Requiem of the Forgotten

The first horn sounded before the sun touched the horizon.

I sat up in the bunk like I’d been punched in the chest. The sound was low, sharp, and far too early for a normal drill. Around me, bodies stirred—blankets tossed off, boots slammed on floors, curses muttered between clenched teeth. A few of the younger recruits jolted up with wild eyes, probably dreaming of monsters or shadows that never left.

My mouth felt like sand. My head buzzed. Not from the leftover taste of last night’s drink, but from that other thing—that creeping sense that today was different. That kind of quiet you only hear before a city falls.

I threw on my coat and stepped outside. The air was cold, crisp, and way too still for comfort. My breath clouded in front of me like a warning. From the northern towers, more horns followed—two short blasts this time. A rally call. Standard formation.

The fortress moved like a kicked anthill. Soldiers swarmed from barracks and tents, clanking in mismatched armor, gripping half-sharpened blades and weathered helmets. Officers barked orders. Scribes and messengers raced between command posts with scrolls fluttering behind them.

Above all, there was silence in our voices.

No one joked. No one complained. We all knew what this meant. The Darkness doesn’t march. It appears. And when it does—there’s no time to run.

Carmen caught up to me near the central square, tying back her hair while marching in stride.

“You hear the tone of that horn?” she asked, not looking at me. “That wasn’t rehearsal.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Felt like someone slapping my ribs from the inside.”

She exhaled hard. “Guess the party’s over.”

Behind us, Daisuke stumbled out of the side gate, his uniform still half-buttoned. “Shit, what did I miss?” he gasped. “I just—goddamn—didn’t think it’d be today.”

“You think the Darkness gives a shit about your sleep schedule?” Amina’s voice cut from behind. She slipped past him, her coat already dusted from the cold earth. “Let’s go. Assembly’s starting.”

Cealith was already ahead of us, walking alone, silent and alert as ever. His posture stiff, eyes scanning every movement, like he was listening to a song no one else could hear. I hadn’t seen Nikita yet—but I knew he’d already be at the square. First to arrive. Last to fall.

By the time we reached the rally ground, the sky had started to turn a pale, warlike blue. Rows of troops stood in formation—humans, dwarves, elves, and everyone in between. The sea of armor and leather and cloth rippled as people settled in. Banners fluttered. Spears glinted. Dust kicked up with each nervous shuffle.

In the center stood a raised stone platform. On it, the General.

He wasn’t a grand man. No golden cape, no polished armor. Just a scarred face, a voice that didn’t need magic to silence an army, and eyes that had seen too many battles. His boots thudded as he stepped forward, wind blowing his gray-streaked hair back.

He didn’t clear his throat. He didn’t wait.

He just spoke.

“I’m not here to lie to you.”

His voice slammed across the square like iron against iron.

“You feel it. I feel it. The Darkness doesn’t march in lines. It doesn’t knock on the gates. It doesn’t wait for permission. It comes—when it wants. And when it does, it tears everything apart.”

No movement. No whispers. Just the sound of our blood pounding in our ears.

“You’ve trained. You’ve bled. You’ve built these walls with your hands and held your nerves with your teeth. But I need you to know something: this won’t be a battle. It’ll be a fucking storm.”

He stepped forward, letting the silence hold a beat.

“And in storms like this… no one waits for orders. You move. You hold. You fight. Or you die.”

People straightened. Gripped weapons. Some cried.

“Unit by unit, race by race—we are no longer separate. From this moment on, we fight as one. And we do not retreat.”

His voice boomed like thunder now. No magic. Just fire.

“You won’t get a warning when the sky breaks open. There won’t be drums or scouts or siege horns. Just black. Just silence. And then everything you love gets swallowed whole.”

He raised his fist slowly.

“So you remember this—when the next horn sounds… the war has begun.”

“And we fight. We bleed. We hold. TO THE LAST!”

The roar that followed… I can’t describe it. Not with words.

It wasn’t celebration. It wasn’t cheer. It was fury, fear, and fire crashing into one sound. Some people shouted. Others just stood frozen. Daisuke’s fists were clenched so tight I saw his knuckles go white. Amina’s eyes had that quiet storm behind them. Carmen nodded once, biting her lip. Cealith stood absolutely still. And Nikita, not far from the platform, didn’t flinch. He just breathed. Controlled. Deadly.

I didn’t cheer. I couldn’t. My throat locked. But my heart? My heart was raging.

The roar hadn’t even faded before officers started shouting names.

It was all movement after that. Squads forming. Banners snapping. Feet pounding in unison across the hard-packed earth. The General’s speech hadn’t lifted the fear—but it’d pointed it in the right direction. Every single person in that yard now moved with the kind of urgency you only feel when you know the countdown has started.

I barely had time to process it before a voice called out—sharp and direct. “Unit Twenty-Seven, forward!”

That was us.

I saw Nikita break from the edge of the crowd, already walking toward the assembly point. His back was straight, his hands relaxed at his sides, like this was just another drill. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t need to.

I jogged after him, Carmen and Amina flanking me. Daisuke tripped once trying to fasten the straps on his chest plate, then caught up panting. Cealith moved silently on the far edge, already scanning the crowd with those sharp, unreadable eyes of his.

Unit 27 formed into two lines—tight, efficient. I recognized a few faces among the new additions: a stocky dwarven woman with a jaw like stone, a tired-looking elf who hadn’t blinked once since we arrived, and a lean guy named Luka from the second squad who had a twitchy knee and a tendency to mutter under his breath when nervous.

Nikita turned to face us. “From this moment,” he said, voice low and level, “we’re one blade.”

He pointed to the fortress walls behind us. “We’ll be stationed north ridge. If it comes, it’ll come fast. We don’t wait for orders—if the horn sounds again, that means it’s already here.”

Carmen tilted her head. “You’re not gonna give a speech?”

“I just did.”

Amina cracked half a grin. “Hell of a motivational speaker, huh?”

Daisuke opened his mouth to say something and thought better of it. He glanced at me instead. “What do you think it’ll look like?” he asked. “The Darkness.”

I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know how to. I thought of the ash-covered ruins, of the creature in the depths whispering about what once was. I thought of the red eyes I’d seen years ago in my dreams—before any of this had started. Before Earth had fallen.

“It won’t look like anything,” I said quietly. “It’ll just be… here.”

The rest of the morning passed in a haze of preparation.

We helped distribute gear to the newer soldiers. Sharpened what needed sharpening. Checked rations, tightened armor straps, filled canteens. Nothing glorious. Just survival.

At one point, I helped Carmen lift a crate of steel bolts for the northern turret archers. She made some joke about my strength, and I laughed—too loudly. It wasn’t funny, not really. But anything to break the weight pressing down on our shoulders.

Amina was briefing two of the newer recruits on defensive rotations when I passed her. Her voice was calm, practical, her words clipped but clear. She didn’t sugarcoat anything. I saw one of the kids swallow hard and nod. Respect was written all over their face.

Daisuke, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on a barrel, scribbling into a small leather notebook. He’d drawn a rough layout of the fortress from memory, plotting fallback points, guessing at weak zones. No one had asked him to, but nobody told him to stop either.

And Cealith… he stood on the wall for an hour, staring into the horizon. Unblinking. His posture tense, like he could already hear it. Like something inside him was bracing.

I didn’t bother him.

Later that day, as the sky dimmed and wind picked up, Nikita gathered us again.

“We sleep in shifts tonight,” he said. “Four on the wall. Four at the gate. Everyone else stays ready near supply stations. If it starts, there won’t be a second signal.”

He paused, glancing at each of us—not long, not dramatically, but with just enough weight to make it feel real.

“No hero bullshit,” he said. “Stay alive. Cover each other. That’s all.”

Carmen leaned toward me once we were dismissed. “So… that was your version of a pep talk?”

“Worked on me,” I said. But my smile faded almost immediately.

I was on wall rotation when it happened.

The first part was silence.

Not the kind you hear in forests or empty rooms—but a kind of absence. Like the wind itself stopped breathing. Like even the birds, the bugs, the dirt beneath our boots held its breath.

I looked up at the sky. It was too still. Too flat.

The second horn didn’t come like the others. It didn’t echo or build.

It ripped through the air—ragged, desperate, like a scream forced through metal. Everyone froze. My hands clenched the railing so tight I thought it would snap.

From the south wall came the sound of steel dropping. Then another horn—this time closer. Then a voice: “It’s here! The Darkness is here!”

Chaos didn’t follow right away.

It was worse.

It was that final second where every heart in the fortress hit the same beat. One collective realization.

The war had begun.