One of the Forgotten

Epida Amini was never built to fall. She was carved with purpose, crowned with progress, and veined with power drawn from the very fabric of the world. Here, in the marble halls that hummed with runes and whispered incantations, the greatest minds of a hundred ages debated laws of time, split magic like stained glass to make their own artistic renditions, teased impossibilities from the marrow of stars, not for conquest - for curiosity. 

Her libraries sang with the voices of every soul that had dared to think beyond the bounds of mortal restraint, her halls taught to question the shape of truth for each child whose footsteps echoed theories yet unwritten. She was a cathedral to the mind, consecrated not in faith but in inquiry.

Epida Amini, where magic once ruled, breathed the arcane into every stone, every soul that lived within her walls. The beacon of enlightenment, the cradle of impossible invention, the forge where even gods might kneel to learn from her. A legacy that prevailed for centuries, her walls holding firm against any threat.

The sky once shimmering gently with arcane light now bled smoke and ash, a choking dusk where dawn should have been. The towering spires of Epida Amini jutted like skeletal arms, clawing high in a final, desperate plea for salvation. Beyond the shattered gates, the outer districts lay in jagged ruin, where once gardens floated on levitating plates of stone and students chatted in laughing voices.

The academies had become fortresses. The domes that had previously reflected constellations, fractured, the marble facades scorched. The cobbled streets, once echoing with debate and dialogue, now slick with tears, sweat and blood. Professors turned trembling hands, ink-stained from a lifetime of parchment, to etch glyphs into the air, students screamed incantations until their throats bled dry and their voices tore. They called upon storms, raised walls of pure force, stitched a tapestry of protections over the heart of the city with spells they barely understood. 

For three days Epida Amini had not slept. For three days, demons had swarmed in floods, not with the chaos of wild-minded beasts, but with the precision of a hunger long denied - calculated, methodical, insatiable. The tide never slowed.

Epida Amini stood, luminous wards flickered like falling stars, until the spires broke and the city crumbled like a dying god. All that remained was a mausoleum, hollowed by dread.

Merrik sat beside a wall, a hammer in hand, his shield propped against his knee. Its surface was chipped, blackened and streaked with blood, not all of it demonic. He didn’t move, his eyes locked on a distant gate where the shadows had thickened and something older than nightmares had pushed through. The mere sight of it had brought him to his knees as vulture-like wings emerged and a twisted grin pulled its elongated face into a horrific grimace.

It was a miracle he was still breathing when a mage had pulled it away into battle. Too many didn’t. His companions, fellow adventurers had died around him, devoured by curses and shadows. He didn’t turn to look, he had no more strength left for mourning.

The adventurers of the guild had arrived on the second day, together with the armies of old alliances answering the desperate plea that had run across the realm like a death knell. Weatherworn, war-scarred with scorched banners and none truly believing they would live to see another sunrise. 

As the wards had started to flicker, runes sputtered, choking on too much strain, too much death, too little hope, they marched into Epida Amini, the air thick with sulfur and screaming. And still, they went. Not to win. Not to save. To stand.

To stand, so that the world might remember there were those who refused to look away, their footsteps carving light into ash. Their names would not be written in any book, their stories would be swallowed by the onslaught of darkness, the echoes of their thundering boots would fade from memory. They came knowing they would die and they came anyway. Because someone had to watch the great city fall, to prove that it didn’t just vanish. 

Merrik had marched with them, joined the ranks of humans, elves, orcs and dwarves, soldiers and knights. Daughters and sons. Together they dared to step forward into the storm, into history, into legend, they hoped. But now, the cracked ruins of Epida Amini around them, the stench of burnt flesh and fresh blood clinging to every breath, fear wrapped cold fingers around his neck. This was no battlefield, but a graveyard still breathing.

The grip around his hammer faltered as the crushing acceptance dawned upon him that they were not meant to turn the tide. His mouth was dry, his knees ached, his thoughts filled with the warmth of a hearth long behind him, the soft murmur of his mother’s lullabies, the sticky fingers of his nephews and nieces who might never understand why he had left. Merrik had said his goodbyes, in teary kisses, tight hugs and hidden letters and yet, he couldn’t help the misery filling his soul. It bloomed in his chest like rot. A bitter, choking weight.

He wanted to weep, stay hidden behind this broken wall as the roar of the abyss drowned him, but something stirred. A quiet echo of a promise, a voice in whispers as it spoke of dreams, missed opportunities to adventure.

With a breath drawn through clenched teeth, Merrik rose. He tightened his grip around the hammer, the same hammer his father had wielded, the same one he saw on the mantle of their home as the air was filled with the scent of herbal tea and he told stories filled with glory and adventure. His other hand reached for the shield at his side, remembering the soft hands of his mother as they pressed it into his arms.

Merrik was broken, he was afraid, but he was not done. He would not die crawling. Let the city fall, let the demons come. Let the world forget his name.