Sindhor's Last Light.

Start writing...The sky above Sindhor bled gold and crimson as the sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the Ogran Mountains. What remained of the once-proud city shimmered in the dying light, broken towers casting long shadows over cracked stone roads. Fires smoldered in distant quarters, their smoke drifting like ghosts across the ruined skyline.

Captain Alen Varos stood atop the last intact battlement of Sindhor’s inner wall, his armor scorched and dented from days of relentless siege. Below him, the remnants of the city’s defenders made their final preparations. Barely two hundred souls remained — soldiers, mages, scouts, and common folk too stubborn or too loyal to flee.

The enemy would come at dawn. Everyone knew it.

He touched the hilt of his father’s blade — an old steel longsword inscribed with the faded crest of the city’s first kings. It was all that remained of his lineage and, perhaps, of Sindhor’s honor.

Behind him, the soft sound of boots on stone interrupted the silence. It was Elira, the High Arcanist. Her robes were frayed, her face pale, but her eyes burned with the defiance of a woman who had watched her home collapse piece by piece and still refused to surrender.

“The wards won’t hold past sunrise,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Alen replied, not looking at her.

“They broke through the lower gates. The outer city is lost.”

“I know that, too.”

She stepped beside him, her gaze sweeping the scarred horizon. “You could still run. There's a path through the catacombs—”

“No,” he said. “We are the last light of Sindhor, Elira. If we leave now, the light dies.”

A silence stretched between them. Not empty, but solemn.

Then a horn sounded in the distance — low and mournful, the signal of the final watch. The shift began. Men and women emerged from the shadows, taking their positions on the walls, each of them knowing full well what the morning would bring. No reinforcements. No retreat. Only the enemy — the Black Horde — and the end.

Elira turned to go. “I’ll do what I can to strengthen the final barrier.”

Alen nodded. “Make it count.”

She vanished down the spiral stairs.

He stayed, watching the last flickers of daylight vanish. As darkness fell, torches sparked to life along the wall, casting a golden glow over the weary defenders. He could see young Leorn, barely sixteen, his hands trembling as he clutched a spear. Nearby, old Bryna, once a baker, now bore a crossbow across her back and a bundle of healing herbs at her hip.

These were no longer just soldiers — they were the soul of Sindhor.

Midnight came with a cold wind and a deathly silence. Then, out of the blackness beyond the wall, came the sound of drums. Slow. Steady. Inevitable.

The enemy was on the move.

Alen descended the wall and joined his people in the courtyard. They looked to him, not as a captain, but as the last symbol of unity. He raised his sword high.

“Tonight,” he called, his voice strong despite the ache in his chest, “we do not fight for victory. We fight to hold the line, to keep the flame burning just long enough for the world to remember that Sindhor stood.”

The crowd murmured, some with tears, others with grim nods.

“If this is the end, then let it be a glorious one.”

The cheer that followed was quiet, but fierce — like a blade drawn in darkness.

As the first of the enemy war cries echoed over the hills, Alen took his place at the gate. The walls shook as monstrous siege beasts lumbered forward. Arrows screamed into the night. Fire erupted from the enemy’s ranks.

And yet, the defenders of Sindhor stood firm.

As the gates shattered and the horde surged forward, Alen roared and led the charge. Magic flared around him. Steel clashed. Blood soaked the earth. The final watch had begun — not to save the city, but to mark its last chapter in fire and courage.

And so, beneath a sky lit by flame and death, the story of Sindhor was sealed — not with surrender, but with valor.