The last warrior of a fallen empire

The battlefield lay silent, shrouded in the thick fog of death and decay. The once-mighty empire of Vareth had crumbled under the weight of betrayal, its banners now torn and trampled in the bloodied earth. Among the ruins stood a lone warrior—Rhaen, the last protector of a kingdom that no longer existed.

His armor, though dented and smeared with the blood of comrades and foes alike, still bore the crest of Vareth—a silver phoenix rising from the ashes. It was ironic, he thought, how the symbol of rebirth adorned the remnants of a kingdom that would never rise again.

Rhaen clutched his sword, the only companion left to him. The blade was chipped, yet it had never failed him. He gazed across the ruined city of Luthadorn, once the heart of the empire, now reduced to rubble. The scent of burning wood and charred flesh still hung in the air. The people he had sworn to protect were either dead or enslaved by the conquerors.

He had failed them.

Yet, he still breathed.

The gods had spared him, but for what purpose? To wander as a ghost of a forgotten empire? To seek vengeance against an enemy too vast to defeat?

Footsteps echoed behind him. Rhaen turned, sword at the ready, his muscles tensed like a cornered wolf. From the shadows emerged a young woman, her face streaked with soot, her cloak tattered.

“You are Rhaen of Vareth,” she whispered, her voice carrying both awe and desperation.

“I was,” he replied. “Now, I am no one.”

She shook her head. “You are the last warrior. And the last warrior does not abandon his people.”

Rhaen laughed bitterly. “There are no people left.”

“There are,” she insisted. “Scattered survivors. Hidden in the hills. They wait for hope, for someone to lead them.”

Hope. The word felt foreign to him. He had lived through the empire’s fall, seen its greatest warriors cut down, its walls broken, its rulers slain. What hope could there be against an enemy so relentless?

Yet, he looked at the woman, saw the fire in her eyes. The same fire he had once carried.

“Why do you seek me?” he asked.

“Because Vareth is not just stone and steel,” she said. “It is the spirit of its people. And that spirit still burns.”

Rhaen hesitated. The weight of his failures chained him to the past. But deep inside, something stirred. A flicker of purpose.

Perhaps the gods had left him alive not to mourn, but to rebuild.

He tightened his grip on his sword.

“The last warrior does not abandon his people,” he murmured, repeating her words.

For the first time in weeks, his heart found something stronger than despair.

It found resolve.

---

“I was,” he replied. “Now, I am no one.”

She shook her head. “You are the last warrior. And the last warrior does not abandon his people.”

Rhaen laughed bitterly. “There are no people left.”

“There are,” she insisted. “Scattered survivors. Hidden in the hills. They wait for hope, for someone to lead them.”

Hope. The word felt foreign to him. He had lived through the empire’s fall, seen its greatest warriors cut down, its walls broken, its rulers slain. What hope could there be against an enemy so relentless?

Yet, he looked at the woman, saw the fire in her eyes. The same fire he had once carried.

“Why do you seek me?” he asked.

“Because Vareth is not just stone and steel,” she said. “It is the spirit of its people. And that spirit still burns.”

Rhaen hesitated. The weight of his failures chained him to the past. But deep inside, something stirred. A flicker of purpose.