47 lines
No EOL
3.1 KiB
Markdown
47 lines
No EOL
3.1 KiB
Markdown
**Marcas** did not flinch when the gate gave way.
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He had seen cities fall before. Walls crumble. Fires take hold. But there was something about the sound—when the great **western gate of Talpis** finally broke—that struck him in the chest like a slow, sure hammer.
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It wasn’t a single crash. It was a series of cracks. Groans. Screams of wood sheared by time and war. Then the sharp, iron shriek as the hinges twisted inward. For a moment, the gate hung crooked in its frame like a broken jaw. Then it collapsed entirely, dragged down by its own ruined weight.
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The wind carried the dust upward in a slow spiral, mingling with the snow, until it looked almost holy. Like ash in the breath of the gods.
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Marcas lowered his hand.
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“Advance,” he said.
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The **Third Legion moved** as if it had been waiting for this moment all its life. No war cries. No fury. Just motion—tight ranks, precise steps, formation drills executed in silence. Spears forward. Shields up. Eyes ahead.
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“Second and fourth columns forward through the breach. No looting. No fire unless provoked. Detachments sweep the flanks. We want the palace isolated by nightfall.”
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Orders flowed from him like water from a broken cask. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His men were trained. Hardened. Bred not from vengeance, but efficiency. If they feared the Talpians, they did not show it. If they pitied them, that too was buried beneath layers of iron and snow.
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Darlan, his optio, stood at his side, chewing some root like he always did. His helmet was off, tucked beneath one arm.
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“You want to lead the entry yourself?” Darlan asked.
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“No,” Marcas replied. “Let the city fall before I step on it.”
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Darlan spat. “You think she’s in there? The girl?”
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“I think she knows we are.”
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The ground rumbled faintly as the **first phalanx passed through the shattered gate**, shields glinting dull gray beneath the snowlight. Arrows rained from the inner buildings—pitiful volleys, fired in desperation. One struck a shield and bounced off. Another found a gap and took a soldier in the neck. He fell without a cry. The formation didn’t pause.
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“Sad thing, really,” Darlan muttered. “This place. They fought like it still mattered.”
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Marcas didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the breach.
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Through the gate, he saw glimpses of Talpis: shuttered windows, abandoned carts, doors barricaded with furniture. Snow drifted through open roofs. A child’s toy—a carved stag—lay discarded beside a pool of half-frozen blood.
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He felt no triumph. Only the familiar ache in his shoulder, the tightness in his jaw, and the old, tired question in the back of his mind:
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_What will we do with it once it’s ours?_
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Behind him, another detachment of **sappers began clearing the outer path**, dragging debris to the sides to allow more troops through. Fires had already started—small ones, but they would grow. They always did. War had its own rhythm, and the city would burn in its time.
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Marcas turned and walked away from the gate.
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He had no interest in watching a kingdom bleed out in real time.
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He had work to do. |