Rodrick pushes the large throne room doors open and swiftly strides through the echoing chamber. He kneels on one knee, head bowed, a respectful distance from the throne. There, seated in full plate armour, is King Nicholas Valthorne, the Ironvale crown perched upon his head—a symbol of absolute authority in the kingdom.

  "Sire, I'm afraid the city has fallen, after dead fiends breached the walls a few days ago they have overrun all of the districts and they are already surrounding the castle."

  King Nicholas Valthorne says nothing. Slowly, he stands and walks to the large window, gazing down at the smoke-filled city below.

  "Sire! What are your orders?" Rodrick exclaims after receiving no reply.

  After a long pause, the king finally speaks. "Sir Rodrick," he asks, "how long have you served the crown?"

  Rodrick lifts his head to meet his king’s gaze. "Sire, I served your father, the late king, for almost fifteen years before he fell to the plague. I have been in your service for the past two."

  Nicholas turns his head toward his closest aide, his voice solemn. "Sir Rodrick, what was the kingdom like before all this madness? I was quite young when word spread of a plague that turned the infected into flesh-eating monsters. Even a mere scratch from those beasts would doom a man."

  Rodrick hesitates for a moment before answering. "Sire—no, Nicholas. We need to try escape, There are rumours of other surviving settlements, and—"

  "No," Nicholas cuts him off. "That’s all they are—just rumours. And you would have me, their king, abandon this city that has depended on me all this time? No. I will not leave. Whatever may come, we will face it together."

  Rodrick smiles in acknowledgment of his king’s decision. "As you wish, Sire."

  King Nicholas Valthorne—first and soon to be last of his name—takes one final look at the burning city below before turning to his aide.

  "Sir Rodrick, give the order, gather any men left in the castle and meet me in the courtyard that's where we will make our last stand."

  As Rodrick rises and turns to leave the chamber, he pauses at the door and looks back at King Nicholas. "I am proud to be your aide, Sire. I am sure that in different times, you would have made this kingdom prosper like no king before." Then he exits, leaving the king alone.

  King of Ironvale? What a joke. I am nothing more than the captain of a sinking ship. No—worse. We are cattle, waiting to be butchered.

  With a surge of frustration, Nicholas tears the crown from his head and hurls it across the chamber. He stands there for a moment, breathing heavily, before forcing himself to calm down. Taking a deep breath, he walks over, picks up the crown, and places it back on his head.

  I must show strength—for the brave and valiant people who have believed in me, for those who have helped us survive this long.

  Steeling himself, he exits the throne room to join his waiting men, determined to offer them what little comfort he can. He knows his words will be empty, little more than fleeting solace before the wave of death descends. But still, it will be his final speech.

  As the king slowly walks down the decorated halls, he examines the paintings and the gaudy, expensive décor lining the walls. What use are these now? We could have fed the kingdom for months for the price of these so-called treasures before the plague cursed our lands, and just looking at it all sickens me.

  Nicholas reaches the end of the hallway and walks through the doors leading to the courtyard. He can hear shouting, screaming from his people, and even the guttural moans and shrieks of the dead beyond his castle walls. He does not falter. He must present himself as the king they want and need.

  He walks down the steps to where Rodrick stands before more than over a hundred frightened faces. As the king approaches the crowd's noise lowers, Sir Rodrick notices him and bows his head.

  "Sire, these are all the men left in the castle grounds, They had no families and no where else to go, the ones with families had gone earlier to try to help their loved ones... but none have returned."

  Nicholas gave Rodrick a nod of acknowledgment before addressing the remaining men before him.

  "Look around you. This may be the last time we stand together. The city has fallen. Our families, our homes—everything we once knew—are lost. And yet, we remain."

  He took a step forward, his gaze hardening.

  "The dead are at our gates, and they will not stop until they have taken every last one of us. But there is one thing they cannot take from us: our courage. Our will to fight."

  He clenched his fist, raising it high for all to see.

  "I do not ask you to fight for a city that is already lost. I do not ask you to fight for me. I ask you to fight for each other, for the brothers who stand beside you. For the honor of those who have fallen. We may be the last of our kind, but by the gods, we will not die like animals cowering in the dark!"

  The king’s voice thundered, filled with the fire of defiance.

  "We are men of Ironvale! We have bled for this land. We have bled for our families, for our kingdom. And now, we will bleed one last time—for each other!"

  He stepped back, meeting the eyes of every soldier, his expression fierce and unyielding.

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  "They may have our city. They may have our homes. But they will never have our spirit. They will never have our resolve. When they come for us, we will show them what it means to face the fury of a kingdom that will not bow, that will not break!"

  He paused, letting the words settle, letting the weight of his command fill the air.

  "Today, we fight not for survival. We fight for honour. We fight to make sure that the story of Ironvale ends with dignity—our dignity. So stand tall, my brothers. Stand tall and fight with everything you have, for we are not just soldiers. We are the last hope of a broken world. And we will go down fighting, together."

  With a final, fiery glance at his soldiers, King Nicholas Valthorne raised his sword high.

  "For Ironvale! For the fallen! And for the last stand of men who refuse to be forgotten!, May I see you all in the afterlife!"

  As the soldiers bash their swords against their shields the shrieks and groans grow louder on the other side of the gate, a loud banging starts emitting from the iron trimmed wooden gate.

  "Sire the monstrosity is here" Sir Rodrick quickly said.

  hearing that King Nicholas shouts his orders "Defensive positions!"

  After hearing the orders, the remaining soldiers scrambled to face the gate, shields and spears raised, bracing for the coming onslaught. The few archers stood behind them, arrows nocked, as the relentless pounding on the gate grew more intense.

  As they waited, cracks began to splinter through the heavy wood, sending unease rippling through the ranks. Then, a massive, grey fist punched through, splintering the barricade. A pair of eerie, yellow eyes peered through the breach.

  "Loose arrows through the hole!" King Nicholas barked.

  The archers let fly, their arrows striking the monstrous face beyond the gate. But to their horror, the creature barely reacted. It resumed its assault, pounding relentlessly until the gate finally gave way.

  As the debris settled, they saw it—a hulking, grey-skinned corpse standing fifteen feet tall, its grotesque form riddled with bulging masses of diseased flesh and muscle. It wore no clothing, its bloated body a terrifying sight. Surrounding it were smaller humanoid creatures—the twisted, rotting remains of the kingdom's own people, now turned into ravenous undead fiends. Then, as one, they lurched forward.

  As the horde poured in, Nicholas positioned himself behind the shield wall, Rodrick at his side.

  "Hold!, wait for them to come to us!" he shouted, gripping his sword tightly as they braced for impact.

  The regular undead, their movements sluggish and erratic, fell easily to well-placed arrows through the skull. But the monstrous giant barely flinched, the arrows either shallowly piercing its thick hide or bouncing off its skull entirely.

  Then the dead reached the shield wall, and the true battle began.

  Every soldier knew that the only way to stop the undead was to remove the head or destroy the brain—knowledge they had trained with since the plague first spread over a decade ago. The lesser undead were slow and weak, but their overwhelming numbers made them a formidable threat. Worse, those that consumed flesh grew stronger over time. In recent years, the massive monsters that now stood before them are rare, but when they did appear, they were nearly impossible to defeat, capable of tearing through any meagre defences they could muster with sheer, unstoppable strength, as soon as this variant of the monsters arrived all surviving settlements fell one by one.

  No one knew how the plague had begun. It had first appeared in the distant kingdom of Lowe, its lands falling silent as communication ceased. Soon, the infection spread across the continent, sweeping through cities and kingdoms faster than anyone could comprehend, let alone combat.

  The soldiers fought valiantly, but for every five undead that fell, a soldier was lost. And still, the monstrous giant had yet to reach them.

  Nicholas tightened his grip on his weapon and charged into the fray, ready to meet their fate.

  Nicholas swiftly dispatched any undead that approached him, cleanly severing the heads of the humanoid creatures lumbering toward him with outstretched arms, their emotionless faces betraying no fear. Left slash, right slash—he moved with precision, shoulder-barging an undead that lunged from the right before driving his sword through its skull. This was all Nicholas knew, all he had been trained for since as far back as he could remember.

  But everything changed when he heard the sickening crunch of the giant’s palm crushing soldiers at the front. Their strength was no match for the sheer might the monstrous creature brought to bear.

  At that moment, King Nicholas took a step back to assess the battlefield. Soldiers and undead fell all around him. Some of his men were being devoured where they lay, the undead tearing off and around armour pieces to reach the flesh beneath. Yet the soldiers fought on. Though they knew their efforts were futile, they would rather go down fighting side by side than cower and wait for death’s embrace.

  Nicholas steeled himself. If I must fall, I will bring that monster down with me.

  With his gaze locked on his target, he hacked his way through the horde, cutting down anything in his path as he advanced toward the source of his rage.

  As he drew closer, the screams of his men filled his ears. The monster was grabbing them alive, shoving their upper torsos into its gaping maw. Nicholas sneered at the sight, his fury boiling over. Without hesitation, he charged at its back and slashed at its ankles. His sword sliced through the creature’s rotting flesh, but it didn’t even flinch. Instead, its massive head turned toward him, its hollow eyes locking onto its attacker before swinging an arm around in an attempt to grab him.

  Nicholas barely managed to step back, narrowly avoiding the monster’s swipe—only to stumble straight into the grasp of a fiend pacing toward him.

  The undead sank its teeth into his cheek. He struggled, trying to break free, but the creature ripped away a chunk of his flesh.

  “God damn it!” Nicholas roared, staggering back, blood streaming from his wound. Without hesitation, he drove his sword through the fiend’s forehead, ending its miserable existence.

  Breathing heavily, he turned back toward the greatest threat—the towering monster that now slowly advanced on him.

  I won’t have long before this sickening poison takes hold and I turn into one of them. I must bring this monster down before that happens.

  Nicholas took his stance, ready to engage, but before he could move, an arrow struck the creature in the eye.

  Black, viscous blood oozed down its face as it let out a bellowing roar, flailing its arms in pain.

  Nicholas smirked as a plan formed in his mind. This might just work. If not, at least it will be a quick death.

  Slowly, he paced toward the monster. It noticed him with its remaining eye and swung its massive hand to grab him. As its fingers tightened around his waist, Nicholas gripped his sword with both hands and raised it above his head.

  The monster lifted him toward its mouth, its grip crushing the air from his lungs. But just before he was devoured, Nicholas plunged his sword into its remaining eye, driving it halfway down the blade’s length before twisting it.

  The monster reacted violently, howling in agony as it dropped him. Nicholas crashed to the ground, gasping in pain, while the beast stumbled backward. With one final roar, it collapsed onto its back with a thunderous crash, then lay still.

  Nicholas groaned, his body aching, but he forced himself to his feet. As he steadied himself, his gaze swept over the battlefield—only to see the few remaining soldiers being overrun and even sees Rodrick’s still body lying twenty feet from him he stumbles onto his back, the poison quickly attacking his body.

  The screams of his men faded into silence, replaced only by the grotesque sounds of moaning, chewing, and flesh tearing as the creatures feasted on his brave soldiers. As darkness consumed his vision, he closed his teary eyes and let it take him.

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