen had ever imagined.
The flag swayed above the bones of the second-largest city in the kingdom.
And the men below marched on.