The moment Vengelis landed, all of the guards snapped to attention and saluted, thundering in deep unison, “Hail, Emperor Vengelis Epsilon!”

Vengelis hesitated for a moment in his approach to the gate, which cranked open to greet him. A pit formed in his stomach as he distractedly returned a salute. They had addressed him as emperor, not prince. He shook the notion from his mind as the barracks chief officer hurried out of the gate to greet him. Grime and dirt covered the older man’s face and sullied his armor. Despair bled from him like an open wound, but he saluted Vengelis robustly.

“Where is my family?” Vengelis said, falling into step with the officer. His voice sounded hollow in his own ears.

“My lord, your sister and mother are in the bunker far below. They are safe for the time being. Though safe has quickly become a relative term. We need to evacuate the Royal families from the planet as soon as possible. Your father has fallen.”

The exhausted officer placed a hand on Vengelis’s shoulder and directed him toward the bunker. The man was not wearing the armor of a general, or even an upper ranked Imperial First Class soldier. Vengelis did not need to ask to realize the entire power hierarchy had already fallen—the superiors of this middle ranked soldier were dead. The officer was talking hurriedly, providing an overview of the morning’s events and Sejeroreich’s remaining defenses. Vengelis stopped suddenly, and the man came to a halt before him.

“My father has fallen?”

The downtrodden officer dropped his gaze to his own boots. “Yes, my lord. Emperor Faris died defending the palace early this morning during the beginning of the attack. He fought with the full might of the Royal Guard. They . . . they all died. I heard from a soldier near the battle that Emperor Faris died an honorable death. A Felix claimed his life.”

Vengelis could barely register the words. His father was gone. The chaos of the capital suddenly became faded, dreamlike. The frenzied world fell out of focus, and Vengelis felt overwhelmed. For the first time in two thousand years, the Epsilon dynasty was in mortal jeopardy. Vengelis steadied his breathing and attempted to regain his composure. He turned and looked out over the gardens of the palace courtyard. It seemed as though the entire Imperial First Class lay wounded or dead, medics frantically moving the few survivors into the barracks.

What miniscule fraction of the Imperial Army remained for him to lead? Vengelis felt fear strip away his confidence. Icy panic slowly seeped into his mind, but he quickly replaced it with resolve.

“Take me to my family,” Vengelis said with a steady authority.

 “At once, my lord. Follow me.”

The officer turned and led Vengelis at a brisk pace through the bowels of the palace barracks, their footfalls echoing off the deserted stone hallways and the armor of the stoic guards standing sentry along the way. They entered an elevator and wordlessly descended dozens of floors far into the underground bunker of the palace. Vengelis tried to grasp confidence. So be it if the entire Imperial Army and the Royal Guard fell. His power alone was on a magnitude beyond these men. A hundred lesser warriors standing by his side would not increase his odds. It made no difference that the Imperial First Class had fallen, for even when the entirety of the ranks stood together, the final defense of Anthem inexorably came down to him alone: the last Epsilon.

The elevator doors slid open, and a sterile and militarily outfitted bunker came into view. A cavernous room, the bunker was filled to capacity with parents and children of the Royal families and various high-ranking officials. The faces ranged the gamut of his people, the shrill cry of infants rising alongside the pained moans of wounded soldiers. Vengelis was repulsed by the sight. It was as though he was looking at a refugee camp, and yet these were the strongest of his race—these were living deities bleeding out on the floor like wounded animals.

The moment Vengelis stepped from the elevator into the teeming room, a hush descended. All eyes fell on the young Epsilon. Vengelis could feel the gazes searing into him, their eyes piercing him with pleas for protection. He alone was their last tenuous hope of salvation. Everyone knew it.

“Hail, Emperor Vengelis Epsilon!” a number of wounded Imperial First Class warriors shouted from one corner. Their voices rose and fell, a quiet trepidation taking hold of the bunker immediately after their determined salutes.