After an undisputed reign, the Lux Empire, primarily formed by the alliance of the Solis and Listra kingdoms, had finally fallen. This dominion, which had lasted over four centuries, had just collapsed.
"We've assassinated the Devil! Satan has fallen!" cried a soldier, holding Emperor Quintus III's head impaled on his spear.
Before this day, which entered the annals of human history, life in this once-great empire was unbearable. Famine spread faster than light; it was a living hell. Barbarian invasions multiplied due to the political instability within the kingdom.
Civil wars destabilized the empire, weakening it against the barbarian threats.
These barbarian peoples were led by Marcilius, son of Cornelius II, King of Hov.
Hov had become the greatest military power in the world after Cornelius II's ascension to the throne. They extensively plundered the wealth of their neighboring countries, brutalizing them with the aim of forging future alliances.
Lux and Hov were separated by three nations: Løve, Schwert, and Colva. These vaguely poor nations were easy targets for the barbarian kingdoms. Hov was on its way from being a mere republic to an empire, placing it on par with Lux.
Løve and Schwert were easily overrun and conquered, with minimal casualties. Only 303 out of 3,500 combatants lost their lives.
It was with the remaining 3,197 fighters that Hov invaded Colva, and that's when everything took a dramatic turn.
Three days earlier, Regent François, who governed the country in place of the ailing King Olivier, recognized the gravity of the situation and began preparing a defensive system.
Over those three days, with the help of his legion of professional soldiers, he set up traps along every perimeter of the border:
Booby-trapped ditches: Hidden pits filled with stakes.
False retreats: The army feigned flight to lure the enemy into a trap.
Baits: Undefended villages designed to draw enemies into an ambush.
Ensnaring gates: Structures designed to close and trap invaders.
Everything was prepared and perfected during those three days, leading up to January 18, 1192, the start of Hov's invasion of Colva.
In the dense snow, the battle at the border raged for two days and two nights. The commander of Hov's armed forces was brutally executed during the fighting, forcing Hov into a momentary retreat.
"Yaaaaah... don't let them escape! They'll regret ever setting foot on our land!"
"After them, my brave fighters! Let's avenge our allies who fell to these barbarians!"
With a wave of his hand, Regent François ordered his combatants to pursue them when suddenly, a flaming arrow lodged itself in his right shoulder. Dozens more followed, then hundreds. Hov had reinforcements.
Regent François, his shoulder bleeding, turned back to his soldiers, who were gripped by fear and destabilized by the flaming arrows. He dismounted his horse and stood firm in the snow.
"Listen to me, you dogs of war! Before us are men who want our land, our women, our children... They want to take everything—and they think we'll let them? Let them come!"
"Because today, death doesn't win. We do. We're going to break their bones, tear off their skin, drown them in their own blood. We're going to make them regret every step they took towards Colva. They think we'll flee? That we'll beg? No. We will scream, strike, bite if we must. Because we are not here to survive. We are here to kill. This field, this ground, will drink their blood like never before. And if we must die... then we die standing, weapon in hand, with their corpses beneath our feet! The first one to retreat, I will cut down myself. No glory. No pity. Today, we become monsters."
"For Colva! For the blood! FOR WAR!"
The soldiers, hesitant but motivated by the regent's speech, gathered their courage and charged headfirst into their demise, riding through the flaming arrows that brought down one soldier after another.
Even the regent, his back still turned to the carnage, took an arrow to the chest, killing him instantly.
"No one believed we'd hold out for two hours against these barbarians, and now the sun has risen, marking the third day of this war."
"Even in death, we must fight to the end."
One of the soldiers turned back, taking not only his own horse but two more horses from his fallen comrades.
"Oscar, where do you think you're going with those horses?"
"Can't you see we've lost? I have to reach my wife and daughter and cross the border. There, I'll be under the protection of Monarch Phillip II."
...
"Don't look at me like that. You know very well that after we die, these barbarians will massacre our children and violate our women. That's not the future I envisioned for them."
The snow began to fall. Colva had lost 998 of the 1,156 soldiers they had sent to the front. It was the end.
"This is the end. My body won't respond. I raise my sword one last time. For this is the end."
Hov had undeniably won the battle for the border.
As a sign of victory, the regent's head was decapitated and impaled on a spear, and the few remaining soldiers were captured.
Hov's casualties were unprecedented: one commander assassinated, 801 soldiers killed in action, and 1,436 severely wounded.
"Listen to me!" shouted Stål, second-in-command to Commander Christianssen of Hov.
"We now have full control of your borders. We will proceed with the complete invasion of this country's territories."
"Nevertheless, you have our utmost respect for having held us back for over 64 hours."
In every country they invaded, Hov took the survivors as slaves. Some were sold, others used for military purposes, or executed at the palace as entertainment for King Cornelius II.
Their process was brutal: children deemed frail were executed, while the more robust were used as servants. The cleverest received special training in craftsmanship and the creation of large-scale weapons.
As for the women, the most beautiful were reduced to instruments of pleasure, while the less attractive were forced to fight each other to entertain the king; the survivor was guaranteed to live for at least six more months.
Cornelius emerged from his tent, pitched not far from the border, and walked towards the battleground, accompanied by his best friend, Vind Cascar.
"Your father is going to be furious when he finds out how many soldiers we lost in this battle."
"It's the price we pay for underestimating our adversaries. I pity what will happen to the inhabitants of this nation."
"I'm taking five women back with me this time. I missed my chance in Schwert, I won't miss it now..."
"Hmm..."
"You don't seem particularly excited by this victory."
Cornelius was a reluctant leader. He had always dreamed of being a writer, traveling the world, and recounting his adventures in his works.
His destiny was upended at the age of eight when he awakened and unlocked precognition, allowing him to briefly glimpse future events. Since then, he had been treated as a deity by his people, and at fifteen, he became the head of Hov's army.
Thanks to this extrasensory perception, he led Hov to its first victory in the cold lands of Vatten, their neighboring country and greatest enemy.
However, since then, this psychic ability had faded. But thanks to his victory over their neighbor, Hov became a global superpower, expanding its territory daily, ensuring his place at the head of Hov's army.
Gurgle...
They arrived at the battle site and came face to face with the massacre. The snow-covered ground was soaked with blood and strewn with bodies, some still frozen in postures of struggle, their eyes wide and fixed on a gray, indifferent sky.
Broken shields, axes embedded in the earth, split spears, and dented helmets lay among the corpses. In the distance, structures slowly burned after being attacked.
Ravens and wolves, drawn by the scent of death, already prowled, ready to claim what the living had left behind.
The few survivors limped, bloodied, their faces covered in sweat and dried blood, their eyes vacant or tearful, walking among the dead in search of comrades, or delivering a swift end to the dying.
Some collapsed to their knees, praying to the Norse gods, murmuring the names of Odin or Freyja, hoping the valiant would reach Valhalla.
The decapitated head of the valiant François, impaled on a spear, was nearby, his lifeless eyes staring intently at them.
Stål approached. "A place is surely reserved for him in Valhalla."