The once firm grip on his sword weakened, his hands trembled involuntarily, betraying his struggle to maintain control and fight for any sneak attack. He knew that if he entered this entrance showered in Lieutenant General Jacob’s blood, after this, he would go to the central room where most gather.

  It was the place where his sons usually welcomed their guests in his absence, and where meetings were often held.

  General Vaelros’ heartbeats were like sprinting frogs running from a snake. He mustered his remaining energy and held his sword as tightly as possible.

  “Calek! Donvar!” General Vaelros yelled as his eyes were wet waiting for a response.

  There was haunting stillness….

  “Calek! Donvar!!!!”

  General Vaelros called out to his sons again, maybe they had hidden somewhere.

  They knew the secret underground rooms would have at least saved them, if they were able to run and hide on time.

  But, from the looks of what had been here, the scene told of a chilling tale of sudden brutality.

  From the scattered remains and broken defenses, it was evident they had been ambushed inside without warning.

  There were still plates of food all over the place.

  Some fruits were squashed by the bodies as they fell, or were pounded by the weapons.

  The trainees were eating and had a break when the attack came.

  Two trainees were seen near the alarm bells who obviously tried to warn the others, but were not able to. They were ripped into pieces before they could hammer the bells into frenzy.

  General Vaelros did not completely lose hope, and slowly walked towards the main room, while his discerning sight and sharp ears were ready for any hint of malice.

  While the general walked towards the main room, Uther looked at Sergeant Demoir who was crying.

  The wizards looked at each other with sorrow, their magical powers could no longer sense anyone still having the spark of life in this room and the next one nearby.

  What can they do? They did not make it in time.

  These trainees were Demoir’s training companions under Gol Furbuw and General Vaelros. They were all excited to go to the second layers of the Auroras.

  A training which would take them years to partially complete, and would continue once they were already in the Divine Army.

  Most had the same dream of rising to become the generals, who would lead thousands of troops into battles someday. If attackers arrived, which happened almost daily in the recent years.

  The wizards looked in gloomy silence. Zoho also glanced at Vaelros’ sword which had a slight red hue at the tip.

  He knew then, that the general’s two sons were dead. It was a sword he gave him with drops of his sons’ blood. He refrained from mentioning the subtle, haunting cue embedded within the weapon’s magic—a truth too delicate for mortal hearts to bear.

  For when the blood congealed in the bodies where the blood droplets were taken, the steel would blaze faintly with the scarlet hue of their passing. He did not utter a word and just watched as the general nervously entered the room.

  Around Sergeant Demoir were all the bodies, and the soldiers hoping for a chance of miracle that someone made it out alive. The others accompanied General Vaelros as he entered the main room.

  “Oh no!!!!” One of the soldiers shouted as he crumbled to the ground upon witnessing what was inside.

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  The others who were expecting for someone to have survived looked in dismay to the direction of the main room.

  Lieutenant General Gol Furbuw ran towards it, and saw the general stiff where his feet stood. Vaelros’ sword dropped with a loud thud to the bloody floor. Everyone followed to the room. All could already see that yearning for some to have survived was their fantasy.

  Boundless tears came streaming down. No one survived.

  They saw a huge hole which started from the underground. It was concluded that, since the doors of the subterranean rooms were brought to the surface.

  There were spiraling black things like veins which also came from the hole. There were still black mists emanating from these.

  Even though made of steel, these doors shattered and crumbled with the impact against the hard flooring and rocks, while these were lifted to the surface.

  Beside these were Eva Thunderoar and Ford Asderon, the two lieutenant generals known for surviving in long battles, had only their heads remaining, even bitten off by something.

  Their body parts were everywhere and some were trampled to small pieces on the ground.

  The faces of those gathered reflected the weight of it all. Their eyes were glazed with despair and hot tears spilled from their eyes, blurring the world around, and their lips pressed into pale, trembling lines.

  Some used their clothes to wipe all the bitterness that flowed down their cheeks.

  Few others who were not so close to the people who died remained vigilant and observed the bodies, and pictured how it probably happened.

  As their minds cleared a bit from the horrific slaughter, they could see worms already wriggling all over the place, which meant there was sorcery or demonic magic involved.

  The dead here were killed recently, but upon closer monitoring when some of them returned to the entrance, most of the dead they checked already had worms moving in and out all over their bodies.

  In fact, some were even wriggling on their boots, clothes, and hands which they used to touch the dead.

  Even the walls seemed to weep, through the haze of smoke and the flickering inferno, rivulets of blood streaked the scorched stone walls, as if the castle itself could feel the echo of their hearts, shrinking with anchors pulling their spirits down.

  The wizards, Uther, Zoho, Jenna, and Dunesther could see how the enemies were able to outwit them. Their shoulders dropped, but their eyes filled with unshed tears, were kept calm.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Argh! I will slaughter them all, I will…” General Vaelros roared in anger and then fell to his knees, while he tried to reach his sons.

  The treasures he promised his late wife to protect forever until his death… They passed on before him, he did not even see how it all happened.

  What meaning did the title of a celebrated general hold, if he could not even shield his own flesh and blood? The glory of countless battles, the songs sung in his name—what were they, now that his sons lay beyond his reach, taken by the very violence he had sworn to master?

  He had not witnessed the courage that burned like a beacon in his two sons, or the others as they stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the enemy with every ounce of strength they could muster.

  Nor had he seen the unyielding bond between them, a fierce determination as they fought not only for their own lives, but for each other’s. Their last moments spent in defiance of fate.

  This room was filled with black mineral-like jagged protrusion, big enough to cut a body into two.

  Calek appeared to be protecting Donvar from something, but the gigantic mineral-like spikes passed through the body of the child, and reached his younger brother at the back.

  The passionate eyes of his son Calek, who liked to someday take the place of his dad, could never be compared to these bloodshot eyes, full of emptiness and coldness.

  As if his life ended when he was still thinking of a way to fight the enemy, when there was no way. At the same time, he tried to protect his brother behind.

  Donvar still had his eyes on his brother in front when he died, he held the ends of his brothers’ cloth.

  They were tethered in their positions by the spikes, like many others in the room who were not broken or squashed into bits.

  Their warm pulses, the sweat of training, the everyday yelling and cheers of these future soldiers, all dissipated with the agony of death.

  "Waaah!"

  "Snrrk"

  "Gulp"

  “Healing, healing!”

  There was wailing, loud sobs, sharp sniffing, heavy crying, and swallowing sounds. Their faces contorted in different angles, their eyes’ veins enlarged, causing red-colored blurry eyes. They cried and looked for any kind of bottled potions to pour on the bodies of the dead. They knew there were plenty in the Den of Irons.

  The worms which twisted and slithered, even going out from the eyes of the dead, were ignored.

  “Potions! More potions!” Gol Furbuw loudly shouted while pouring lots to his nephews, reattaching the halved body of Calek.

  “Demoir! To the others! These are powerful potions; it could take time!” Gol Furbuw even commanded Demoir to share the potions they got. They had the strongest potions of the wizards since they were the Silver Legion.

  “Help me! We need to make it fast, so they can heal!” Demoir yelled to the others while he moved and trembled at the same time.

  The soldiers accompanied Demoir putting potions on the bodies, reconnecting their arms, legs, heads, and everything which could still be connected.

  Those who already came to their senses could only bow their heads and close their eyes for a silent prayer to their gods.

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