Last Step

The once-proud fortress of Fort Cervo was now a shadow of its former self. Smoke rose from the crumbling walls, the acrid stench of gunpowder thick in the air. The courtyard was strewn with debris, shattered barricades, and the lifeless bodies of those who had given everything to defend the rebel stronghold. The surviving rebels had managed to fall back to the keep, their last refuge, but hope was dwindling.

Inside the keep, Commander Vittorio Salvi stood in the dimly lit hall, his uniform torn and bloodied. The ragged remnants of his forces surrounded him, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair. The wounded were slumped against the walls, their groans filling the silence between the distant booms of Elysean cannon fire. Vittorio wiped the sweat and soot from his brow, his mind racing for a way out of the dire situation.

"Barricade the doors," Vittorio ordered, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Use anything you can find—tables, barrels, even rubble."

The remaining soldiers moved quickly, dragging whatever they could find to fortify the massive wooden doors. Rinaldo, wounded but alive, leaned heavily against a broken spear for support, his face pale.

"Commander," he said hoarsely, "we're surrounded. There's nowhere left to retreat."

Vittorio clenched his fists, his gaze shifting to the narrow windows of the keep. Outside, through the thick smoke and haze, he could see the Elysean forces encircling them. Soldiers forming a line with muskets at the ready. Field cannons were being positioned strategically, their barrels aimed directly at the keep.

Beyond the land forces, the ominous silhouettes of Elysea's Pride and Lionheart loomed on the horizon. Their massive guns, which had already devastated the fort's walls, now shifted their focus to the keep. Vittorio's heart sank as he realized the full extent of their predicament.

A trumpet blast shattered the tense silence, echoing across the battlefield. The Elysean forces halted their movements, and a single figure stepped forward from their ranks. General Berthold approached the keep with an escort of officers. 

"Rebels of Fort Cervo!" Berthold called out. "You have fought bravely, but the battle is over. Your defenses are shattered, your forces scattered, and your cannons silenced. Look around you—there is no escape."

Inside the keep, Vittorio gritted his teeth as Berthold's words carried through the air. His men exchanged nervous glances, the truth of the general's statement sinking in.

Berthold continued, his voice unwavering. "You are surrounded on all sides. My men hold every approach, and my cannons are trained on this keep. The ships behind me are ready to reduce it to rubble at my command. Surrender now, and I will grant you mercy. Resist, and you will all be buried beneath the ruins of this fortress."

A heavy silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the distant crackle of fire and the groans of the wounded. Vittorio turned to his men, their faces filled with fear and uncertainty.

"Commander," Rinaldo said quietly, "we can't hold out against that. If they fire on the keep... there'll be nothing left."

Vittorio's jaw tightened. His mind raced as he weighed their options. Surrender meant the end of the rebellion on Corse, but continuing to fight would lead to certain death—for himself and every man under his command.

Berthold raised his voice again. "I will give you until the count of ten to decide. Lay down your arms, and you will be treated as prisoners of war. Refuse, and I will show no quarter."

The Elysean soldiers stood motionless, their muskets aimed at the keep. The cannons were loaded and ready, the gunners awaiting Berthold's command. Even the distant ships seemed to hold their fire.

"One!" Berthold began, his voice echoing.

Inside the keep, Vittorio's men shifted nervously, their fear palpable.

"Two!"

Vittorio took a deep breath, his heart pounding. Surrender felt like betrayal, but his men were looking to him for guidance—for a chance to live.

"Three!"

Vittorio clenched his fists, his gaze falling to Rinaldo, who gave him a faint, resigned nod.

"Four!"

The commander turned back to the doors, his decision weighing heavily on his shoulders.

"Five!"

Time was running out.

"Six!"

General Berthold's voice echoed across the battlefield, firm and unyielding. Inside the keep, the rebels braced themselves, gripping their weapons tighter. Commander Vittorio Salvi stood unmoving, his eyes fixed on the shattered remnants of his once-proud fortress visible through the narrow windows. His mind was a storm of emotions—rage, grief, and defiance.

"Seven!" Berthold continued, his tone growing colder with each count.

Rinaldo, leaning heavily against a broken spear, turned to Vittorio. His voice was faint but urgent. 

"Commander... please. We've done all we can. If we surrender, at least some of us might survive."

Vittorio's jaw tightened. His gaze swept over the faces of his men—faces streaked with blood, soot, and tears. These were men who had given everything to defend their home, their cause. To surrender now, after so much had been lost, felt like dishonoring their sacrifice. Yet, the logical part of him knew Rinaldo was right.

"Eight!"

"Commander!" a soldier near the barricaded door called out. "What are your orders?"

"We have lost much," Vittorio said. "Our walls have crumbled, our cannons are silent, and many of our brothers lie dead. But if we surrender now, we hand the Elyseans the victory they have sought to steal with brute force. I cannot—I will not—give them that satisfaction."

"Commander—" Rinaldo began, but Vittorio raised a hand to stop him.

"They want us to kneel, to admit defeat. But we are Corseans. We do not kneel. If this is to be our end, then let it be on our terms. Let it be fighting."

The room fell silent. For a brief moment, no one moved. Then, one by one, the men nodded, their resolve hardening despite the hopelessness of their situation. Rinaldo, though visibly pained, straightened as best he could and saluted.

"Nine!" Berthold's voice rang out, sharp and impatient.

Vittorio strode to the barricaded doors and turned to his men one last time. "Hold the line. Do not let them break us."

"Ten!" Berthold called, his voice laced with finality. When no response came from the keep, he sighed disappointingly.

He turned to his officers and gave a single nod.

"So be it."

Berthold raised his hand, signaling to the artillery crews. "Fire."

The silence was shattered as the Elysean cannons roared to life. Explosive shells streaked through the air, slamming into the keep's ancient stone walls with devastating force. The impact sent shockwaves through the structure, dislodging chunks of masonry and filling the air with dust and debris. Inside, the rebels staggered under the onslaught, shielding their faces from falling rubble.

"Brace yourselves!" Vittorio shouted, his voice barely audible over the deafening bombardment.

Outside, the Elysean musketeers advanced in disciplined lines, their weapons aimed at the windows and arrow slits. As soon as the cannons paused to reload, the muskets opened fire in unison, sending a deadly hail of lead into the keep. The rebels returned fire from their limited vantage points, but their numbers were too few, their weapons too scattered.

Berthold stood at the forefront of his forces, his sword drawn. "Push forward!" he commanded. "The walls won't hold much longer."

The Elysean cannons unleashed another volley, this time targeting the weakened gate of the keep. The reinforced wood splintered under the repeated blows, and with a final, deafening crack, it gave way. Elysean soldiers surged forward, their bayonets gleaming in the faint light.

"Hold the line!" Vittorio roared, his voice a rallying cry for his beleaguered men.

The rebels met the Elyseans head-on in a chaotic melee. Muskets were fired at point-blank range, bayonets clashed against swords, and the narrow confines of the keep became a brutal battleground. Vittorio fought at the forefront, his blade cutting through the Elysean ranks with desperate fury. Around him, his men fought with everything they had, refusing to yield even as their numbers dwindled.

Outside, the Elysean ships of the line adjusted their aim, their massive cannons targeting the upper levels of the keep. With a thunderous roar, they fired in unison, obliterating entire sections of the structure. The walls began to crumble, and the roof buckled under the relentless assault.

"Commander!" Rinaldo shouted, blood streaming from a wound on his forehead. "The keep won't hold!"

Vittorio glanced around, taking in the devastation. The Elyseans were everywhere, their discipline and firepower overwhelming the last pockets of rebel resistance. Yet, even in the face of certain defeat, he refused to surrender.

"We fight to the end!"