Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The inner city walls of Almorr rose high, pristine compared to the shattered ruins of the outer districts.

Here, the architecture was grander — ancient mansions built of polished marble, gilded gates, and ornamental spires rising into the sky.

But today, that beauty would become a battleground.

As the Romanus siege towers rumbled forward, servants and slaves from the inner city stood shoulder to shoulder with noblemen, clad in scavenged ceremonial, and decorative armor.

Many held swords that had never tasted blood, shields intended for decoration, and spears more suited to tournaments than war.

But they fought all the same, driven by fear of the invaders and the desperate lies of King Aled, who still proclaimed that foreign devils had come to erase their culture, their bloodline, and their gods.

It was the last lie of a dying king, and yet the nobles and their households clung to it with zeal.

~

At the northern gate of the inner city, Berta led the vanguard.

The battering ram struck with a steady rhythm, its impact shaking the very foundation of the ancient structure.

Ornate carvings shattered into dust as the iron-bound wood split beneath Romanus' relentless blows.

"Ready yourselves!"

Berta's voice rang out, clear and strong.

Her sword gleamed under the morning sun, streaked with soot and blood from the outer district's purge.

With a final, resounding crack, the gates gave way, collapsing inward to reveal a narrow avenue lined with opulent mansions and decorative fountains.

The path to the palace lay open.

But the defenders were ready.

Nobles in ceremonial gold-inlaid breastplates, their family crests displayed proudly, stood in a ragged shield wall.

Behind them, servants and personal guards, some no more than glorified footmen, held halberds, spears, and antique weapons passed down through generations.

There was no discipline.

No proper formation.

But desperation made them dangerous.

"Forward!"

Berta roared, and the Romanus wedge formation plunged into the fray.

~

The clash of iron echoed through the noble quarter.

Romanus shields crashed into the gaudy armor of the defenders, driving them back with relentless precision.

Every stroke from the legionnaires was clean, efficient — stabbing past gaps in gilded plate, cutting down anyone too slow to retreat.

But the nobles fought with fanatic resolve, swinging ancient swords with wild desperation, throwing themselves at the invaders in suicidal lunges.

Blood slicked the mosaic streets as family heirs, once pampered scions of noble bloodlines, were run through by Romanus spears.

In one mansion courtyard, a noblewoman in a flowing silk gown fought with a jewel-encrusted saber, her face streaked with tears and grime as the final living protectorate of her house.

When her blade broke against a Romanus shield, she clawed at her attacker with her bare hands until a dagger ended her life.

There were no non-combatants in the inner city.

~

Block by block, mansion by mansion, the Romanus, Parthian, and Carthaginian forces advanced, securing the noble quarter at terrible cost.

The decorative armor worn by the defenders offered little protection, but the defenders' sheer fanaticism — fueled by lies, pride, and fear — made them dangerous.

Servants ambushed soldiers from windows, dropping boiling oil or hurling bricks.

Children stabbed at the backs of passing legionnaires with letter openers and carving knives.

Entire households fought together, dying together, their family banners burned beside their corpses.

The shadows moved ahead of the main force, assassinating household heads, sowing chaos within the defenders' fragile ranks.

They opened locked gates from within, disabled fire traps, and dragged the nobles' own spies into the streets for summary execution.

By nightfall, half the inner city lay under Romanus control.

~

As the sun set, the victorious forces took shelter in the conquered noble estates, converting grand dining halls and pleasure gardens into temporary barracks.

Wine cellars were raided, larders emptied, and silken beds claimed by weary soldiers.

What little wealth remained was cataloged — some for the treasury, some to be distributed among the troops as reward for their service.

Berta, standing at the balcony of a looted mansion, overlooked the fires still burning in the streets below.

Carthaginian and Romanus officers alike gathered in the courtyard, sharing wine and food, celebrating the day's bloody progress.

Elheat leaned against a column, goblet in hand.

"They fought like lions… but lions can't stand against trained soldiers forever."

Berta shook her head.

"No, but they made us bleed for every inch. These nobles could have surrendered and been spared. Instead, they chose to die draped in gold, choking on their own pride."

Zeff, lounging nearby, grinned.

"At least they had good taste in wine."

~

Within the grand estate turned command post, Bente stood before a massive map table, its surface marked with pins representing the remaining strongpoints within the inner city.

There weren't many left — only a handful of manors still held out, clustered around the final target: the Royal Palace itself.

Berta stood beside him, still wearing her armor, her crimson sash dark with blood.

"Tomorrow,"

she said softly,

"we end this, then we can think about going home."

Bente' gaze didn't leave the map.

"Tomorrow, we capture the king. And when we do, Ramie dies with him."

The moment of softness passed, as the two senior combatants of Aquitania turned Romanus.

Zeff entered the room, wiping blood from his hands with a noble's embroidered curtain.

"Inner city's ours, guys. We've got enough rooms, wine, and loot to keep the army happy for the night. Tomorrow, we finish it, assuming we don't make them wait for it?"

"Let the men rest. They've earned it."

~

Across the noble district, Romanus soldiers and Carthaginian rebels feasted together in the looted wealth of the Ramie elite.

Golden platters held roasted meats, fine silks became makeshift banners and blankets, and musicians — spared from the slaughter — played songs of victory, mourning, and defiance.

The soldiers drank deep but not to the point of becoming useless should a fight break out, knowing that tomorrow would see the final assault.

Whether they lived or died, they would carve their names into history.

Outside, the royal palace loomed in the moonlight, the final bastion, its towers rising above the smoldering city like a specter.

Inside its walls, King Aled trembled, staring at the double doors of his throne room, knowing that by tomorrow night, they would open not to petitioners, but to his executioners.

~

In the mansions, palaces, and halls of the inner city, Romanus and Carthaginian soldiers rested in luxury bought with blood, their bellies full, their swords close at hand.

Outside, the fires of conquest still flickered.

And tomorrow, the last king of Ramie would fall.

The conquerors of Almorr would wake ready for the final storm.

The end was near.

And Romanus would have its victory.