Just past noon on the twenty-eighth day of the eighth month in the year 476 of the Eleventh Era, the merciless sun failed to impose its might upon the mortals below, thwarted by thick banks of cloud and a bone-chilling autumn wind that shielded them from its blaze. Outside Cynthia Palace, a sea of heads bobbed with the rise and fall of the moat waters. Godma's soldiers methodically searched every corner of the royal palace, ensuring no member of the royal lineage might slip through their net. The surviving citizens were corralled onto the cleared Plaza of Priests before the palace, packed so tightly it defied imagination: save for the soles of their feet and the crowns of their heads, every inch of one's body pressed intimately against another; many had corpses wedged between their legs—perhaps a son's, or a father's belonging to someone else in that very crowd.
Above the Priest Gate hung a ghastly display of nobility, from dukes down to viscounts. A cluster of burly Godman soldiers were hoisting the body of a young man who had been knighted only the previous day. In two hours' time, Claire Grace's body would join them there, suspended for all races to behold. Marquess Gozi of Brennoria stood just under two meters tall yet weighed five hundred pounds—a titan of blubber exceptional even among Brennoria's famed giants. Servants labored under his palanquin, leaving deep footprints with every step, yet the marquess's raspy wheezing drowned out their collective strain. He was to deliver a speech—to proclaim to all citizens of Phyal the fall of the Kingdom of Cynthia, the valor of Godma in battle, and the cowardice of the Cynthian royal house. By cruel coincidence, not long before, Phyal's citizens had gathered at this very spot to hear Claire Grace—Queen of Cynthia—deliver her final address. The only difference was that then hope had outweighed despair in their eyes. Now, the scales had tipped irreversibly.
"We have offered the fiercest resistance," Claire said from the hastily erected platform, her voice quavering. She could not even tell if tears were streaming down her face. Fever consumed the queen; under the gaze of her subjects, she wished the earth would swallow her whole. She believed she had failed them—failed to defend Cynthia, failed to protect Phyal. The burden was hers alone. "We did our utmost. We offered the fiercest resistance." Many in the crowd dabbed at their eyes, assuming this would be history's briefest speech—merely two lines in total. After several deep breaths, the queen raised the speech drafted by Archmage Hamilton—and tore it to shreds before them all. The Archmage, observing from a corner, nodded without disappointment.
"So this is the final hour," she proclaimed, her voice resonant and solemn. "Just now, we've deployed our last garrison, holding the line from the Goria Grand Bathhouse to the Plaza of Priests. They constitute our final armed force. Even the palace guard I have reduced to minimal numbers. I can declare with clear conscience that, at this moment, we have done everything within our power."
Scattered applause rippled through the crowd.
"But perhaps this is not your final hour. For you are not extinguished—children of Cynthia. You can—indeed you must—become the armed strength, the last defenders of Phyal." The queen touched her breastplate, then the sword at her hip. "You have surely heard: when Kadenford's walls first fell to the enemy, I personally led reinforcements. Then, I wore this very armor." Fists rose skyward; voices cried out in praise of their queen. "And today I will take up arms once more and fight on this final battlefront. We shall not surrender, nor sign any peace treaty, nor beg mercy from the men of Godma. You cannot communicate with Godma through words; their only language is blood and slaughter, never love and compassion. Take up your weapons, my people. I will stand before you—lead you to fight in the streets, atop the buildings, across the squares. Wherever enemies surge forward, we shall break their advance. In the end, we may perish, but we will never yield. The memory of Alaxia, the blood of the Argonians—these are our sharp sword and stalwart shield. Better to die with glory than live in disgrace. Let us fight for this land, for the country that sustains us all."
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People rushed to their homes, retrieving anything capable of inflicting harm; even sharpened wooden stakes were pressed into service. Several dwarves joined The Gambril Oathsworn to defend eastern Phyal. Their equipment, inherited from fallen comrades, was caked with dried blood and reeked of death. Among the remaining humanoid races, one hundred twenty halflings established defensive fortifications around the palace. As for the goblins, they formed a lengthy queue before the dispatch office, awaiting pouches, paper, and pens. Through their intricate network of tunnels, they dispatched desperate pleas for aid to scattered bands beyond Phyal's borders; though the effort yielded meager results, their determination never faltered.
The first position to collapse lay directly south of Cynthia Palace. Lord Loyes's forces, overwhelmed by the enemy's relentless human-wave tactics, abandoned the Goria Grand Bathhouse and its strategic crossroads. Subsequently, the rout spread like contagion through every quarter of Phyal; except for the volunteers led by the queen herself, every defensive line crumbled in sequence. Claire Grace's white steed wove through the labyrinthine streets; behind her, Blancheless Liwendell's vigilant gaze constantly shifted between queen and foe, determined to ensure Her Majesty suffered minimal harm in battle. Since returning to Phyal, this marked Claire's first time donning armor to command troops. After her return from Kadenford, she had been virtually confined; forbidden from venturing beyond palace grounds. Archmage Hamilton, Lord Loyes, and Rhones Lord had unanimously agreed upon this restriction—when they learned that during the Kadenford conflict, a knight had nearly penetrated her protective circle to assassinate the queen, their terror drove each to consume several tankards of ale.
Today, no one restricted her movements. Not from lack of concern, but because they recognized that now, she embodied hope itself—its living symbol. She was Cynthia's final cornerstone, upon which everything hinged.
"As you can plainly see, Cynthia has fallen." The Marquess of Brennoria's chin appeared to be a cluster of three slabs of flesh, swinging rhythmically like pendulums as he spoke. "And we—we of Godma—are successful, righteous, perfect. We..." He frowned deeply; the flesh of his face collapsed together like an overcooked pie. "What drivel is this?" he muttered to the slave crouching beside him, anger seeping into his tone. The man shrank even smaller. "'We shall treat you as family, let you eat our meat and drink our wine'!?" he snarled through gritted teeth. "Who considers them our family? You? And let them eat our meat! Meat!" The marquess struck the slave's face with an open palm. The man dared not fall, struggling to maintain his footing. "We barely have enough meat for me—and give it to them! Damn it all." With a dismissive flick of his hand, soldiers dragged the slave backward. "Let them sample your meat instead, boy." The slave had no opportunity to explain that the script bore no connection to him whatsoever.
