The Fall of Everything [Rewrite]

It was early morning in the camp at the foot of Mount Rhaz. The young warriors were just warming up, lined up to learn the harsh discipline of Rhazgord warfare. They sweated on the hot sand as far as the eye could see, enduring training that pushed their bodies to their limits. Volmir stood out among the others, but not in a positive way. His movements were slow and weak, his sweat and strides puny compared to those of his peers running beside him. He had been in training for some time and had made some progress, but Volmir's body had not yet reached the stamina of his peers.
Just ahead of him, Montis was suddenly startled. He felt a strange energy in the air. In the distance, just above the horizon, he noticed a small cloud of dust approaching fast. Two horsemen were approaching the camp at full speed, and Montis instinctively sensed that this was no ordinary arrival. He squinted as the shadow on his face deepened and tried to understand who they were.
Zarqa and Baldrek had ridden through the night, trying to find their way under the gloomy moonlight. Exhausted, the horses were panting, their legs trembling, and they seemed to collapse with every step. Their labored breathing showed how urgent the two warriors were carrying urgent news. By the time they reached the camp, their horses had almost died without breathing a last breath. They had changed horses twice along the way, but the horses could not endure the journey. Zarqa and Baldrek wasted no time and jumped off the horses. Without a moment's hesitation, they ran towards Valerius' barracks.
Valerius' room had fallen into a heavy silence. He had listened to the soldiers' reports all morning and had just leaned back in his chair. He had taken a moment to relax. But that moment of relief was shattered by the sudden opening of the door.
"Has something happened to Corvus?" Valerius asked as soon as he saw Zarqa and Baldrek, his voice both alarmed and threatening. Zarqa and Baldrek were not the kind of people to barge into his room like that, something had obviously gone wrong.
Zarqa shook his head, trying to catch his breath, almost collapsing from exhaustion. "No," he said, short and harsh. Baldrek continued with a tremor in his voice, momentarily forgetting the burning in his lungs.
"War... War is coming!"
A spark went through Valerius. He had not seen a real battle for years. The fight against demons was, of course, deadly and bloody, but his instincts as a warrior knew that fighting flesh and blood enemies was a different thrill altogether. Baldrek's words had triggered a deep-seated desire to fight. The rhythm of his heart quickened, but he remained professional. He took a deep breath and gestured for the two to sit down.
Zarqa and Baldrek sat down, almost collapsing into the chairs. With trembling hands, Baldrek opened his bag and handed Valerius the documents he had taken out. These documents foreshadowed a much bigger plan and impending danger. Valerius studied the papers in silence while Baldrek elaborated on the situation.
"Tanar betrays... Bahoz... Enemy spies and the logistics the enemy armies will need are ready."
Valerius' brow furrowed, his eyes scanning every line of the documents with the attention and intuition of a commander. Zarqa interjected to complement Baldrek's words:
"Bahoz is preparing for war. Weapons, supplies, men... They are all there. One or all three of the kingdoms of Galir, Behem and Laxon are preparing to attack Rhazgord."
Valerius' eyes slowly lifted from the pages of the document and met Zarqa's. The lines on his face deepened, the anger and desire for war growing inside him became clear. The opportunity he had waited so long for had arrived. But this opportunity came with betrayal. Still, he took his time and weighed the situation. For an hour, the three of them argued heatedly over these documents.
By the end of the discussions in Valerius' room, it was clear that war was inevitable. The tense atmosphere inside had begun to spill out of the room and spread throughout the camp. Valerius turned to Zarqa with cold determination in his eyes. His features had the sharpness of a commander who had led warriors for years.
"Call my adjutants," he commanded, his voice as hard and sharp as a sword stroke. "And the Sharazirs... All the critical figures will be in this room before noon!"
The orders echoed out of the room and across the camp. The whole army began to buzz like a beehive as the soldiers moved swiftly, relaying Valerius' words to the others. Nothing was hidden anymore. War was at the door.
By noon, the most important leaders in the city had gathered, engaged in a heated debate. Every soldier, every Sharazir, was aware of the imminent danger, but this awareness did not fill them with fear. On the contrary, they were full of excitement and enthusiasm. Valerius, after listening to all the opinions, calmly gave his final order.
"Blow the horns of war!" he said, his voice heavy, echoing in the chests of those in the room.
"The gods are thirsty for blood!"
At Valerius' command, the great horns of Rhazgord suddenly came to life. A muffled, ominous sound cut across the city. While in normal cities this sound would cause fear and panic, in the streets of Rhazgord it was a carnival. Young warriors poured out into the streets, shouting and beating their chests. Each one of them had the glint of victory in their eyes, shouting defiantly at their enemies waiting miles away, imagining how they would strike them down in their first battle.
"For the gods! For Sanguinar!" cried one. "I will draw first blood!" another challenged his friends. The streets echoed with the brave shouts of the young men of Rhazgord, the air vibrated with the energy of these young warriors.
But this energy was not limited to the youth. In the depths of the city, in the ramshackle workshops and alleyways, a much deeper preparation had begun. Older warriors were quietly preparing their weapons, oblivious to the enthusiastic cries of the young. Many of them were gray-haired, their faces etched with the lines of the war years. They were preparing for battle with years of wisdom and ruthless experience. The swords, arrows or axes they held in their hands were like the last things they had left in this world.
They knew that their youth was long gone, that those energetic days were over. But that did not mean they could not be deadly on the battlefield. Now they had only one desire: An honorable death, as the gods commanded. On the battlefield, among the corpses of their enemies who perished under their swords, they wanted to lay down their souls as befits the gods. Not to die quietly at home, but to die amidst the war cries, on the blood-soaked fields of Rhazgord.
"The gods have been waiting for us for a long time," said one of them, an old warrior, as he continued to sharpen his sword. "But this time, I will earn the right to go to them!"
All the while, at the summit of the Rhaz Mountains, shamans were painstakingly preparing to light the sacred fire. This huge fire would light up the night, not only piercing the darkness, but also offering the soul of Rhazgord to the gods. The faces of the shamans, surrounded by white incense, flickered like shadows, the deep mystical glow in their eyes heralding the battle.
This was no ordinary rite; this was a ritual honoring the blood that would be offered to the gods for the great battle that would decide the fate of Rhazgord. The ancient prayers murmured by the shamans drifted with the wind down from the mountaintop and into the city. These sounds, combined with the war horns echoing through the city, seemed to boil the blood in Rhazgord's veins.
The shamans were preparing to light a huge fire. The hands of the shamans were placing stones in slow movements, as if sowing seeds on sacred ground, preparing the offering to the gods. When the first spark flew into the air, the fire burst into flames with a roar reminiscent of the eruption of a volcano. Tongues of fire rose into the sky, tearing through the dark night as if reaching for the gods themselves.
In the city, with this sacred fire burning, the fervor of war reached its peak. The young warriors raised their swords to the sky and shouted in triumph, while the old warriors took one last look at their sharpened weapons and rekindled the fire of war within them. When the Rhazgordians believed that the gods were on their side, there was no power that could stop them.
It was at this very moment that Valerius sent messengers across Rhazgord. This was no ordinary mercenary expedition. There was a threat that touched the heart of Rhazgord, and this war belonged to all Rhazgordians. Every city, every town, every village had to heed the call. Valerius' heralds rode across bridges, across valleys, horns echoing in the foothills of the mountains. The clouds of dust from their horses' feet screamed the importance of their speed. These messengers were running at full speed to mobilize the full power of the Rhazgord.
But this was not Valerius' only plan. Urgent news was also sent to Corvus. These messengers would reach Corvus, a day and a half away, and give him Valerius' orders. Valerius was not satisfied with mere verbal orders; immediately after the messengers, a special group of the most elite Rhazgord warriors set off for Corvus. These soldiers moved swiftly, carrying the fate of a battle on their shoulders with every step.
And so, the wind of war swept across Rhazgord, echoing in the souls of every warrior, both in the streets of the city and on the mountaintops. The huge Rhazgor army was slowly gathering at the foot of Mount Rhaz.