The Last Banner

The heavy oak doors to the main hall creaked open, revealing a room thick with tension. Duke Leonidas sat at the head of the long table, his frail figure dwarfed by the high-backed chair. Though his skin was pale and his breathing shallow, his eyes burned with resolve, a glimmer of the leader he had once been.

Alexander stood to the Duke's right, his polished breastplate catching the flickering light of the hearth. Calm and imposing, he radiated the confidence of a seasoned warrior. To the Duke's left, Hadrian leaned slightly forward in his chair, his sharp grey eyes scanning the room, though he remained silent, letting the discussions unfold as he absorbed every word.

Arrayed around the table were Thrace's key military advisors. At their center stood Commander Darius, a grizzled veteran with a salt-and-pepper beard and a scar cutting across his right cheek. His armor was plain but well-maintained, and the weight of decades of battle experience was evident in the way he carried himself.

Leonidas coughed, the sound raspy and painful, yet it commanded the room's attention. He gripped the armrests of his chair as he spoke. "The goblins march on Thrace. Four thousand strong, by the latest reports. They lack the discipline and equipment of our forces, but their numbers alone present a threat we cannot take lightly."

Commander Darius stepped forward, planting both hands on the table as he addressed the room. His voice was deep and steady, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Goblins rely on chaos and sheer numbers to overwhelm their enemies. Their warriors are small, lightly armored, and poorly trained, but they are relentless. They'll swarm our walls like rats, looking for every crack and weakness."

"They have no siege equipment," one of the advisors interjected. "The walls should hold."

Darius shook his head, his expression grim. "They don't need siege engines when they have shamans. Goblin magic may be crude, but it's effective in numbers. Together, their shamans can summon fire and lightning strong enough to batter our defenses. If they coordinate their attacks, they'll create breaches where none should exist."

Alexander frowned, crossing his arms. "How many shamans are we talking about?"

"Scout reports estimate thirty to forty," Darius replied. "They'll be their weak point. If we can eliminate the shamans early, we can strip them of their ability to breach the walls. But that won't be easy. They'll be surrounded by their warriors, guarded like prized assets."

Leonidas exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the chair's armrest. "The walls are strong, but they will not hold forever. We must prepare for the possibility of a breach. Darius, the city's defense is yours to command."

Darius straightened, his scarred face resolute. "I won't fail you, my lord."

The Duke turned to Alexander, his voice softening. "Alexander, the cavalry is yours. Should the goblins leave themselves exposed, strike hard and fast. Break their momentum and scatter their forces."

Alexander nodded. "Understood, Father. We'll be ready."

Leonidas's tired gaze shifted to the rest of the table. "Thrace's defenders number 1,500. Here is how we stand:

Spearmen: 400. Stationed at the gates and along the walls, they will form the first line of defense.

Archers: 300 longbowmen positioned along the walls to thin the goblin ranks as they advance.

Swordsmen: 500 infantry held in reserve, ready to reinforce weak points or defend breaches.

Cavalry: 200 knights under Alexander's command, to counter goblin flanks and crush vulnerable targets.

Artillery: 100 engineers operating trebuchets and ballistae, positioned to target the largest clusters of goblins and disrupt their shamans.

Darius leaned forward, his voice taking on a sharp edge. "Our strategy is simple. We hold the walls. The archers and artillery will thin their ranks while the spearmen and swordsmen maintain the lines. If a breach occurs, we close it quickly. The key will be discipline. If we panic, we're finished."

The room murmured in agreement, the tension thick but focused.

Leonidas coughed again, his frailty showing as Alexander steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. "If the walls hold, Thrace holds. If they fall... the city falls with them. There is no retreat, no surrender. We fight to the last."

Hadrian remained quiet, his mind racing as he absorbed every detail. The sheer number of goblins was staggering, but it was their shamans that concerned him the most. Low-tier magic or not, concentrated fire and lightning could create chaos, weakening the walls and the soldiers' morale. He didn't voice his thoughts, not yet. He needed more information, more time to piece together the variables.

Darius glanced around the room, his tone growing gruffer. "We have two days to prepare. Every soldier will be drilled. Every weapon will be checked. If there's so much as a cracked arrowhead or a loose hinge on a gate, I want it fixed. We leave nothing to chance."

Alexander smirked faintly, his voice cutting through the tension with a touch of confidence. "You sound almost as bad as Hadrian. He'll be pleased to hear someone else yelling at the troops for a change."

A few chuckles broke the somber mood, but Hadrian didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the table.

Leonidas's voice cut through the moment of levity, quiet but firm. "You all know your roles. Go. Make ready. And may the Eternal Flame guide us all."

The council rose, the weight of the coming battle hanging over them like a storm cloud. Alexander lingered, steadying his father as the Duke struggled to his feet. Darius gave a brisk nod to Hadrian as he left, his expression one of quiet respect.

Hadrian remained seated for a moment longer, his mind churning with plans and possibilities. The goblins thought their numbers would overwhelm Thrace. They didn't understand the strength of discipline and strategy—or the power of the weapons now at Thrace's disposal.

The city of Thrace was alive with the urgency of war. Soldiers moved in tight formations, their armor clinking as they marched to their stations. Blacksmiths worked tirelessly, their hammers ringing out against anvils as they sharpened swords and repaired armor. Merchants scurried to secure their wares, while civilians fled to the inner districts under the watchful eyes of city guards. The tension in the air was palpable—a storm brewing just beyond the horizon.

Hadrian stood at the base of the city walls, his matchlock militia arrayed before him in precise lines. The fifty men stood at attention, their polished weapons gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Behind them, his fifty spearmen practiced formation drills under the watchful eye of a sergeant.

He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over his men. "This is it," he said, his voice steady and clear. "The goblins think they can break us with numbers. They think they can throw their hordes against these walls and overwhelm us. But they're wrong."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "You've trained for this moment. You know your weapons, your formations, your orders. Discipline will win this battle, not chaos. And discipline is what sets you apart. When they come, you will hold the line. You will fire together, reload together, and fire again. And when the dust settles, it won't be their numbers that matter. It'll be your discipline that saves this city."

A ripple of murmurs passed through the ranks, a mixture of tension and determination. Hadrian turned to one of his men. "What happens if you panic?"

The soldier hesitated, then answered. "We die, sir."

"Exactly," Hadrian said. "But if you hold the line, you'll live—and they'll die. Remember that."