There, I stood, witnessing the end of yet another Empire brought low below mine.

Its walls had been broken beneath siege. It's people butchered or dragged away in chains. Its culture, once proud and enduring, now left to rot beneath the boots of conquerors. Though I have long since learned to hide grief beneath duty, I could not stop the tear that escaped me.

For that dying city, I saw the fate of my own.

And my fear proved true.

By the time these words reach another's hands, I shall likely be dead. My hands are stained with blood, not merely that of enemies, but of those I once swore to protect. I write not to beg forgiveness, for I deserve none, but to leave behind remembrance.

I have written all that I witnessed firsthand.

The Empire I served has fallen.

Chaos first took root within this fortress after the death of our beloved Emperor. In the silence left by his passing, ambition flourished. His once-loyal advisor seized upon the disorder, gathering supporters and reaching for the vacant throne.

Yet those of us stationed here cared little for their claims.

We were the Veterans of the Long War, warriors judged too scarred, too broken, too inconvenient to remain within the shining city we once defended. Cast aside by the supporters of Senators Aquila and Severus, we were abandoned like dulled tools no longer worth sharpening.

I gave neither Senator my loyalty.

Aquila and Severus were serpents alike, patient creatures that hid their fangs until opportunity drew blood.

Within these walls stood the remains of the once proud legion of the XIV. We had endured enemies beyond counting, but in the end, it was not the foreign blade that broke us.

It was our own.

We were given our final command to hold this fortress at all costs. And when these reinforcements arrived bearing the banners of our own fellow legion, the words in those letters were clear.

They were to be slain.

Traitors to the Empire, as it was written.

And so we fought our own.

Soldiers against Soldiers, as our walls drank their blood that should not have been spilled. Soon, more banners appeared in the siege. Our cousin Legions, the XV and XIII, marched upon us, and our numbers dwindled with every assault.

Still, we made sure they bled.

Every stone. Every corridor. Every corpse they stepped over was paid dearly.

Their probing has already cost us much, and a greater assault will come with dawn as our supplies fade and our forces grow weary, yet we refuse to surrender.

This fortress shall be our grave, and with them we will make sure to take them with us.

And when they breach our gate. They will find no pleas waiting for them, only steel, ash, and the corpses of those they once called their comrades in arms. 

If you read this letter, whoever you may be, then perhaps you will spare but a moment to remember what my Empire once was during its reign.

Not it's lie that replace us.

Not the Victors who will write themselves righteous.

But us.

And our legacy endures, if only through these final words.