The night sky burned. Smoke billowed from the city below, rising like the final breath of a dying beast. Screams echoed through the streets of Velrath as soldiers, rebels, and deserters clashed in a storm of steel and fire. From the highest balcony of the Black Fortress, Darius Vaelcroft, Emperor of Veridion, stood in silence, clad in bloodstained black armor, his crimson cloak billowing in the wind.
His empire was dying.
Below, his once-mighty Dread Legion was being torn apart. The Imperial Army, the United Rebel Factions, and the so-called Hero's Party had done what no force before them could. They had breached his capital, shattered his armies, and now surrounded the last great stronghold of the empire he had built with blood and steel.
Darius gripped the stone railing, amber eyes burning with cold fury. A lesser man might have despaired, might have begged the heavens for mercy. But Darius was no lesser man. He had conquered half a continent, crushed kings beneath his heel, and turned nations to ruin. The world had feared him, cursed him, hated him. And now, it had finally come for its revenge.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Kael Oris, his most loyal general, approached, his armor cracked and bloodied. A deep gash ran across his forehead, staining his silver hair red. "My lord," Kael said, breath heavy. "The eastern gate has fallen. The Hero's forces are inside the city."
Darius did not turn. "How many of our forces remain?"
Kael hesitated. "Less than three thousand."
Darius smirked. "Three thousand against an army of fifty thousand? Sounds fair."
Kael exhaled sharply. "Darius, we have to go. The western passage is still open. If we move now—"
Darius shook his head. "And what then? Do I scurry into the mountains like a rat, waiting to be hunted down like a dog?" He turned, stepping forward. His massive greatsword, Noctis, rested against the railing. The blade had tasted the blood of thousands, yet tonight, it felt heavier than ever.
Kael clenched his jaw. "We can rebuild. Rally the remaining loyalists, retake—"
"Foolishness," Darius interrupted coldly. "The moment I flee, my empire is truly dead. My enemies will carve up my lands, rewrite history, and turn me into nothing more than a monster in their stories." He glanced toward the battlefield. "No. If I am to die, I will die on my feet, sword in hand."
Kael swallowed hard. "Then I will fight by your side."
Darius paused, his gaze flickering. Kael had stood with him from the beginning. Through twenty years of war, betrayal, and bloodshed, the man had followed him without question. A sword, a shield, a brother.
Darius exhaled, placing a hand on his shoulder. "No, Kael. Take the remaining men and break through the western passage. Get as far from Velrath as you can."
Kael's fists clenched. "Darius, I will not—"
"That's an order," Darius said, his voice quieter this time.
Kael stiffened. For a long moment, he stood there, breathing heavily, before he snapped into a salute. "...Damn you, then. Damn you to hell."
Darius smirked. "I'm already there."
Without another word, Kael turned and disappeared into the shadows.
The Black Fortress groaned beneath the weight of the assault. The doors below trembled as soldiers slammed against them. The sound of battle was growing louder. It would not be long now.
Darius ran a hand down his greatsword, feeling the cold steel beneath his fingers. If this was to be his last night, he would ensure it was one the world would never forget.
Then—the doors behind him burst open.
A group of imperial guards rushed in, panting, their armor dented and torn. "Your Majesty!" one of them gasped. "They've breached the inner walls! The Hero and his forces—"
Darius barely heard them.
Because stepping in behind them, dressed in silver-plated armor, his blade gleaming in the firelight, was Duke Arken.
The man who had sworn eternal loyalty to him. The man who now stood before him as a traitor.
For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then Arken smiled.
"The mighty Darius Vaelcroft," he mused, stepping closer. "How far you have fallen."
Darius's expression did not change. "Arken." His voice was calm. Cold. Unforgiving. "Is it truly betrayal if I expected it?"
Arken chuckled. "Oh, come now. You knew this day would come. The world had no place for a tyrant like you. The people hated you. The nobles despised you. Even your own men feared you."
Darius smirked. "And yet," he murmured, "it took all of you to bring me down."
Arken's smile faltered for the briefest moment. Then, raising his sword, he stepped closer. Too close.
"Any last words, Emperor?" he asked.
Darius's smirk widened. "Yes."
He moved.
Lightning-fast, he caught Arken's wrist, twisting it violently. The duke barely had time to scream before Darius ripped the sword from his grip and plunged it into his stomach.
Arken gasped, eyes wide with shock. "Y-You… bastard…"
Darius leaned in, whispering against his ear. "You should have aimed for the head."
With one swift motion, he ripped the sword out, letting Arken crumple to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.
The imperial guards hesitated. For one chilling moment, they remembered why they had feared him.
Then, the distant roar of the Hero's forces grew louder. The final assault had begun.
Darius exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Come, then," he muttered to himself, lifting Arken's bloodstained blade.
If this was his last battle, he would make sure the world never forgot his name.
The Tyrant would not die kneeling.