[The Middle Wall — North Gate Guard Post]
A building detonated in the distance. Splinters and emerald flames showered the northern sector.
Captain Gerrick flinched. He anchored his heavy gauntlets to the battlements. His knuckles turned white against the cold stone. It was his only physical tether to reality.
Emerald light painted the stonework of the Middle Wall. The ancient granite glowed with sickly hues.
This is not a normal fire, Gerrick realized. A cold dread pooled in his stomach. This is a magical fire.
The Outer District burned below him. Nearly half a million souls resided in that sprawling labyrinth. Now it was a churning sea of unnatural flames. The green fire defied the wind. It crawled over the high watchtowers. It tore through the wide avenues.
"What in the name of the Gods is happening out there?" Gerrick whispered.
The cacophony stole his words instantly. There was no familiar crackle of burning timber. There was no thunderous roar of collapsing masonry. The only sound rising from the inferno was a unified scream. Thousands of human throats tore in absolute agony.
Heavy boots rang violently against the flagstones behind him.
"Captain!" a voice cried out.
A lieutenant hurled himself up the final flight of stairs. His chest heaved with exhaustion. His iron helmet was knocked askew. The crush of the chaos below had battered him on his ascent.
"The refugees!" the lieutenant gasped. He pointed a trembling finger downward. "They are storming the gate! There must be ten thousand of them down there!"
Gerrick did not need the verbal report. He stepped to the edge and looked down.
A desperate tide of humanity flooded the plaza. Men, women, and children slammed against the Middle Gate. The heavy timber was reinforced with thick iron bands. Bloody fists beat frantically against the wood. The crowd begged for sanctuary.
"Open the gate!" a woman's voice shrieked from the crush. It was barely audible over the din. "Let us in! It is burning us alive!"
"Captain, your orders?" the lieutenant pleaded. Panic laced his words. "Protocol dictates we seal the sectors! We must contain a magical attack! If we open the gates, that fire breaches the Middle District!"
Seal the sectors, Gerrick thought numbly.
It meant condemning them to the pyre. Gerrick tightened his jaw. To safeguard the inner city, a commander is obligated to make Hard and practica decisions. But holding this gate was not a military tactic. It was a slaughter.
His gaze snapped to the far edge of the plaza.
A dense green fog rolled out from the burning alleys. It swept over the rearguard of the frantic mob. The mist touched a group of fleeing merchants. They collapsed instantly. They convulsed wildly on the cobblestones. They clawed at their own throats. Black blood vomited from their mouths. They melted into the street.
"That is poison gas," Gerrick said. Horror settled over his shoulders. "If we keep them out, they will all die."
"But Captain, the plague!" the lieutenant cried. He took a terrified step backward.
"Open the wicket gate!" Gerrick roared. His voice carried the uncompromising weight of his rank. "Filter them through the chokepoint! We will not let them rot in the streets!"
The lieutenant froze. The order defied every military instinct drilled into him.
"Do it now!" Gerrick bellowed. "Archers to the wall immediately! Nock and draw your bows!"
The soldiers on the ramparts scrambled to obey. Bowstrings snapped taut in the humid air.
"Aim for the fog!" Gerrick commanded. He paced the firing line with heavy steps. "If you see a single shape in that smoke that isn't human, you loose your arrows! Shoot to kill!"
"Sir!" the archers shouted in unison.
"Lieutenant!" Gerrick turned back to the pale officer. "Send runners to Central Command immediately!"
"What do I tell them?" the lieutenant asked.
"Tell the Grand Marshal the Outer District has fallen," Gerrick said. His tone left no room for hesitation. "Tell him Hell is here."
"Yes, sir!" The lieutenant scrambled back down the stone steps. The sheer gravity of the order galvanized his limbs.
Gerrick drew his longsword. The steel scraped harshly against the scabbard. He gripped the leather hilt. The weapon felt incredibly heavy in his hands. It felt utterly useless. It was a fragile toy drawn against the apocalypse.
He stared out into the emerald horizon. He watched the poison swallow his city block by block.
Where are the Scriptures? he thought. The silent words tasted like ash on his tongue. Where are the heroes?
The heavens themselves seemed to answer his silent plea.
The earth heaved violently beneath his boots. Half a mile to the east, a massive section of the outer fortification detonated inward. The thunderous crash deafened the men on the wall. A colossal plume of dust and pulverized stone shot high into the green sky.
Gerrick froze. He lowered his useless sword.
A gargantuan silhouette shifted within the billowing smoke. It pulled its massive bulk from the shattered wreckage of the wall.
Gerrick watched the nightmare rise. A terrifying certainty gripped his soul.
Whatever that is, its Certainly not a hero…