The Last Survivors (The Elites)

The underground chamber was filled with the stench of sweat, damp stone, and desperation.

The flickering torches cast long, jagged shadows over the rough walls, illuminating the faces of the broken—rulers without kingdoms, warriors without armies, leaders without purpose.

They had once commanded entire legions, their words enough to summon thousands into battle.

Now, they were huddled together in the dark, waiting for a future they could no longer predict.

Austin stood near the center of the room, his arms crossed, his face twisted in pure frustration.

His tunic was smeared with blood—some his own, most not.

His fingers tapped against his arm, the only sign that his rage was barely contained.

"We were supposed to march on the Celestial Kingdom in days," he said, voice sharp. "We had the advantage. We had everything planned."

"So tell me—why the hell did Hell come for us first?"

No one answered.