Necrocorinth

A Macedonian Hoplite is running breathlessly through the streets, the city is ablaze, and chaos reigns supreme. The smell of burning timber and ash fills the air, making it thick and almost unbreathable. His armor clangs with every step, echoing off the cobblestone streets. The shouts of his comrades are distant now, overwhelmed by the roars of the angry mob. This isn't how it was supposed to be. Corinth, the gleaming jewel of the Greek world, was up in arms against the Macedonians, these Corinthians that have affirmed and appeased the Macedonians are now rising up.

The Corinthians had had enough. The Macedonian rule had been a heavy burden, and the whispers of rebellion had grown louder and bolder over the months. The oppressive taxes, the unfair distribution of power, and the constant looming presence of the Macedonian garrison had all contributed to the slow burn of resentment. The spark had come from an unlikely source—a tavern brawl, a misplaced insult, a thrown punch that had spiraled into a full-blown riot. And now, the flames of revolution licked at the very foundations of the city. The once-proud Macedonian soldiers were now just prey, scattered and hunted through the city they had thought of as theirs.

But that "Tavern Brawl" was intentional, the Corinthians have a single goal, to tear down the gates.

The hoplite's breath is ragged and hot in his helmet, sweat stinging his eyes as he sprints past the charred skeletons of buildings. His heart is a war drum in his chest, matching the rhythm of his pounding boots. His eyes dart left and right, searching for an escape, a friendly face, or even just a place to stand and fight. But the streets of Corinth are a labyrinth of treachery tonight, each corner a potential trap. The once-familiar cobblestone streets are now a blur of shadows and flame, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning pitch and screams of the innocent caught in the crossfire.

"If you can't hold the City, burn it down!" King Demetrius shouts as he's running among his soldiers, his family tugging along behind him. Prince Abreas cuts down a rebel as they retreat behind the Macedonian line, that's getting pelted by rocks and javelins.

"Father! We need to get the family to safety!" Abreas yells out.

The king nods curtly, his eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. "Agreed," he says, his voice gruff with urgency. "To the harbor, now! The ships are our only hope."

The 1000 or so Macedonian Hoplites and Legionnaires slowly move in a nearly 5 kilometer column towards the Corinthian ports, the rebels harassing them all the way there.

The harbor is a scene of chaos and carnage. Spartan ships are docked in neat rows, their sails illuminated by the bonfires of the burning city. The Spartan warriors stand in formation, a sea of red cloaks and gleaming bronze armor. They had arrived unannounced, seizing the ports and cutting off the Macedonian's escape route. The hoplite's stomach turns to lead at the sight. The Spartans, once allies, now the enemy. The irony of their situation was as thick as the smoke choking the air around them.

"They haven't changed, these brutes, we need to move back and break through the gates!" Demetrius redirects his horse, and rides quickly to the other end of the column to relay his orders.

The Macedonians retrace their steps, their heavy boots echoing off the ancient walls. The Front Gate, once a symbol of the city's welcoming embrace, now a grim reminder of the trap they've found themselves in. The air is tense, the anticipation palpable as they march, their eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the gate, framed by the burning city. The hoplite feels a cold dread wash over him, his breath hitching in his chest. This was it, the final stand.

"Slaughter everyone in your way!" Demetrius charges into the front with Abreas.

The Macedonian column reaches the Front Gate, and the air is pierced by the deafening roar of battle cries. The rebels, a disorganized but fierce rabble, throw themselves against the disciplined ranks of the Macedonian soldiers.

 The clang of iron on iron fills the air as swords and spears collide. The hoplite's shield arm aches from the relentless barrage of rocks and arrows, his legs tremble from the exertion of fighting uphill. The gate looms before them, the only escape from Necrocorinth.

The rebels are a tide of fury and desperation, armed with whatever they could grab: kitchen knives, farming tools, even rocks. They scream and curse as they charge, their eyes wild with the madness of the mob. The Macedonian soldiers, trained for warfare, are methodical in their brutality. Each swing of their swords is precise, each stab calculated, each scream of pain from their enemies a grim melody that fuels their thirst for battle.

"Macedon is the highest in the Greek world! Remember that when our souls return!" Demetrius swings his War Axe down a rebel's dome. The hoplite fights with a ferocity born of desperation. Blood sprays in crimson arcs, painting the cobblestones red.

Severed limbs and crushed skulls litter the ground like discarded toys, each one a nod to the fury of the Corinthians. The Macedonians are not to be outmatched, the Legionnaire using their short swords ripping the throats of anyone in civilian clothing in front of them, toddlers be damned.

The hoplite's sword is sticky with the warm, wet embrace of blood, the taste of iron coating his mouth. He swings it in a wide arc, the blade catching the light from the fires, a crimson crescent slicing through the air.

A rebel falls, his throat gaping open like a second mouth, spurting a fountain of crimson. The cobblestones are slick with the lifeblood of both sides, making footing treacherous.

The Macedonians press on, their eyes on the prize: the Front Gate. The civilians, once a blur of terrified faces and fleeing forms, are now a part of the battlefield. No distinction is made between rebel and innocent, all are in the way of the retreating soldiers' escape. Screams of mothers for their children are cut short by the cold steel of military efficiency.

Finally the soldiers reach the gate and throw it open. Without even looking back, they rush out of Corinth in a straight line.

The hoplite sprints through the gate, his lungs burning, the heat of the battle still searing his skin. The scent of the sea fills his nostrils, a stark contrast to the ashen fumes of the city. The cool breeze kisses his cheeks, a cruel reminder of the peace they've lost.

Once the conquerors of the world, the Macedonian hoplites are fleeing the last city they hold in Greece.

The Spartan warriors emerge from the shadows like ghosts of ancient battles, their Phalanx formation a wall of bronze and crimson. The Macedonians stumble to a halt, the reality of their predicament setting in like a cold, heavy stone.

"It seems like the Spartans, a remnant of the old world keeps on challenging us." Abreas whispers as a bead of sweat trickles down his head.

The Spartans stand firm, their shields raised in a daunting phalanx, a wall of bronze that seems to grow taller and more impenetrable with each passing second. Their spears glint menacingly in the firelight, the only sound the steady rhythm of their breaths.

"Today is the last day of your Empire." the Spartan commander says to himself.