Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The third dawn over Almorr broke beneath a sky of smoke-stained gold, the rising sun barely visible through the haze left by two days of fire and blood.

The inner walls of the Royal Castle stood cracked and splintered from the constant bombardment, their once-pristine white stone now scorched black, streaked with ash and blood.

Bente stood at the head of the assembled Romanus forces, Carthaginian rebels at his left, Parthian auxiliaries at his right.

The once-divided armies had, in the crucible of conquest, become something unified.

Each man and woman knew this was it — the final day.

By nightfall, Ramie would be no more, swallowed up completely by the Victorious Romans.

"Final formations, shields up!"

Bente's voice rang out as the battering rams were hauled into place against the splintered gates of the castle's walls.

The defenders — a bare fraction of the force that once guarded Ramie's proud capital — stood atop the parapets.

No longer the gilded nobles or trembling servants.

These were the king's household guard, clad in simple but sturdy iron, their polished helms concealing gaunt faces too familiar with fear.

Some were the sons and daughters of nobles long since slain, left with no choice but to die for a king who had led them into ruin.

But they stood.

And they fought.

~

The first battering ram struck, the heavy iron head slamming into the cracked wood with a boom that echoed across the silent battlefield.

Every eye was fixed on that gate — the threshold between the kingdom's past and its future under Romanus rule.

The gate gave way within minutes.

Two days of siege had already weakened their available resources and manpower, and the defenders no longer had the strength or will to properly reinforce it.

With a deafening crack, the gates collapsed inward, splintering into countless fragments.

"Advance! Secure the gatehouse!"

Bente led the charge himself, his sword gleaming in the smoky morning light as the Legions surged into the outer courtyard.

Resistance was fierce but brief.

The defenders lacked numbers and coordination, and the combined might of Romanus veterans, Carthaginian rebels, and Parthian auxiliaries overwhelmed them within minutes.

By the time Berta's banner was planted over the shattered gate, the courtyard was drenched in blood.

Hall by Hall, Room by Room

The castle halls, once lavishly decorated with portraits, woven tapestries, and golden chandeliers, had become a labyrinth of barricades and makeshift fortifications.

Furniture was piled high to block corridors, statues toppled to create cover, and decorative suits of armor hastily armed with spears to slow the advance.

It did not work.

The shadows moved first, darting through shadowed side passages, silently cutting down isolated guards, disabling traps, and clearing key choke points before the main force arrived.

The Romanus legions advanced behind them, shields interlocked, advancing step by step.

There were no fanatics left — only cornered nobles, desperate servants, and trembling slaves forced to fight.

The nobles' arrogance had evaporated, replaced by a terror that drove them to die clutching useless heirloom swords or flee, only to be cut down by their own former slaves, eager to win favor with their new masters.

Each hall was taken at a terrible cost, but Romanus momentum never faltered.

~

As the Legions neared the inner sanctum, a small group emerged, hands raised, under a white flag of surrender.

The queen of Ramie, regal even in her defeat, stepped forward.

Flanking her were her two daughters, trembling but silent.

Their silk gowns were dirty, their jewelry gone, and their eyes hollow with the knowledge of everything they had lost.

Bente himself stepped forward to receive them, sword lowered but still drawn.

"I request sanctuary under the Kingdom Of Romanus,"

the queen said, her voice soft but steady.

"Granted, by order of King Julius,"

Bente answered, his tone clipped but respectful.

"You will be taken into custody and treated fairly. Any who dishonors you will answer directly to me, and then to King Julius himself."

The queen nodded once, showing neither gratitude nor relief — just the empty acceptance of a woman whose world had ended.

The princesses, too young to understand the full weight of their fate, clutched their mother's hands as the Romanus guards led them away, escorted swiftly out of the castle and into the protection of Commander Berta's camp, far from the blood-hungry Carthaginian mobs or unruly Parthians.

They were prizes of war, but they would not suffer the fate of so many others, who could not be stopped by their Roman allies.

~

With the upper halls secured, there was only one place left to take — the throne room.

The last door stood open, its wide, gilded frame chipped and scarred from previous fighting.

The tapestries hung limp, stained with soot and blood.

King Aled stood in the center of the chamber, his once-magnificent crown tilted awkwardly on his head.

His robes hung loose, half torn, the velvet stained with sweat.

His sword — an ancient relic passed down through generations of Ramie's kings — was clutched in trembling hands.

"I will not be dragged before your King like a caged beast,"

he growled, voice shaking with rage, fear, and the stubborn pride that had led to his kingdom's ruin.

"I demand a duel. A proper duel — between me and your champion. Let me die with some honor."

Bente, bloodied and tired, stepped forward without hesitation.

"I'll answer that challenge, Your Majesty. I'll send you to your ancestors myself."

The soldiers cleared the hall, leaving the king and Bente facing each other across the shattered marble floor.

~

Aled charged first — clumsy, driven more by pride than skill.

Bente easily sidestepped the swing, his sword flashing out to score a thin line across the king's forearm.

The king was no warrior — whatever training he might have had in his youth had long since faded beneath years of luxury and decadence.

But desperation lent him speed, and he lunged wildly, swinging too hard, leaving himself exposed.

Bente fought like a man who had seen hundreds of battles.

Every strike was measured, every block precise.

He moved like a predator circling a wounded beast.

Clash after clash echoed through the empty hall, until at last, Bente sidestepped a wild overhead swing and drove his sword cleanly into the king's stomach, just beneath the ribcage.

Aled gasped, his crown falling from his head as he stumbled backward, blood staining his already ruined robes.

His sword clattered to the floor.

He collapsed onto his knees, coughing blood, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"It… wasn't supposed to end this way…"

Bente stepped closer, his voice low.

"You could have surrendered. You could have saved them all. Instead, you chose this. Your pride killed your kingdom, not Romanus."

With a final clean stroke, Bente's blade ended the last king of Ramie.

~

Bente stepped back, wiping his blade clean.

Behind him, Romanus officers entered, followed by a Carthaginian standard bearer who stepped forward and drove the banner of Romanus into the dais beside the fallen throne.

Ramie was no more.

The siege was over.

The king was dead.

And by nightfall, the Eagle of Romanus flew from the highest tower of the palace.

The world would remember this day — the day a kingdom died, and an empire took its place.