The heavy silence hung.
My father said, with a sharp tone, without introductions:
> "The discussion is over. We need a plan that delays defeat… or makes it mean something."
Castor, the commander, a massive body like a corpse, white hair like snow, voice like rock, stepped forward with full respect:
> "Your majesty, we do not have enough numbers. The outer gates will fall in less than five hours."
My father did not even blink.
> "Then make it fall within six. That is all we need."
Another commander, younger, spoke with a trembling voice:
> "And after that? If they reach the grand square, we will be annihilated. Reports say they possess weapons… we have never seen, that dig the earth."
My father placed his hands on the table, leaning:
> "Then do not call them to reach."
Then suddenly, he turned to me, in front of everyone.
> "Elios… tell me, if you had fifty soldiers with you, how would you stop an army of a thousand?"
I hesitated, feeling this was my first test.
With a hoarse voice, I said:
> "I would close the passages, create choke points, lure them into areas I know… so they don't realize our true numbers."
My father smiled.
> "Exactly. That is what we will do."
Then he began explaining:
The battle will be divided into three stages:
1. Disruption: small groups attack, explode alleys and roads, tricking the enemy into thinking the city itself is a trap.
2. Choke: focus defense at Griffon Square, forcing the enemy into narrow passages, where archers and shields strike.
3. Direct confrontation: when our elites arrive, we fight them ourselves.
A commander asked:
> "And who will lead the last stage?"
Without hesitation, my father answered:
> "My son and I."
Some objected:
> "He is too young!"
But my father looked at them:
> "We are not measured by age, but by what dies out with us. And if everything is extinguished, then so be it."
Everyone fell silent.
Then he lifted his sword, stabbed it into the map, and said:
> "This is not a plan for victory… it is a plan for remembrance. If we fall, history will say we fell standing, singing, not running barefoot with bloodied hands. We will force them to remember our name before they defeat us."
We went out after that, to the soldiers waiting, fear obvious on their faces.
My father noticed, and climbed to deliver his speech.
He raised his sword high, his cloak swirling in the wind, the smoke and dust surrounding him.
He shouted, piercing fog and hearts:
> "Soldiers of the Fifth Kingdom!
You stand now at the edge!
Behind you — your homes, your mothers, your wives, your children, your dreams woven in the silence of night!
Before you — a hell unlike anything we have ever seen!
The enemy does not seek victory… he seeks erasure. He does not want control… he wants our memory destroyed.
But we… will not be forgotten!
We will not be erased like footsteps in the sand!
We will not be buried like crumbling cities!
We are those who chose to stand, who chose not to bow our heads!
We will make our last cry an anthem that echoes in the hearts of those after us!
They may be more in number. Stronger, perhaps. But they do not own what we have…
They do not own the land we defended for years with sweat,
the streets filled with our laughter,
the smells of our kitchens,
the names of our alleys,
the love in our hearts.
This is our city. This is our homeland!
And before we surrender it, let their feet weep under every stone!"
In that moment, a soldier lit a torch, eyes wide awake, and the first step of the plan began.
Explosions shook the tunnels prepared in advance, collapsing upon the enemy, making them see fire rain from the sky.
> "The enemy sees nothing but fire behind him…"
Light units appeared, striking with spears dipped in oil, then disappearing before the enemy could react.
The soldiers of the Fifth fought with ferocity — though few, they made the enemy believe the city itself was alive, fighting them.
We moved to the second stage.
The enemy was dragged into fear, into where we wanted them: Griffon Square.
Its narrow paths and fortified high ground became a trap.
The enemy, forced into a square that could not fit more than five men across, faced our silent soldiers waiting.
From above — archers with heavy arrows tipped with fire.
From the sides — soldiers with square shields, closing the path suddenly.
From the front — horsemen appearing, striking then disappearing.
Every attack delayed them for another minute… every moment bought us dignity.
> "Every moment of delay… gave us another minute of dignity." (Elios narrating)
Finally, the last stage.
The defensive wall in the grand square collapsed.
My father stood unyielding, his eyes glowing like embers in the storm, his long sword in hand, chest open to the wind, fearing not the sky itself.
> "My son…"
He said in a low voice, "Fight not to be remembered… but to not let them erase you."
Then the first round began.
Elios ran, his heart pounding, the air heavy. Four enemy soldiers charged him at once.
He raised his sword as he had learned… but mistimed the strike.
A blade slid beneath his, forcing him to retreat quickly, then with sharpness he stabbed the first soldier in the side.
The blood was strange, warm… not like in his nightmares.
Another came from the left. He barely dodged, taking a punch on the shoulder, falling to the ground.
But then he heard steel like thunder: his father's sword descending like a meteor, cutting through an enemy's neck in one blow, opening a gap in their ranks.
> "The king does not walk… he carves the path."
Elios rose, attacked again, his blade piercing through throats, his movements becoming sharper.
Four soldiers fell against his father, but his father's every strike was a dance, a studied rhythm — shield strike, knee strike, slap, spin, then a clean thrust.
Beside him, Elios felt as if they were one body, two swords of the same metal, the same hand of history.
Yet he thought:
> "I missed every strike… but I learned from every strike."
Bodies fell, burning, blood staining the ground red.
In one moment, Elios saw his comrade Marco, young, pierced and falling, screaming like a child. Elios wanted to run to him.
His father held his arm:
> "Do not stop. Death does not stop for one."
But Elios slowed… exhaustion heavy, screams crushing the air.
His father's sword was buried in the ground, his breath labored, his eyes following the enemy's line.
Then suddenly… the enemy ranks split.
Not to open the way — but as if forced aside.
A man walked between them. Slow, heavy steps, the earth itself seemed to tremble back.
He wore black cracked armor, his face covered with half a metallic mask shaped like a skull.
A scar ran from his forehead to his chin, burned by an old fire.
One eye gray, lifeless, like stone — no emotions, no tremor, no interpretation.
On his chest, a circular mark: half a sun black on the left, a broken crescent on the right.
Every soldier bent as he passed — not in respect, but as if their bodies were forced to.
My father did not move.
But he whispered:
> "…Darkis?"
Even the soldiers behind him fell silent, as if their voices were erased.
Darkis at last raised his head, and with a hollow voice that resembled no human sound, said:
> "Finally… the last king among the kings of memory."