The sun hung low over the South Hylian Sea, casting a blood-red hue across the water and long shadows draped the land. Weeks had passed since the first Naval engagement. The once-proud city of Pavo stood at the edge of the river, its walls scarred but unyielding. Yet, the storm that had been brewing on the horizon was now upon them.
The Pavo/Zeleny army could not hold the South Trench River, forced to retreat to Pavo City. Now a formidable Hylian army of 5,000 strong, advanced with relentless precision. Their banners fluttered in the wind, a symbol of the kingdom's might and a harbinger of the city's impending doom.
Within the city, the defenders prepared for the inevitable clash. The combined forces of Pavo and Zeleny, numbering just over 1,000, stood ready. Among them were Pavo, Zeleny, their mother, and father, staring at the advancing Hylian forces.
Pavo and Zeleny's father, named Vladislav, a little over 1,000 years old and measuring 2.8 meters tall, was a giant compared to the Rohati people around them. Four brilliant white wings, pristine even after weeks of battle, sprouted from his back, adding to his already imposing figure. His hair, a cascade of pure white, flowed down his shoulders, framing a face etched with the wisdom and weariness of a millennium. His eyes, the same stark white as his hair and wings, held a depth of sadness and a fierce resolve. He clutched a massive, rune-carved blade, its edge gleaming with a faint, ethereal white hue and stained with the viscous residue of countless battles.
Beside him stood Pavo and Zeleny's mother, named Valeska, a mirror image in many ways. Reaching a height of 2.5 meters, she possessed the same four white wings, the same shimmering white hair, and the same unnervingly white eyes that seemed to see through everything. Her expression was softer than her husband's, a touch of motherly worry clinging to her features, but the steel in her gaze betrayed a warrior's heart. She wielded a shimmering blade of her own, a long, elegant katana, its edge flickered with an internal heat signature, like looking into the shimmering depths of a star. Both parents stood shoulder to shoulder, reminders of a powerful couple that had once dominated the western lands.
Stroking his silver beard, Vladislav gazed perplexily at the approaching Hylian forces. Steel Plated Hylian Soldiers marched in formation, Rito Archers filled the sky, Zora Spearmen were setting up pikes, Gerudo Mercenaries rattled their sabers, Goron engineers were busy setting up siege towers and trebuchets and the elite Hylian Royal Guardsmen tended their horses.
Then he depressingly glanced over his shoulder towards his own forces.
What met Vladislav's eyes was not an army, but a rambling mob. Poor Rohati farmers, wearing mismatched tunics and threadbare cloaks, stood in loose, uneven ranks. Many of them had never held a weapon before the war, and now clutched crude spears carved from tree limbs, warped shields made from barrel tops, and bows that looked more like children's toys than weapons of war. Only the captains possessed true iron blades—rusted, notched, and passed down through generations like sacred relics.
Pulling on his beard he lamented, "It would be great if Viskov was here. With him around we would be the ones attacking. What is that boy doing anyways?"
Valeska placed a reassuringly large hand on Vladislav's shoulder, her grip surprisingly gentle. "Viskov likely hasn't gotten the news yet, my love. And even if he had, the north is his responsibility. He has his own battles to fight, his own people to protect."
Vladislav grunted, but didn't argue. He knew she was right—Viskov, their eldest,The Valord of Viskov, would come if he could. But Viskov was on the other side of the continent, separated by a years-long journey around enemy territory.
Still, he stared at the sky, half-expecting to see the glint of Viskov's purple wings streaking down from the clouds.
But only vultures circled.
"Then we fight with what we have," he muttered. His voice was low, but carried across the battlements like a funeral bell. "I, Vladislav Soyuz, have never yielded to anyone, nor will I yield to the Hylians in this lifetime!"
Valeska's wings flared slightly at his words, her pride in him plain even behind the shadow of coming death. A quiet resolve passed between the two ancient warriors—no matter what came at them from the fields below, they would face it as one.
Below, the ragged soldiers stirred. Vladislav's declaration had not been a speech, but it resonated louder than any call to arms. The farmers, the blacksmith's sons, the aging veterans, and the boys too young to shave—all of them stood a little taller.
Pavo stepped forward, placing a fist to his chest in salute. "Then let us make them earn every inch."
Zeleny gave a nod, his face drawn but fearless. "They may take Pavo, but they will remember the price of it."
"Good," Vladislav said, his voice as grim as the deep earth. "Then we stand."
He turned back toward the horizon. The first torches were flaring among the Hylian ranks. The siege towers had completed their slow crawl forward. From this distance, they looked like towering wooden beasts, spiked and armored, pulled by teams of Goron and massive oxen. The trebuchets were being armed, and the Rito archers were already spiraling into the brightening sky.
To the Hylian Camp.
The wind howled over the wetlands south of Pavo, carrying with it the tang of ash and the faint, bitter scent of burning oil. Beneath a colossal, blue-and-gold command banner, the Hylian war camp stretched like a mobile city. Tents stood in perfect geometric rows, armor glinted in the sun, and the soldiers of five allied races moved with the mechanical grace of discipline.
At the center, rising above all, was the king's pavilion—a monstrous structure of white silk and Hylian lumber, flanked by banners embroidered with golden suns and stylized wings.
Inside, King Atari stood before a tactical map carved into obsidian and inlaid with ruby markers. His eyes, sharp and joyless, traced the defensive positions of Pavo's ragged force.
"So this is all that remains?" he asked coldly. "One thousand worms in a crumbling den. And they still resist."
Beside him, Advisor Futokuno bowed slightly. "Yes, Your Majesty. Reports confirm: Vladislav Soyuz leads the defense, along with his wife and two children."
Atari's lip curled. "Soyuz. That half-divine aberration. An affront to everything holy. We should have purged his bloodline two centuries ago, not let them fester in the west."
None in the tent responded. Silence was safest when the king spoke of the Rohati.
He turned from the map and strode toward the open pavilion flap. The entire city of Pavo lay visible below—scarred but not yet broken, its battered gates still defiantly shut, its people still stubbornly alive.
"Why do they resist?" Atari asked aloud, not expecting an answer. "Do they believe the gods will intervene? That wings and ancient blades can turn aside steel and fire?"
General Renard Ishikura of the Hylian Army stepped forward. "They fight for their home, sire. For each other. As cornered animals do."
"Exactly," Atari murmured. "And that's all they are. Animals. I have tolerated their heresies and their filth long enough."
He turned to his commanders—Gerudo captains standing tall in crimson warcloth, Zora lieutenants with spears that shimmered like frost, Rito skirmishers perched on the tent's roof edge, wings tucked, eyes sharp.
"Tonight," Atari said, "we end the Rohati lie."
He pointed toward the city with a single gloved finger.
"I want the trebuchets firing before sunset. I want the Rito in the air, burning their rooftops. The Zora will take the river flank. The Gerudo will harry the east wall. Caelus—break the gate."
General Renard Ishikura nodded once.
"And the Royal Guard?" one of the advisors asked hesitantly.
Atari's expression hardened.
"They ride with me. I will enter the city myself when the walls fall. I want to see Vladislav die with my own eyes."
The tent was dead quiet.
"And the civilians?" Renard Ishikura asked cautiously.
Atari's voice dropped to a low growl.
"Burn them with the rest. If the Rohati wanted to live, they should have been born Hylian."
Then, as if the gods themselves had heard the decree, a distant horn sounded—long and low. The first trebuchet stone launched skyward with a scream.
The siege had begun.
Outside, the earth trembled as siege towers creaked forward, Goron engineers shouting commands. Rito scouts peeled off into formation above, bomb arrows nocked. The Hylian infantry locked shields and advanced like a single, unstoppable wall of steel.
Renard mounted his horse at the front of the Royal Guard. He gave one last look back at the tent, at the figure of his king silhouetted against the fire-kissed sky.
He said nothing.
And then the sky above Pavo ignited in chaos.
The Rito came first.
Dozens of them swept overhead in tight formations, their talons releasing a storm of bomb arrows that streaked down like comets. Explosions rocked the battlements—dust and fire billowing upward, turning towers into smoldering stumps and reducing parapets to rubble. Flames licked across rooftops, and screams rose from the defenders below as stone shattered and wooden structures collapsed.
"You Bastards!"
Vladislav soared into the sky with a roar, his four wings cutting through the haze. He streaked upward, faster than sound, a thunderclap cracking in his wake as he broke the sound barrier and surged to Mach 10. His sword glowed white-hot with plasma, and with a single swing, he sent out a crescent slash of pure energy that cleaved through half a Rito squadron. Their charred bodies spiraled down, their wings afire.
"Don't forget about me!"
Valeska followed a heartbeat later, her own blade singing through the air in streaks of molten starlight. She moved like a comet, slicing two siege towers in half from above in one terrifying sweep. The enemy lines below recoiled as burning timber and bodies rained back down.
But the Hylians were undeterred.
Trebuchet stones howled overhead, the sky full of shrieking wind and smoke. The first wall section cracked, then buckled—hundreds of tons of masonry crashing inward with a sound like the mountain itself breaking. Through the breach surged the steel tide.
The clash was instant.
Steel-clad Hylian soldiers stormed the breach, met head-on by Pavo's levies and Zeleny's last remaining warriors. The Rohati defenders fought with fury born of desperation. Farmers rammed pitchforks into armored chestplates. Children loosed arrows with trembling hands. Elders swung old swords with white-knuckled rage.
Pavo and Zeleny led from the front.
They could not match their parents' speed, but even at Mach 1, they tore through enemy lines like twin storms—Zeleny's straight broadsword crackling with electricity, Pavo's curved blade leaving gouts of flame in its wake. Together they carved a swath of flesh through the chaos, screaming commands, shielding their comrades, and dragging wounded back behind the line.
But hope was short-lived.
The leaders of the Rito, Gerudo, Goron and Zora encroached around Vladislav. Each leader attacked with their full might. Streams of lightning, water, wind and fire surged into the air, knocking Vladislav to the ground. Momentarily dazed, Vladislav let his guard down as the Goron Leader palms restrained all his wings and two arms.
Vladislav roared as he flexed his arms with a hundred tonnes of strength and heated his wings to thousands of degrees celsius, "Do you really think that you, a Goron, can hold me for long!"
The Goron Leader's palms singed as he painfully replied, "You…Rah…are r-eally strong. But I-I think you s-should prepare for what happens neexxxTTTT!"
Atop the breach, standing among the broken stones, a black silhouette emerged: King Atari, the Dark Master Sword in hand.
His blade was a sleek, pulsing thing—an abomination forged not of steel, but of pain, memory, and void. The very air around it quivered. Without a word, he vanished, reappearing instantly before Vladislav, striking with blinding speed.
Sparks appeared as Atari drove his against Vladislav's abdomen.
Light and dark warred in the air—flesh against shadow. Vladislav cried out as Atari's blade pierced his side, the dark energy burning into flesh, muscle, and even memory. He faltered mid-air, spiraling before regaining balance. Blood, incandescent and black, rained down like malign dew.
Valeska screamed.
She drove toward Atari, a whirlwind of fury, her sword a sun-bright blur—but the Hylian king was already gone, flashing to another part of the battlefield like a wraith. Valeska knelt by Vladislav, pressing her hand to the wound, whispering prayers older than Hyrule itself.
"Don't die," she whispered, her voice cracking for the first time in centuries. "You cannot die. Not yet."
Below, the tide had turned.
The Pavo and Zeleny forces were collapsing, overwhelmed by sheer numbers and artillery. For every Hylian that fell, three Rohati were cut down. The eastern wall shattered under sustained bombardment, and fire now climbed every tower. Trebuchets had breached the city from three directions.
Zeleny's left flank collapsed.
Pavo's rear guard broke.
The line was gone.
Zeleny caught his brother's eye across the field. His mouth was bloodied. His armor hung in tatters. His wings were broken.
"It's over!" he screamed across the chaos. "We can't hold it!"
Pavo's eyes burned—but he knew it too.
He gave the order. "Fall back! Regroup outside the city!"
Only one hundred managed to follow.
As the sky blackened with smoke and the sun vanished behind an ocean of ash, the last of Pavo and Zeleny's defenders fled, carrying their wounded, dragging their dying. Behind them, the city that bore their family name burned. Walls crumbled. Homes turned to ash. Temples collapsed. And above it all, the triumphant banners of Hyrule unfurled.
Vladislav, bleeding but alive, lay in the arms of Valeska. Pavo and Zeleny stood on a rocky ridge overlooking the smoldering ruin of Pavo's home. A single tear traced down Zeleny's soot-streaked face.
"We l-l-lost," he stammered.
"Yes," Pavo said, gripping his blade. "We lost the city. But not the fight."
Behind them, their shattered force—only one hundred souls—stood waiting, looking to the brothers not for orders, but for hope.
For the City of Pavo had fallen.