A Day Long Passed

It was the year 5232 of the Second Era and the Acadoran Empire was collapsing. The decline had been gradual, yet even as the last hours of the great nation ticked down, no one still could believe that the end was fast approaching. The Empire had existed for as long as man had memory, but that was soon not to be. It would not be long now before the sun would rise, but without the Empire.

The Empire's death was not something that could not truly be measured in hours. Instead it took time to kill the great bastion of human civilization. Centuries of political in-fighting, plagues, corruption, and foreign intervention from the Elven Lands to the south had finally taken their toll on the great nation. With each passing year the Empire grew weaker. At the height of it's power, the once great human civilization had controlled all of the Northern Lands of Tiber as well as the Eastern Carol Mountains. It was the wealth that sprung from the depths of the forests and mines of the region that had allowed the Empire to wax in strength putting pressure even as far as the Pike Islands in the far east.

However, the Empire of today was but a shell of it's former glory. If historians were to be asked to point out the singular moment that had signaled its downfall, they would point to the death of Tristan XIV. When his death claimed him at the age of 27, the unmarried Tristan XIV left his young 5 month old nephew, Harold as the heir to the dynasty, the New Carol Federation had sensed an opportunity and declared itself to be independent from the Empire.

The war that had ensued had lasted over eighty years and had devastated both sides. While the Empire had significantly more forces than the small New Carol Federation, the terrain in the eastern province had left little to be desired. Located in a primarily mountainous region, the New Carol Federation was not an ideal place for the Empire's heavy cavalry to operate. With this being the bulk of their most elite forces, the unprepared Empire was forced to rely on unseasoned levies of peasants to try and put down the rebellion.

By the end of the conflict, entire generations of young men were either dead or horribly maimed beyond recovery. When at last, Emperor Harold had decided that the conflict was too costly to pursue it was too late. The war had already decimated the Empire's economy and had placed huge debts on the nation. In the end, the Empire had been forced to recognize the New Carol Federation as a sovereign country. This stinging defeat was but the first sign that the Empire had reached its high water line.

Now as the Empire's last hours ticked down, all seemed lost. What was once the bright, shining beacon of mortal man was now a mere shadow of its former self. With its armies exhausted, its economy in shambles, and the government in the hands of men who prided themselves on their corruption, the only thing holding the Empire together was the struggled breaths of its dying Emperor. Alfred the First of His Name, Emperor of Men, King of the Northern Lands of Tiber, Lord of the Sky and the Realm of Mortals was forty-five years old.

In his youth, Alfred had hoped to reunite what had been long since stolen from his Empire by the sands of time and the greed of men. He dreamed of one day seeing the Imperial battle standard fly over every league of the continent. However, after nearly three decades of struggling against the inevitable fate of his empire, his war with history was nearing its conclusion. Upon assuming the throne from his father, Emperor Gavin V, Alfred had tried everything that he could think of to restore the power and prestige that his empire had once held.

Try as he might, it seemed that there was nothing that could be done to prevent the fall of the Empire. When he had attempted to negotiate with the Elves in the south for a mutually beneficial trade deal, they had laughed in his face and told him that there was no point in making this deal as they would soon have his land anyways. Even a second attempt at retaking the New Coral Mountains had proven to be a faulty endeavor. Having studied from his ancestor's mistakes, Alfred had been positive that he would have been able to retake the land that held the lion's share of the Empire's wealth in natural resources.

Unfortunately for the optimistic emperor, the campaign had been a total disaster. His army had been wiped out by of all things an avalanche in the Southern Mist Pass on the second day into their invasion. With his army gone, the Emperor could only watch as the New Coral Federation launched its own invasion, gobbling up large swaths of territory in retaliation for his actions. By the time that he had managed to raise an auxiliary force to repel their small invasion force, the Empire had lost the entire province of Rouge Port. This blow was incredibly painful to absorb as the capital of Belford was one of the Empire's main trade ports. Try as he might, Alfred could not regain the initiative and in the end, he was forced to surrender all ownership of the province.

With his stinging defeat against the New Coral Federation known throughout every court in the land, many called for his abdication in favor of the Duke of Antely. Duke Antely was known to be ruthless in his execution of statesmanship and the rumors of a change in leadership were barely breathed before a full-scale revolt was underway. If not for the Duke's apathy towards fair governance and rulership Alfred would have been more than willing to comply. However, with regards to Antely's willingness to do right by the Empire, it was clear that the Duke only cared about increasing his personal wealth and power.

A civil war in that moment was the worst outcome possible for the struggling nation. Yet, as much as he desired peace and stability for his realm, Alfred knew that he could not allow Duke Antely to become emperor. Gathering up his remaining loyal forces, he attempted to hold the capital against the rebellious Duke. As long as the capital of Fremont held there was hope that he could convince the vassals that had yet to pick a side that not all was lost and convince them that they should devote their forces to his cause.

With the Acadoran Empire locked in civil war directly after losing a whole province to the New Coral Federation, the Elven Nation of Naralbor to the southwest decided that now would be the best time to start expanding their influence. Unable to prevent an invasion, Alfred could only look on in horror as reports came in of the Naralborian army pushing farther and farther north into the Empire's lands. The Emperor was caught between a rock and a hard place. Either he could abandon the Fremont and risk losing his crown or he had to cede the border province of Skyburg to the elves. Figuring that the best course of action was to put the war in the south on hold and deal with the immediate threat of Duke Antely, Alfred had kept his forces in the capital and prepared for war.

A few weeks later this decision came back to haunt him as the rebellious duke and the elves met and signed a peace treaty. In the terms of the agreement, Emperor Miles I would grant the Elven King, Theo the Bold, the province of Skyburg in exchange for assistance in the ongoing conflict against the so-called Emperor Alfred I. This peace deal not only gave away the ancestral border province between the two nations, it also marked the first time that the Empire had ceded territory to the Elves. To have made peace with the historic enemy of mankind was unheard of. For centuries the two races had been at odds, battling for supremacy.

Now faced with the impending threat of facing both the rebel and elven armies in battle, Alfred knew that things were nearing their conclusion. There was no way that he could hope to hold both forces back from the capital. Either one was large enough to cause an issue for his small army of loyalists. Among his war-band, the Emperor had only five hundred men, most of them peasant levies. With the backbone of any Imperial army, the heavy cavalry, in his force being but a scant fifty men, there was no chance that he could hope to defend the capital.

Yet, as much as common sense said to abandon the City of Fremont and head east away from his enemies, Alfred knew in his heart of hearts that he would not allow himself to abandon the ancestral seat of the Empire to the alliance of rebels and Elven soldiers. If he was destined to be the last Emperor, so be it. He would die defending the capital of the Empire which his ancestors had built up into a mighty fortress and beacon to all of mankind.

A fortnight after the treaty was signed, the rebel and elven army reached Fremont. With the Duke of Antely's men camped to his north and the Elven King Theo's forces in the west the capital was encircled. Adding insult to injury, Duke Antely delivered a speech from outside of arrow range demanding for Alfred to surrender himself and the city. The duke even had the gall to offer nobility to whosoever opened the gates and let his men sack the city. In order to prevent the fall of the capital, Alfred was forced to make his own speech later that day. The moral of the the loyalists was at an all time low. It was becoming clear to even the strongest of his supporters that the war was not going to end well for those who supported Alfred. Between the five-thousand-man rebel army and their three thousand elven allies there were more than enough enemies to take the capital in a single, decisive victory.

Standing at the top of the southern battlements, Alfred addressed his men. He talked of the glorious past of the Empire and of how their ancestors had sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears to form the great nation. He told them how even now, with an insurmountable horde knocking on the doors of the capital, the Empire was still great and would be even greater when they won the day. Yet, fate had a different plan. Emperor Alfred the First of His Name, Emperor of Men, King of the Northern Lands of Tiber, Lord of the Sky and the Realm of Mortals, became the last of his lineage that day. As he finished his speech and the loyalist soldiers let loose a cheer of celebration something went horribly wrong.

Watching his men cheer, Alfred noticed a twinge of pain in his chest. Within seconds that twinge become exponentially worse until it became unbearable. With a glance down, the Emperor knew that all was lost. Sticking out of his chest was a single long shaft. "Why?" was the last word that he would utter.

"Because I will be a Duke, m'lord" answered Sir Bruis, his most trusted knight. "You know, you had this coming, right? After the Southern Mist disaster there was no way that you were going to stay emperor. I'm just claiming what is rightfully mine. Duke Antely will be so grateful when I present him with your head."

With Alfred's last breath, the Emperor died and his cherished Empire with him. Soon after his victory, Duke Antely was betrayed by his new allies and the capital was razed to the ground. Thus ends the tale of the last Empire of Men.