The air outside the capital carried the taste of cinders. Even the wind felt heavy, dragging the scent of smoke and burnt metal through the camp where three figures sat around a dying fire. Their armor was dulled by dust, their cloaks cut short by travel, their expressions drawn in silence.
It had been a long time since they'd stood this close to modern civilization—and longer since they'd had to choose a side.
Texan jabbed the embers with a stick, watching sparks scatter into the night. "So," he muttered, "we gotta pick a faction."
Recon looked up from his bowstring, frowning. "You're saying that like we actually have options."
"We do," Himmel said, voice low but steady. "Seven of them. That's seven chances to live—or seven ways to die."
He unfolded a piece of parchment and pinned it with a dagger to the dirt. The map was smudged and torn, but every mark on it was deliberate: symbols for factions, scribbles for rumors, and hastily drawn lines that crisscrossed the continent like scars.
Himmel started with what they already knew.
"The First Prince," he said, tracing a finger over the parchment, "is the richest. He controls most of the merchant guilds. If gold decided the throne, it'd already be his."
Texan scoffed. "Bought loyalty breaks fast. One coin short, and half his men turn."
"Exactly," Himmel said. "Then there's the Third Prince—military powerhouse. His soldiers are everywhere, but they follow the coin too."
"I wont lie, joining the second princess is definitely the safest bet. She already killed so many of the other factions and she had money but the guilds don't like her. Probably because she did scummy shit in order to kill the other factions. Not only that if we did join her we would just be foot soldiers." Himmel marked her faction out.
Recon leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Then there's the Fourth Prince. Strongest fighter of the heirs. Doesn't have much, but his people love him."
"Love doesn't feed an army and it also mean's it'll be too difficult to join their ranks." Texan replied.
"The Fifth Prince has spies in every city," Himmel continued. "Knows what happens before it does. But too paranoid. He'd see us as a threat the moment we joined."
Texan whistled softly. "Sixth Princess?"
"Poor," Himmel said. "But loyal. Shaman bloodline. Religious backing, though not much steel."
Recon frowned. "And that leaves the Seventh."
The name lingered like smoke between them.
Texan rubbed his jaw. "Didn't she get attacked? Whole faction gutted?"
"Exactly why she needs us," Himmel said. "She's rich, or was. If she's alive, she's desperate—and desperation means opportunity."
Recon raised a brow. "So the plan is to side with a dying princess and hope she pays well?"
Himmel looked at him, firelight glinting off his eyes. "The plan is to find the one person who needs us enough not to betray us."
Silence. Then Texan nodded once. "Alright. Seventh Princess it is."
Recon sighed. "Guess I'll stop arguing before someone calls me democratic."
The parchment crinkled as Himmel folded it. "We leave at first light."
By morning, the capital's upper walls were visible again—black teeth biting the sky.
The trio moved through its outer rings, passing streets lined with beggars, blacksmiths, and soldiers who looked too tired to care which banner they served under. Each faction's crest had been plastered over another's; every wall was a history of war written in paint and blood.
As they pressed deeper into the north district, the ground turned uneven, split by blast marks and cratered cobblestone. A faint tang of ozone hung in the air.
Texan muttered, "This part of the city smells like someone tried to erase it."
"They did," Himmel said. "This was where her mansion stood. The attack must've started here."
The road curved past a broken bridge that crossed a dry canal. Beyond it lay the ruins of what had once been luxury—gates of wrought iron now twisted into blackened vines, a courtyard buried under ash.
Recon's voice dropped to a whisper. "Something's wrong. Even the crows won't land here."
They stepped through the gate.
The wind whistled through shattered windows, dragging with it the stench of burned oil and blood.
The mansion was massive, or had been—walls of polished stone cracked open like ribs, marble floors smeared red and black. The banners that once carried the Seventh Princess's sigil, a silver crescent over twin spears, now hung in tatters.
Texan kicked a loose helmet aside. "Whoever hit this place didn't hold back."
"Fire magic," Himmel said, scanning the scorch patterns along the walls. "Dozens of fireballs, maybe more. But the strikes aren't random. They aimed for choke points—doorways, stairwells. This was coordinated."
Recon crouched near a corpse half-covered in ash. The armor still bore the crescent insignia. "Fresh," he murmured. "Less than a day."
"Then whoever did this might still be close," Texan said.
"Or they finished their job," Himmel replied. "Either way, keep your guard up."
They entered the grand hall. The roof was caved in, sunlight cutting through the smoke in pale beams. The silence was almost holy—broken only by the drip of water from the shattered fountain in the center.
Texan's voice echoed softly. "This isn't a battlefield. It's a slaughterhouse."
And then a sound—a cough.
It came from beyond the toppled columns. A wet, guttural sound, human and not.
They drew weapons immediately, spreading out as they approached the noise.
"Who's there?" Recon called out.
A chuckle answered him, deep and broken. "Ha… who do you think?"
The voice carried familiarity. When they rounded the broken column, they saw him—an enormous orc slumped against a cracked granite pillar.
His right arm was gone, his left leg severed mid-thigh. A banner had been torn from the wall and used as a makeshift bandage. His chest rose and fell like a collapsing bellows.
But even half-dead, his presence was unmistakable.
Himmel stepped forward cautiously. "You… I know you."
The orc grinned weakly through bloodied tusks. "Good. Means my memory's not lying to me."
Texan's eyes widened. "You're the guy from the capital. The one who showed us the bazaar."
The orc chuckled, which turned into a wheezing cough. "Name's Marth. General of the Seventh Princess. Or I was, before the fire took most of me."
He leaned his head back against the stone, sweat glistening on his forehead. "What brings three ghosts like you here?"
Himmel crouched beside him. "We came to join her."
That earned a laugh—a hoarse, bitter sound. "Join her? Boy, you're standing in her grave."
"No," Himmel said simply. "You're still breathing. That means she is too."
Marth's smile faded, but his eyes softened. "Still as stubborn as the last time I saw you."
Texan looked around the ruined hall. "What happened?"
"Assassins," Marth said. "From the Second Princess. She doesn't fight wars. She ends them in silence and fire."
He coughed again, the sound wet and thick. "They came before dawn. Burned everything. The Princess escaped through the old tunnels. I stayed to buy time."
Recon shook his head. "And paid the price."
"Not yet," Marth said with a crooked grin. "I'm still here."
The room went quiet. Smoke drifted lazily through the cracks in the roof.
Himmel stared at him for a long time. "Then we'll finish what you started."
Marth blinked. "You serious?"
"We want in," Himmel said. "You still have men somewhere, right?"
"Not many," Marth admitted. "And they've lost hope."
"Then we'll give it back."
For a moment, Marth studied him. The faint flicker of amusement passed across his face. "You really think you can just walk in and become saviors?"
"No," Himmel said. "But I can fight. And I can lead. That's enough for now."
Marth closed his eyes and let out a low, tired laugh. "You've got the kind of madness this faction needs."
Texan folded his arms. "So what now? You point, we march?"
Marth smirked faintly. "Not quite."
He gestured toward the granite column beside him. "Push that."
Recon frowned. "It's solid stone."
"Push," Marth repeated.
Himmel stepped forward and pressed his shoulder against the slab. It didn't budge at first. Then Texan joined him, their combined strength forcing a low rumble through the floor.
With a grinding sound, the column slid aside, revealing a spiral staircase descending into black.
Heat rolled out from below—warm air thick with oil and iron.
Marth's voice rasped behind them. "That's where the last of the Princess's army waits. What's left of it."
Texan turned back. "You coming?"
Marth smiled weakly. "I'll follow when I can still stand."
But they all knew he wouldn't.
Himmel hesitated, meeting the dying general's gaze. "We'll keep her alive."
Marth's grin was faint but genuine. "Good. Make it count."
The stairs creaked as they descended. The deeper they went, the thicker the air became. When they finally reached the bottom, the space opened into a vast underground hall.
Dozens of torches flickered along the walls, their light falling across rows of wounded soldiers. Maybe thirty of them total. Some lay on stretchers, others sat sharpening what weapons they had left—most of them dented or cracked.
The moment the newcomers appeared, eyes turned. Suspicion filled the air like smoke.
A young orc limped forward, clutching a halberd. "Who are you?"
Himmel raised his hands, palms open. "Friends. We came for the Princess."
The soldier glanced toward the others. "There's no Princess here."
Recon tilted his head. "Liar. Someone's still leading this mess."
The orc hesitated, then nodded toward a corner hidden by tattered curtains. "She's resting. Took a spear through the side during the retreat."
Texan exhaled. "She's alive then."
"Tch what's it mean to you," the soldier said.
Himmel stepped past him, scanning the survivors. "You all still breathing means there's still a chance. That's all we need."
The orcs exchanged glances, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
Texan turned toward the curtain, lowering his voice. "You think she'll take us?"
"She'll have to, she doesn't have much of a choice," Himmel said.
They waited there, in the dim glow of the dying torches, surrounded by the ghosts of a faction that once ruled half the capital.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic breathing of soldiers who refused to die.
Above them, far above the stone ceiling, the mansion stood silent.
Marth leaned against the pillar, his breaths growing slower, his smile fading but never leaving his face. The sound of the column grinding shut echoed like a sigh.
And below, in the hollow heart of the city, the last survivors of the Seventh Princess's army prepared to rise again.