The morning began like any other.
John stood atop the fortress walls with a spear clutched a little too tightly in his hands, eyes scanning the horizon out of habit rather than confidence.
The wind was cold, biting through worn armor, carrying with it the stench of old blood and damp stone.
Below him, slaves moved about the courtyard like insects, hauling supplies, scrubbing filth, existing quietly.
He straightened his back when other soldiers passed, puffing his chest, sneering when the nameless girl limped by with a bucket in hand.
"Move faster," he had barked earlier, voice sharp to mask the tremor in his hands.
She hadn't looked at him.
That, more than anything, annoyed him.
John shifted his grip on the spear and glanced toward the distant plains again.
That was when he saw it.
At first, it looked like heat haze.
A dark line against the horizon, low and stretching far wider than it should have.
He squinted.
The line moved.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
Too fast.
His heart skipped.
"No…" he muttered.
The shape grew clearer with every breath he took.. banners, armor glinting, a tide of bodies rolling forward like a living storm.
There were too many.
Far too many.
A horn sounded.
Then another.
And another.
"ENEMY SIGHTED!"
The cry ripped through the walls like a blade.
Chaos followed instantly.
Shouted orders overlapped, boots thundered against stone, men collided in their rush to stations.
John staggered back as soldiers surged past him.
"How many are there?!"
"Where the hell did they come from?!"
"Sound the inner alarm!"
John's mouth was dry.
His legs felt weak.
He forced himself to shout with the others, forced his voice to sound steady.
"Get in formation!" he yelled at no one in particular.
Below, the courtyard erupted.
Officers screamed commands, dragging slaves into crude lines.
"Send them first!"
"Buy us time!"
"Open the outer gate!"
John leaned over the battlement as the gates groaned open.
Slaves poured out.
Unarmed.
Barely armored.
Some crying.
Some silent.
Among them, he caught a glimpse of her.. bloodied rags, uneven steps, her ruined face turned toward the ground.
Good, he thought bitterly.
Let them see what real war looks like.
The gates slammed shut.
Silence followed.
For a moment.
Then screams.
They rose faint at first, distant and thin, then swelled into something unbearable.
The sound of flesh tearing.
Metal crashing.
Human voices breaking.
John swallowed.
Minutes passed.
Too many.
The order came to advance.
When the gates opened again, the sight beyond froze him in place.
Bodies.
Everywhere.
Slaves torn apart, trampled, skewered.
Blood soaked the earth so deeply it looked black.
Some were still moving.
Most were not.
The enemy stood among them, barely slowed.
"HOLD THE LINE!" someone screamed.
The soldiers surged forward.
John was pushed with them.
He fought badly.
His spear missed more than it struck.
When an enemy rushed him, he stumbled back, heart pounding so loudly he could barely hear his own thoughts.
A blade swung toward his neck.
John raised his arms instinctively, eyes squeezing shut.
It never landed.
There was a wet sound instead.
He opened his eyes.
The enemy soldier stared down at his chest in disbelief.
A sword protruded clean through his armor.
Blood spilled from his mouth.
The body collapsed.
John sucked in a shuddering breath.
He looked up.
She stood there.
The nameless slave.
Blood covered her from head to toe.
Not all of it her own.
Her posture was straight.
Her gaze empty.
Dead.
Relief flooded him.
Confusion followed.
"Y-you…" he stammered.
And just as he was about to speak.
Pain blossomed in his chest.
Sharp.
Final.
Her sword has pierced him…
John looked down.
Then back up.
This time, her expression had changed.
A faint smirk curved her lips.
Cold.
Knowing.
As his vision faded, the last thing John understood..
Was that the weakest thing in the fortress…
…had never been her.
—-
Lord Damian had always hated the sound of horns.
They were inelegant instruments, too loud, too crude, designed to stir panic rather than order.
Now they blared endlessly through the fortress, their cries overlapping into a discordant mess that scraped against his nerves.
"Enough with that noise," he snapped, pacing the length of the command chamber. "I can hear them well enough."
The chamber was thick with tension.
Maps lay scattered across the table, weighed down by goblets and daggers, their neat markings already outdated.
A servant stood frozen near the doorway, trembling.
Lord Damian shot him a glare sharp enough to cut flesh.
"Out," he said coldly.
The servant fled.
Sir Pants stepped closer, bowing deeply, his posture impeccable despite the chaos beyond the walls.
"My lord," he said smoothly, "the scouts confirm it. The enemy numbers are… far greater than expected."
"Expected by whom?" Damian scoffed. "Incompetent shits who think war announces itself politely?"
He stopped pacing and leaned over the table, hands braced against the wood.
"This fortress has stood for generations," he continued. "Stone like this does not simply fall because a rabble appears on the horizon."
Outside, another horn screamed.
Then shouting.
Damian's jaw tightened.
"And yet," Sir Pants added carefully, "they are advancing faster than anticipated."
Damian straightened, smoothing the sleeves of his fine coat as if preparing for court rather than siege.
"Then we bleed them first," he said. "Slaves. Outer line. Delay tactics."
Sir Pants nodded immediately.
"Of course, my lord. A sensible use of expendable resources."
Damian's lips curved faintly.
He liked that phrasing.
"Where is the garrison captain?" Damian demanded.
"Rallying the men, my lord," Sir Pants replied. "Though morale is… unstable."
"Morale is a luxury," Damian said flatly. "Victory is not earned by feelings."
A distant tremor ran through the floor.
Dust trickled from the ceiling.
Damian's eyes flicked upward for just a moment before he forced his expression back into composure.
"Prepare the inner defenses," he ordered. "Seal the western corridor. If the outer wall falls, we fall back t–"
Another shout echoed from outside.
Closer this time.
Sir Pants hesitated, just barely.
"My lord," he said softly, "if the worst should occur… perhaps arrangements should be made."
Damian turned slowly.
His gaze was icy.
"Arrangements?" he repeated. "You suggest I flee?"
"N-no," Sir Pants said quickly. "Only that contingency plans–"
"This is my fortress," Damian interrupted. "My lands. My name."
He leaned closer, voice low and dangerous.
"I will not be remembered as a lord who ran."
Sir Pants swallowed and nodded fervently.
"Of course, my lord. Of course."
Damian exhaled sharply and turned back to the table.
"Take command of the front," he said. "Stabilize the lines. Show the men that order still exists."
Sir Pants' eyes lit up.
The honor.
The opportunity.
"At once," he said, bowing deeply. "I will not fail you."
"I expect you won't," Damian replied dismissively. "You have much to lose."
Sir Pants straightened, adjusted his armor, and marched toward the chamber doors.
As they closed behind him, Lord Damian stood alone. Lighting a cigarette in his mouth.
The horns continued to scream.
And for the first time since inheriting the fortress…
He wondered whether stone and pride would truly be enough.
—
Sir Pants moved quickly through the command corridor, polished boots clicking against cold stone.
He kept his head low, bowing slightly to officers, nodding at servants, smiling where necessary.
Every glance reminded him. He had been chosen. Trusted. Elevated. Not like the rest of the pitiful soldiers who floundered in chaos.
"The front lines are unstable," a young lieutenant said nervously.
Sir Pants' lips curled faintly. "Unstable?" he repeated, mock concern in his tone. "You mean disorderly, yes. That is why we are here. To enforce order."
The lieutenant swallowed, nodding rapidly.
Sir Pants adjusted his gauntlet, letting his eyes drift over the courtyard below. Chaos reigned. Smoke curled up from shattered wooden barricades, and men ran in every direction.
A scream carried across the stones.
Sir Pants sighed softly. Amateurs.
"Word from the outer wall," a sergeant muttered, glancing nervously at him. "Some say… there's that girl. The one with the… odd face."
"Odd face?" Sir Pants' eyebrow arched. "Explain."
"Well… you know… the scars, the missing eye… some of the men claim they saw her out there… moving among the chaos."
Sir Pants pursed his lips. Moving among the chaos… as if she had any place here.
He let the matter drop with a dismissive gesture. Ridiculous.
But the whispers had been enough to prick his curiosity.
He leaned over the wall, scanning the battlefield below. Screams, the clash of steel, the smell of smoke and blood. Chaos, pure and unrelenting.
Then he saw her.
Three enemy bodies lay at her feet.
She stood among them, still, silent, bloodied.
The wind stirred her hair. The soldiers nearest to him whispered nervously, unsure if they should approach or turn away.
Sir Pants stepped forward, voice careful. "What… what happened here?"
Nobody answered.
He scanned the area around her. No other bodies, no fleeing enemies, only the three at her feet.
His stomach twisted.
He looked again.
She was gone.
Where she had stood, there remained only the three enemy soldiers.
Sir Pants' fingers clenched around the stone.
The rumor, the odd whisper of a strange girl, now carried weight he could not ignore.
She is not like the others…
She is something else entirely.
—
Lord Damian stood alone in the command chamber, a thin curl of smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers.
The horns had not stopped.
They bled into one another endlessly, a sound that scraped against his skull. Each blast carried panic with it. Failure. Collapse.
He exhaled slowly, forcing calm.
Stone would hold.
It always had.
The fortress had endured generations of war, and it would endure this one as well.
Men were replaceable.
Walls were not.
"Report," he demanded to the empty room, though no one answered.
Another tremor shuddered through the floor.
Dust drifted down.
He clicked his tongue in irritation and turned…
"Hello there, lord."
The voice came from behind him.
Flat.
Lifeless.
Close.
Too close.
Damian's blood ran cold.
He turned slowly.
She stood near the doorway, framed by torchlight and shadow.
The nameless slave.
Blood clung to her like a second skin. One eye empty. The other dull, unreadable.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared.
"…You shouldn't be here," he said.
She did not respond.
Damian straightened, pride stiffening his spine even as his heart began to pound.
"Did you think the chaos outside made you brave?" he sneered. "Or foolish?"
She took a step forward.
Then another.
Her voice remained flat. Devoid of triumph.
"Everyone is dying out there," she said. "I just wanted to make sure you felt a fraction of it."
A scream echoed through the walls.
Closer than before.
Damian flinched, then masked it with a scoff.
"You think you've won something?" he snapped. "You're nothing. Even now. You will die here like the rest."
She raised the bow.
For the first time, Damian felt it.
Fear.
"No wait!" he said sharply. "You don't understand. I can still fix this. You don't want to be on the wrong side of history."
The arrow struck.
Not fatal.
Deliberate.
Pain tore through him as he fell, gasping, hands clawing at the floor.
Blood soaked into his fine coat.
The cigarette slipped from his fingers and hissed softly against the stone.
"You..!" he choked. "You stupid little..!"
Something slipped free from his coat.
Clink.
A key.
It skidded across the floor and stopped near her foot.
Damian's eyes widened.
"No," he whispered, panic breaking through completely.
He reached for it.
She stepped on his hand.
The bones cracked.
She bent down and picked up the key, holding it up to the light.
"What's this for?" she asked.
"A vault," Damian lied instantly. "Just ledgers. War records. Worthless to you!"
She didn't reply.
Her gaze drifted past him.
To the wall.
The door.
Plain.
Unadorned.
Out of place.
Her breath slowed.
She walked to it.
Unlocked it.
Inside stood a single lever.
Silence filled the room.
Damian saw it then.
True terror.
"No," he rasped. "Please. That's not.. you don't understand what that is."
She stood still, staring at it.
At him.
"What is it?" she asked.
"It's a last resort," he said desperately. "A deterrent. A weapon meant to never be used."
Her fingers brushed the handle.
"If you pull that," he pleaded, "everything dies. You too."
She turned toward him.
"For once," she said softly, "that makes it fair."
She pulled the lever.
"Nooooooooo!"
In that instant, a blinding white light swallowed the windows.
Sound vanished.
Not exploded.
Vanished.
Silence pressed in.
She stood there, heart pounding, suddenly unsure.
Was this right?
The doubt crept in too late.
She walked to the window.
Outside, the sky was gone.
In its place rose a towering column of fire and smoke.
A mushroom cloud.
Large enough to erase the world she had known.
She looked down.
Lord Damian lay motionless.
His throat was slit.
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then noticed the cigarette beside his body.
Still faintly burning.
She picked it up.
Held it awkwardly.
Examined it.
She brought it to her lips.
Inhaled.
Coughed violently.
Once.
Twice.
Then tried again.
Slower.
Smoke burned her lungs.
She exhaled, watching it drift.
"…So that's why," she murmured.
She took another drag.
Longer.
She smiled softly.
"I like it," she said quietly, to no one in particular.
Heat rushed in.
The roar of sound returned.
Flames tore through the chamber.
She didn't run.
She felt relieved.
As her body turned to ash…
Something opened behind her.
A silent rift tearing through space and time.
Her soul was torn free and pulled into it.
The fortress vanished.
Her suffering ended.
And the girl who had never been named…
Did not die afraid.
The girl who had lived a life of torture and pain…
Left it silently.