The Last Banner

Hadrian forced himself forward, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "Stay close. Shield wall up front. Musketeers stagger behind. We take this one room at a time."

The soldiers moved as commanded, their movements mechanical from exhaustion. The clang of shields locking together echoed against the high stone walls as they advanced into the smoke-filled corridors.

The orcs were waiting. A guttural roar erupted as the first wave of them emerged from the shadows, their crude weapons gleaming in the flickering firelight. They charged with savage glee, their hulking forms a stark contrast to the battered defenders.

"Brace!" Hadrian shouted, his voice hoarse but unwavering.

The spearmen held firm, their shields absorbing the initial impact as the orcs crashed into them. The corridor was narrow, forcing the orcs to fight in close quarters—a weakness Hadrian intended to exploit.

"Musketeers, fire!"

The crack of muskets tore through the confined space, the bullets slamming into the orcs with devastating precision. Blood sprayed as the first row of attackers fell, their bodies crumpling against the shield wall.

"Push forward!" Hadrian commanded, his sword flashing as he stepped into the fray.

The line advanced, spears thrusting with practiced efficiency as they drove the orcs back. The musketeers reloaded quickly, their shots methodical and deadly.

As Hadrian fought, his thoughts gnawed at him. Each step forward felt heavier, as if the weight of his decisions pressed against his chest. I should have been here sooner. I should have been here when they needed me most.

His sword clashed against an orc's axe, the sound ringing in his ears. He twisted, driving his blade into the creature's neck. Blood sprayed, warm and sticky, but the kill felt hollow.

What was I doing all this time? Training soldiers, building weapons, making plans. I thought I was saving them. I thought I was preparing for this.

He ducked beneath another swing, his blade finding its mark again. The orc fell, gurgling, but Hadrian's mind was elsewhere. But I wasn't there when it mattered. I wasn't there for them—my father, my sisters.

The sound of an orc roaring broke through his thoughts. Hadrian turned sharply, his blade rising instinctively. He felt the impact reverberate up his arm as his sword met flesh, but the pain in his chest outweighed anything on the battlefield.

I'm not even their real brother or son. And yet... they loved me. And I... I took them for granted.

The orcs pulled back slightly, regrouping as the defenders advanced further into the keep. The narrow corridor was now littered with bodies—both human and orc.

Hadrian paused, his chest heaving as he stared at the carnage. The walls were smeared with blood, the torches casting long shadows over the fallen. He clenched his jaw, forcing the thoughts aside. Focus. They're still alive. They have to be.

He raised his voice again, his tone sharp. "Move forward. The Duke is still inside. We don't stop until we reach him."

The deeper they moved into the keep, the more the carnage revealed itself. The once-proud stone halls of Thrace's stronghold were now a charnel house. Bodies littered the floors—guards and civilians alike, their lifeless forms twisted and broken. Blood smeared the walls in jagged streaks, the crimson stark against the cold gray stone.

Hadrian slowed his pace as the scene unfolded before him. His men, hardened by hours of battle, faltered slightly, their eyes darting toward the grotesque sights.

"Stay together," Hadrian said, his voice strained but firm. He stepped over a fallen guard, his armor shattered, his face frozen in a grimace of pain. "Don't look too long. Focus on what's ahead."

But even as he spoke, his own eyes were drawn to the bodies. A young woman lay sprawled against the wall, her dress torn and soaked with blood. A child's small hand protruded from beneath a collapsed table, the rest of the body mercifully hidden.

This is what I should have protected them from, Hadrian thought, his chest tightening. This is what I wasn't fast enough to stop.

As they pressed on, the hall grew narrower, the air thicker with the acrid stench of death. The sound of orc grunts and laughter echoed faintly from ahead, accompanied by the clang of metal on stone.

Hadrian's grip on his sword tightened. He glanced over his shoulder at his men, their faces pale but determined. "Spearmen, hold the front. Musketeers, take positions where you can cover the next bend. We'll clear it one section at a time."

The soldiers obeyed, moving with practiced precision despite the horror around them. Hadrian followed closely, his boots squelching in the blood-soaked carpet.

He paused as they reached a large archway, the heavy wooden doors smashed inward. Inside was what had once been a gathering hall, now a scene of unspeakable violence. Bodies hung from the beams, their lifeless forms swinging gently. The floor was littered with the remains of the Duke's guards, their armor shredded, their weapons broken.

Hadrian stood frozen for a moment, his gaze locked on the scene. His breath hitched as he took it in, his mind refusing to reconcile the reality before him.

They trusted me. I told them this city would stand. I told them I'd make things better. And now... this.

His legs felt heavy as he forced himself to step inside. Each body he passed felt like an accusation, their lifeless eyes silently asking why he hadn't been faster, smarter, stronger.

Was it all for nothing? The training, the weapons, the plans? His hand tightened on his sword hilt. No. Not nothing. Not yet.

He turned to his men, his voice hoarse. "Move. Carefully. We keep going."

As they exited the gathering hall and turned down another corridor, the sounds of orcs became clearer—guttural voices, laughter, the sickening sound of something heavy dragging across the floor.

Hadrian's heart began to race. His mind conjured images he couldn't bear to see, but his feet carried him forward anyway. They're still alive. They have to be. We're close.

His breathing quickened as the corridor opened into a wide set of stairs leading up. Blood smeared the bannister, fresh and glistening. Hadrian didn't hesitate.

"This way," he said sharply, his voice trembling slightly. "We're almost there."

The grand staircase twisted upward, the wide steps slick with blood. The air grew heavier with each step, the flickering torchlight casting ominous shadows on the walls. Hadrian moved quickly, his breath sharp, his sword steady in his grip. Behind him, his men followed in tense silence, their boots scuffing against the stone.

At the top of the stairs, the corridor widened into a set of ornate double doors, now smashed inward. The wood was splintered and stained with streaks of crimson, the once-proud sigil of Thrace barely visible beneath the damage.