NaNoWriMo - Day 12 & 13

 

Day 12 & 13 - 18th November 2025

Success! New word count total is at 8980. An increase of 3,448 over the course of two days. In the spirit of celebrating small victories, I will now spend a few short moments patting myself on the back.

Pat. Pat. Pat. 

Continuing on, I think I can attribute most of those words to the little war sequence I added in my latest update. It felt appropriate to have at least one major battle before our protagonist left the Capitol. All the destruction and bloodshed wouldn't have felt real if it was only witnessed from afar. 

I found it very easy to write while describing military formations, lines of armoured soldiers, and terribly violent magics. There are a thousand different ways you can write about the unfolding of a battle, as well as the descriptions of the various people involved. I may have gone a little overboard, but I can always downscale things later if necessary. I will include the battle sequence in full for your viewing pleasure at the bottom of this post. 

Something I wanted to quickly discuss today is perspective. Deciding from what viewpoint to tell your story is always important. Usually there are three options you have as a writer. First-Person, Second-Person, and Third-Person. Here is the difference between the three.

"I picked up the apple and took a bite out of it. It tasted good on my lips." - First Person

"You picked up the apple and took a bite out of it. It tasted good on your lips." - Second Person 

"John picked up the apple and took a bite out of it. It tasted good on his lips." - Third Person. 

So far I have been using a third-person limited perspective to tell this story. The narrative follows Tristan Mordaruam, but tells his story from the outside. A third person perspective usually makes it easier to clarify who exactly is saying/doing what, and it also gives you a little more freedom to describe details that the character might not actually know or care about story-wise. I would consider a third-person perspective my default when writing a story like this.

Second person is considered a weird choice in most stories. It actually places the reader in the very shoes of the character. If I were to tell this story in second person, I would not be saying "Tristan cast a spell." Instead I would be saying "You cast a spell." 

Most readers consider second-person perspective distracting, so it isn't used much.

A first person perspective is a much more intimate and personal way to tell the story. It often means that impressions and descriptions are colored by that character’s opinions, mood, past experiences, or even their warped perceptions of what they see and hear. 

As I get further into this story, I often question whether it might have been more appropriate to write 'The Fallen Empire' from a first-person perspective. Tristan Mordaruam will likely be the only viewpoint character for most of the story, and the narrative will revolve around his shifting perspective as well as his own personal struggles. I even originally thought to phrase things as though Tristan himself was writing these notes into his diaries. That each chapter was him sitting down to chronicle what had happened to him.

For the moment I think I will stick with the third-person perspective. I can always change it later. 

As promised, here is the battle sequence. I will have to include a narrative timeline in my next update instead. 

-----

For a long while there was nothing but the sound of many stamping feet and the occasional signal horn or orders being shouted. For a while Tristan could almost forget that every moment was carrying them closer to the fighting, closer to the Skytower. With the countryside swarming with insurgents and most of the riverfleet scuttled, it was the only safe route out of the city. Or at least it had been an hour ago.

Now they would need an army just to reach the cursed thing.

Steadily it beat. The smoke thickened, the streets emptied, their journey slowly taking them out of the Noble District and into the Central Square. In the distance, behind the Paling, the great black tower still stood. Over 200 metres tall, the Skytower stretched higher than any other structure in the Capitol, its shadow lingering over the battlefield that the streets below had become. Comprised of ancient black stone, the outer staircase spiralled around its length, ascending all the way to the top, where five obelisks rose like colossal fingers reaching for the sun. The gleaming rainbow opals that powered the structure’s magic were dim, dormant, their remaining power conserved for the one moment it was truly needed. That moment was now.

And as the ranks of soldiers emptied out into the Central Square, spilling out onto what had once been the very heart of the city. They saw the rabble that awaited them.

It was impossible to know their numbers. Thousands of dirty desperate faces looked back at them. Some of them looked angry, some of them looked scared, but all of them looked ready to kill. They carried bricks and glass, knives and clubs. A few wore scraps of military army or carried muskets, ripped from the bodies of those they had torn to shreds. Above the masses flew the occasional flag, or the mutilated bodies of their foes. Tristan could not help but give the barest hint of a smile as he saw the body of an Oathwarden being paraded before the endless horde, the man’s uniform, once a symbol of fear, now a gruesome mockery and taunt to all who would oppose them.

The tension was thick as more and more soldiers formed up in the northern end of the square, the military in front and the royal guardsman in the back. Seeing fresh meat, the crowd called out, wordless screams and cries, full of bloodlust. Some chanted, a few even sang the Korvosi hymn of rebellion, a shameless display of their true benefactors. Leg by a man waving a blue flag, the rabble drew closer and closer, as if daring to be attacked. 

Shields, halberds, and muskets ready, the horn was sounded. A single long note then, then two short notes, then three long notes, a signal to disperse. 

The mob did not slow their advance.

Even from his current position, Tristan could see the soldiers at the front hesitate. Some were looking over their shoulders, others lowering their weapons ever so slowly. They were seconds away from being ordered to fire on their own countrymen, their own citizens. They had to know the crowd before them contained neighbours, friends, family, people they walked past every day. They were looking for a way out, an excuse not to engage.

The mob were close now. Almost within range. 

One soldier threw down his weapon, a couple more turned and tried to flee. The response was instant. A series of shots rang out, the royal guardsman punishing disloyalty with flashpowder. Bodies hit the floor, both guilty and innocent, blood splattering those standing next to them. Tristan saw an officer look at her now dead comrades with bloodshot eyes, before turning back to face the advancing horde, ordering the others to fill the holes in the line.

Bricks and other debris were now raining down upon the frontlines, thrown with more rage than sense. The mob was almost there.

The order came out. Within moments the square was thick with death.
A volley of gunfire pierced the centre, cutting down people like blades of glass before a scythe. Dozens fell, but hundreds more took their place. Another horn, and the battle was joined, staggered lines meeting an ocean of near feral human beings. Tristan had never witnessed a man throw himself onto a wall of spears, or witnessed a woman slit a soldier’s throat with a broken bottle, the apprentice mage holding his charge close as he witnessed what could only be described as a massacre.

The line held, but only barely. A second and then a third volley rang out, the royal guardsman reloading their weapons with an efficiency that would have been inspiring if the circumstances weren’t so dire. For a moment it appeared that military discipline would win out over numbers and savagery. But such was not to be.

Tristan saw it happen. A bag of powder, thrown over the ranks of soldiers, sparks already flying from the piece of rope that had been fashioned into a makeshift fuse. An officer called for someone to douse it, but most were too busy fighting for their lives or simply too far away.

Except his master. With a swiftness born of decades of practice, Archmage Ferdianx pulled an emerald from his pouch, the spell springing forth from his hands in an instant. A cloud of cold mist encircled the makeshift explosive, snuffing out the flame in an instant. Tristan shot the old man a relieved smile, Ferdianx responding with a huff that ruffled his moustache. 

And then three more makeshift explosives arced over the frontline, scattered amongst the reloading infantry. There would be no magical solution this time.

With a crack and a loud bang, dozens were on the floor, including the two mages. Blind and deafened, the only solace Tristan had was that he retained just enough sense to turn away at the last moment, the prince huddled beneath him. The boy was crying now, and who could blame him. After all, they were almost certainly about to die.

The apprentice mage tried to stand, and failed. Pain lanced through his leg, an exploratory feel finding a shard of metal protruding from his ankle. Shrapnel. Of course there would be shrapnel. The rebels would have been fools to not include something so easily available and deadly as scavenged metal. Looking over his shoulder, Tristan watched as the masses flooded into the breach like the tide across the sand. The royal guardsman were advancing to fill the void, but too slowly, too carefully, certainly not enough to save them.

A shadow fell over Tristan, and he looked up in time to see his master standing tall, possibly the only thing standing between the three of them and the rapidly approaching mob. A small wooden scepter was gripped tightly in Ferdianx’s bloodstained hand, the ruby gem at its tip gleaming red. Looking towards Tristan, his words were few.

“Be still. Keep the boy safe.”

And having apparently said his piece, the man stepped forward.
Muttering words of power and tracing lines over the scepter, the first enemy combatant was just maybe twenty steps away before Ferdianx unleashed his spell. The space in front of him warped, the very air seeming to bulge and contort, and then suddenly the man charging towards the three of them with a dagger simply wasn’t there any more, disappearing in an explosion of blood and bits. But Ferdianx did not celebrate, his eyes already turning to his next victim.

A woman with a blue bandanna managed three more steps before the right side of her body was splattered all over the cobblestones. The next man was reduced to a set of blood-splattered legs a moment later. Four, five, six, seven, each rebel died before they could even scream, parts of their body simply erased from existence, leaving what remained to stumble and fall.

It took some time for the crowd even realise what was happening, the deaths of their comrades so swift that many barely had time to push past their remains before they themselves were eviscerated. And as screams and sounds of panic began to spread through the horde, the Archmage continued to kill as quickly as his eyes could move, repeating the words of the spell as quickly as he dared, his sceptre glowing hot in his hands. Twenty. Twenty one. Twenty two…

The mob was relentless, its numbers beyond counting, but no one could face that kind of death and still keep going. The savages that had so quickly charged through lines of steel and flashpowder were now fleeing in terror, Ferdianx not relenting even as they did everything they could to escape him. Thirty seven, Thirty eight. Thirty nine. They popped like balloons!

Finally the royal guardsman arrived, a dozen forming a ring around them while twice as many went to reinforce the breach. Ceasing his magecraft, the old man wavered for a moment, as if the spell had left him dizzy, before straightening up his back. With one hand he helped Tristan to his feet, while with the other he ran his blackened fingers over the scepter, the once pristine rod inundated with cracks and scratches. The result of a focus being called upon too many times in too short a space.

“Wha…what kind of magic was that?” Tristan questioned in awe, unable to maintain even the thinnest layer of teacher and student professionalism that still separated. Lightning and fire he could understand, they were spells taught to every mage who studied the art of war. But this? His master had literally wielded death.

“Enough boy, we’re not out of this yet.” The old man, his blue eyes still searching the horizon for threats. With the enemy pushed back the battle was back in their favour, but that mattered little when the Skytower was still so far away.

Fortunately help was not far away. Another horn sounded, distant, but coming closer all the time. The royal guardsman around them took on a new formation, one dragging Tristan to the right, the other pulling Ferdianx over to the left. And then the apprentice mage heard it. The sound of massive clawed feet pounding against stone. The cawing of beasts and the snapping of reins. And a shout of realisation by the mob.

“Striders!”

With the way clear, there was nothing to stop the massive armoured birds from charging into the sea of people ahead. Standing at 12 feet tall with bright red plumage and armoured beaks, two platoons of cavalry rode down from the streets behind them, their riders urging them forward with jeers and shouts, heedless for how many allied soldiers they had to trample as they breached the frontlines. Taken and tamed from provinces to the south, the flightless birds were a relic from an ecosystem that no longer existed, apex predators that had been bred and repurposed for war, until their blood red feathers had become the very symbol of the empire’s military might. Tristan had never seen a strider cavalry charge in all his life, and today he saw why.

With claws as thick and sharp as scythes, the helpless men and women who fell before the beasts did not get up again, their bodies crushed and their flesh cut to ribbons. Attempting to strike down the beasts was pointless, the scales surrounding their legs could withstand a woodaxe without flinching, and their torso and necks were armoured with hurvian steel. Even now and then a long razor sharpened beak would descend into the masses, throwing a screaming foe up into the sky with a twist of their necks. Nestled on their backs, two riders stood ready with shortwords, ready to fell anyone stupid enough to try and climb the creature’s flanks. Short of a wall of spears or a well placed musket shot, there was little these cavalry units had to fear from this rabble. 

The royal guardsman were soon on the move as well. With most of the regular military dead or dispersed, they took the lead, firing another volley into the crowd, striking down those who survived the charge, hacking down the survivors with grim efficiency.

In the end it was enough. Numbers depleted by flashpowder, organised formations, magic, and now striders, the revolutionaries began to fragment and break apart, too disorganised to deal with a disciplined military force fighting them on multiple fronts. Thousands fled into the streets and alleyways, as hundreds more fought to death, waving their flags even as they were crushed, shot, and stabbed. Soon enough the Central Square was empty, the road to the Skytower finally clear. 

Looking out over the sea of mangled bodies, both enemy and ally, Tristan could not help but feel sick. All this slaughter to save the future of the Empire, which still whimpered quietly in his arms. Ruffling the boy’s hair, the apprentice mage knew he couldn’t afford to let doubts cloud his mind now. He had to remain focused.

Reaching down, with a hiss he pulled free the shard of iron that protruded from his ankle, once a piece of someone’s cooking pot, now a deadly weapon that had nearly cost him his life. Reaching into his pouch, Tristan pulled out the same emerald fragment he had used earlier, but this time it would serve a different purpose. Tracing a different pattern on the uncut gem, the mage apprentice could feel searing heat enveloping his finger as he completed the spell. Knowing that this would hurt a lot, Tristan pressed the finger up against his ankle, gritting his teeth as the spell cauterised the wound, halting the flow of blood. Ripping off the scarf off of a nearby body, he wrapped what remained of the cut, even as tears flowed down his cheeks. He would be limping for some time, but at least he wouldn’t bleed out.

There was no more to spare. Without the paling the area would not be secure for long. An officer of the royal guardsman was already approaching, two members of the strider calvary at his side. He pointed to the two mages, then to the tower. The message was clear. 

Men dismounted and arms were offered. “Come on, sirs. I’m told you need to be at the top of that there tower. Quickly now, before we’re overrun with more rodents…”

Ferdianx clambered up onto the back of his bird with almost insulting ease, meanwhile Tristan had to make three attempts, only succeeding when one of the guardsman hopped off to give him a boost. 

 
And off they went. The striders huffing as they were pushed to their limits, carrying the mages towards their destination and final goal.