With the Coalition prisoners of war secured, the artillery was unleashed upon Okland's walls. A barrage of thunder and fire, a relentless storm designed to break not only stone, but spirit. When the guns fell silent, the Blue Army marched into Okland.
The streets were a macabre tapestry woven with the remnants of battle. Broken weapons lay scattered like discarded toys, amidst heaps of debris and the still forms of fallen Coalition soldiers. The air, thick with the smell of smoke and blood, carried the distinct tang of victory. The Coalition flag, a symbol of occupation, had been torn down and replaced with the blue banner of the Kylian nation. Cries of triumph, echoing off shattered buildings, proclaimed the Blue Army's dominance.
Despite the jubilant atmosphere, the faces of the civilians lining the streets told a different story. Some eyes held a stark fear, reflecting the loss of their city and the uncertainty of their future. Others, however, offered tentative looks of hope, perhaps grateful for the end of the old regime, clinging to the promise of a better tomorrow.
The Blue Army marched in perfect formation, a well-oiled machine of war. Their weapons glinted in the sunlight, their uniforms a clear emblem of strength and unity, their heads held high in well-earned pride. The once bustling city was now eerily silent, save for the rhythmic thud of marching boots against cobblestone. The destruction was ignored; the mission, the complete and utter crushing of the Coalition, remained paramount.
At the city center, a grand flagpole stood defiant, or what was left of it. It had once flown the Coalition banner, a symbol of their control over the northern Rosa Basin. Now, it was dominated by the blue of the Kylian flag, draped proudly over the remnants of its predecessor. In the square below, the defeated Coalition soldiers lay captured, a stark contrast to the Blue Army's triumphant procession. Each step, each victorious cry, further solidified the Kylian victory.
Finally, the Blue Army reached its ultimate goal: Lord Koal's palace. The gates were stormed, any remaining resistance quickly dissolved. The enemy soldiers, demoralized and outmatched, surrendered without a fight. At the top of the palace steps stood Kylia, her voice booming across the city.
Kylia, her voice amplified by unseen marvels of Kylian engineering, boomed across Okland, a declaration of victory ringing through the ravaged streets. "The tyrant Koal is dethroned! Okland is free! Kyllia has returned to claim what is rightfully ours!"
The last pockets of Coalition resistance around Lord Koal's palace crumbled like sandcastles before the rising tide. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of fear and stale wine. Koal, a man whose corpulence spoke of years spent gorging himself on the city's resources, had attempted to flee, disguised as a servant. But the sharp eyes of a young Kylian soldier, barely out of training, had spotted him.
Now, he stood shackled before Kylia in the palace's grand hall, his silk robes stained with dirt and sweat. The tapestries depicting glorious battles of the Coalition were already being torn down, replaced by the familiar blue of Kylian standards.
"Koal," Kylia's voice was cold, devoid of pity. "You stand accused of treason, corruption, and the systematic exploitation of the people of Okland. For years, you have bled this city dry, lining your own pockets while your citizens starved. Is this not true?"
Koal, his face a mask of fear, attempted to speak, but only a strangled gasp escaped his lips. He knew the game was over. The lavish lifestyle he had built on the backs of the Okland citizens was about to come crashing down.
"Silence!" Kylia commanded. "Your deeds speak louder than any words you might utter. You have betrayed the trust placed in you, and now, you will pay the price."
She turned to address the crowd of soldiers and Okland citizens who had gathered in the hall, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension. "This man, this parasite, represents the rot that festered within the Coalition's rule. Let his fate be a reminder to all who would seek to enrich themselves at the expense of the innocent!"
The sentence was delivered without hesitation. Koal was to be executed publicly, in the city square, where he had once presided over parades and celebrations of his own supposed glory.
The procession to the square was a spectacle of poetic justice. Koal, stripped of his finery and forced to walk barefoot, was jeered and spat upon by the very people he had oppressed. The same streets that had once been lined with cheering crowds now echoed with cries of hatred and recrimination.
In the center of the square, the hastily erected gallows stood stark against the skyline. The ruined flagpole, now adorned with the Kylian banner, served as a grim backdrop. Koal was pushed onto the platform, his legs trembling beneath him.
As the noose was placed around his neck, Koal finally found his voice, a desperate plea for mercy. "Please! I beg you! Spare me! I can make amends! I can return the wealth I stole!"
Kylia stood at the foot of the gallows, her eyes unwavering. "Your amends will fall short, Koal. The debt you owe to the people of Okland can only be paid in blood."
She raised her hand, and the signal was given. The trapdoor sprung open, and Koal's body plunged downward. A collective gasp swept through the crowd, followed by a moment of stunned silence. Then, a roar of approval erupted, a cathartic release of years of pent-up frustration and anger.
Turning towards her soldiers, assembled in ranks bathed in the harsh morning light, Kylia's voice boomed, resonating with the authority she had earned in the fires of war
"My brave soldiers! We stand here today, victorious on the battlefield, having conquered the Coalition city of Okland and protected our nation! Your courage and determination have brought us to this moment. I am filled with pride and admiration for each and every one of you! This victory is not just a triumph for our army, but for all of our people! Kylians shall never become slaves!"
The Blue Army roared in response, their unified voice a resounding promise, "Kylians shall never become slaves!"
"For the unity of the Kylian nation!" Kylia continued to inspire her men.
"For the unity of the Kylian nation!" they roared back, the shout reaching the highest peaks above, never faltering.
…
The next day, inside Okland's palace, Kylia sat at the head of a long, polished table, flanked by her two most trusted subordinates, Colonel Odin and Captain Yuter. The air in the room hummed with the quiet energy that followed a hard-won victory.
"For review," she began, her voice sharp and efficient, cutting through the silence like a well-honed blade, "we have secured Okland. A decisive victory against a Coalition force of 400. We captured 350 and eliminated 50 soldiers. Our own casualties were minimal: ten in total, with zero fatalities. The Infantrymen who took the brunt of the Coalition charge paid the highest price. Okland is now home to approximately 8,000 people, a decrease of 10% from the pre-war estimate. The Coalition Army has been effectively annihilated within these walls, and the City of Okland is ours. However, we cannot afford to become complacent. Vast swaths of Coalition territory remain."
Odin and Yuter nodded, their faces reflecting the gravity of the situation. These were seasoned knights, veterans of countless battles, their experience etched into the lines around their eyes. They were men who understood the fickle nature of war, the thin line between victory and defeat.
"We should aim for the City of Roscof," Odin suggested, his voice steady, like the slow, deliberate burn of a forge, "cutting off Konsburg from the rest of the Coalition. Starve the head by severing the supply lines."
"Agreed," Kylia replied. "We can then split the Blue Army into two battalions, launching simultaneous attacks on Konsburg and Techiya. A pincer movement. Divide and conquer." Her fingers tapped a complex rhythm on the polished surface of the table.
"We must also fortify Okland's defenses," Yuter added, his gaze sweeping over an invisible battlefield, calculating angles and vulnerabilities, "ensuring that our supply lines remain secure. A poisoned well here could undo all we've accomplished."
"We released some prisoners of war, in order to soften the hearts of the Coalition," Odin chimed in, a hint of cynicism in his tone. "A gesture of goodwill, though I doubt it will be reciprocated."
Kylia nodded in approval. "And when next spring comes, we will withdraw troops from the west and strike east, hitting the remaining Coalition cities of Kokhaver and Rishka in a swift, decisive offensive. We must strike while morale is high, while they are still reeling from Okland. A hammer blow before they can regroup."
"When do we leave?" Odin and Yuter asked in unison, their unwavering loyalty evident in their eagerness to return to the fight.
"We'll take a week of rest, at least," Kylia decided. A flicker of humanity softened her otherwise hardened features. "Our soldiers have marched for months, only to fight a hard and decisive battle. They need a brief respite. Therefore," she declared, making her decision, "by next week, we will march for Roscof." The word hung in the air, a promise of more conflict, more bloodshed.
Meanwhile, that week, Lord Boryslav, the ruler of the City of Roscof, sat alone in his throne room, the weight of his city pressing down on his shoulders. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting long, distorted shadows that mirrored the turmoil within him. His normally confident and stern face was etched with worry and defeat, the lines around his eyes deepened by sleepless nights.
He had received the news of failure at the Battle of Kylia, and it felt like a physical blow. It wasn't just a strategic loss; it was the death knell for hope. Along with it came the implied news of his own men's destruction or capture. Boryslav's forces were severely depleted, outnumbered by the seemingly unstoppable Kylians. A direct confrontation would be suicidal, a futile gesture that would only lead to more suffering. He faced a grim choice: continue fighting a losing war, fueled by pride and desperation, or surrender to the inevitable.
Painful as it was, Boryslav knew that surrendering was the only viable option for his people's survival. Unlike most of his companion lords, he was more compassionate, and he felt his primary responsibility was to protect his citizens, even if it meant sacrificing his own ego.
With a heavy heart, he summoned his most trusted advisors to discuss the possibility of surrender. The council room was thick with tension, the air heavy with unspoken fears. Some advisors vehemently opposed the idea, fearing that surrender would brand them as cowards, a stain on their honor that would never wash away. But Boryslav knew that his people's well-being had to come first, even before his own pride, before the legacy he would leave behind.
One advisor, General Buntarsʹkyy, a hulking figure with a scarred face and a booming voice, voiced the dissent within the room. "My lord, surrendering to the Kylians would mean giving up our land, our people, our pride. It is not a decision to be taken lightly. We must fight! We must bleed for Roscof!"
Boryslav sighed, the sound weary and defeated. "I am aware of the consequences, Buntarsʹkyy. Believe me, I understand the cost. But we must also consider the well-being of our people. We cannot continue fighting a losing war. Our forces are scattered, the Kylians are too strong. To resist further would be madness. We must end this pointless bloodshed before it's too late.
The other advisors offered reluctant nods of agreement, their initial objections slowly eroding under the weight of reality. Lord Boryslav's decision was made: Roscof would surrender to the Kylians, praying that there would be mercy shown.