49 lines
No EOL
2.9 KiB
Markdown
49 lines
No EOL
2.9 KiB
Markdown
**Marcas of the Third Legion** stepped beneath the sundered archway of the **Palace Keep**, his boots crunching on shards of ancient tile and broken arms. The breath of battle still hung in the air—smoke, iron, and the bitter tang of old wood set aflame. His red cloak, speckled with ash, trailed behind him like a slash of blood against the grey-stone ruin.
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The great bronze doors had been torn from their hinges. One lay curled in upon itself, warped by fire. The other rested half-buried in rubble, a broken standard of the kings of Talpis pinned beneath it.
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He passed through the **Hall of Echoes**, where once diplomats and clan lords had debated beneath stained glass now shattered. Wounded guards moaned on the floor, bandaged by Imperial medics. One raised his head at the sound of Marcas’ footsteps, only to flinch and lower it again.
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Marcas stopped beside a dying knight still in chainmail, face slick with sweat. The man’s tabard bore the emblem of a mountain wolf, slashed across the chest with a blade.
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“She was here?” Marcas asked.
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The knight coughed. “She… ran. Below. A stair—sealed. Only the bloodline knows…”
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“What stair?” Marcas knelt beside him.
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The knight’s eyes began to glaze. “You… can’t follow. Not you.”
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Marcas rose. “We’ll see.”
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He continued onward, sword drawn more out of habit than need. The palace had fallen. What remained was **the hunt**.
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The **Hall of Kings** greeted him like a tomb. Statues still stood, though one had collapsed sideways, its face shattered. Snow and ash covered the floor. A trail of footprints led across the chamber, converging at the old dais—where debris had been hastily cleared. A tapestry shoved aside. A scent of opened stone lingered in the air.
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Marcas walked forward, his eyes scanning every shadow. At the base of the First Throne, a faint seam cut through the floor: a hatch, now sealed. Melted snow had trickled down the grooves.
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“Bring me the archivist,” he said, turning to the officer behind him.
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A moment later, the old imperial scholar hobbled forward. “This was… long lost, my lord,” he muttered. “A royal escape shaft. Records said it was sealed three kings ago.”
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Marcas nodded once. “Not sealed enough.”
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He stood in silence, gaze fixed on the closed gate. **She had escaped.**
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Not through luck.
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Through **lineage**.
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He turned, cloak swirling. “Send word to the camps. She’s not in the city. The Princess has fled into the Mourning Peaks.”
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“What of the survivors, Legate?” his aide asked.
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Marcas glanced back at the wounded still scattered across the halls. Servants. Loyalists. Ruined nobility.
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“Interrogate them,” he said. “Then mark the bodies.”
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He did not wait for the response. He was already moving, each step heavier with the burden of unfinished conquest.
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Behind him, the broken throne of Talpis stood cold and empty.
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And beneath it, the blood of kings had already begun to dry. |