Outside of Uppsala, Halogaland, Svipjoth
The full force of Lukas' rebellion surrounded the historic walls of Uppsala, gathered in dozens of camps, trenches, and constructed siege machines. On the capital's other side, Lukas' navy held the same foreboding weight. Uppsala was completely surrounded, both land and sea fronts completely blocked by his rebellion. Lukas himself sat with his infantry, studying the flames of the campfire before lifting his head and glaring through the smoke towards Uppsala.
Tomorrow, he thought, will be the day. Everything will be completed, his men and women will be ready. Uppsala shall finally be taken, and it will be him who will finally defeat his uncle once and for all. Tomorrow, he will wear the Fylkiran crown and sit upon his rightful throne.
Uppsala, Halagoland, Svipjoth.
Stigyan soldiers in the city knew what the next day would bring, but they had over 200 MK-130 Knight Mechs to take the first wave of the siege, it may just buy them time. Or at least if it would if one of the soldiers didn’t slip into the transmitter on the palace walls and rewrite the combat protocols on the mechs…
Uppsala, Halogaland, SvipjothThe day of reckoning has finally arrived.
Sooner than the sun rise from the eastern horizon did Lukas' rebel army abandon their camps and trenches to fully invade the city. Stigyans and loyalist Svips alike stood their ground bravely upon the walls of Uppsala, firing guns and arrows in brotherhood. At first, their defense was delaying the invasion, with many initial casualities taken from Lukas. However, when the proud soldiers of Pjotur thought that their luck was finally turning, the worst that could happen, happened.
Barely a volley of gunfire had passed when the knight mechs began to malfunction, the best of them entrapping their operators and the worst self-combusting, killing many around them. These explosions helped to expedite the fall of Uppsala's walls, which came crumbing with only one volley of siege fire. If the men and women atop the wall did not die from the knight mechs or from the wall collapse, they were mercilessly executed by the stampeding rebels. The walls turned red in bloodshed as the city proper was now fully exposed to Lukas' command.
While many a regiments made their way down large streets and small corridors to find any remaining resistance, Lukas and his elites marched straight for Hvithaar Hall.
Inside Hvithaar HallThe royal guard, upon hearing the walls fall, immediately began working to protect the remaining royalty, primarily Pjotur and his heir, Beinlaus. Sweat and tears fell upon the war room map as the stamping of boots and hollers of panic voices filled the palace. Beinlaus could only stand frozen, staring at his weeping father with fear and despair. In his wavering voice, Pjotur rose his head,
"Beinlaus, my son, come close to me."
He obediently obeyed his father, leaning down slightly to meet his eye level as his hands were interlocked, unconsciously rubbing one another in an effort to find comfort. Lifting his hands, Pjotur rested them on Beinlaus' broad shoulders, giving them a tender, but tight squeeze.
"I love you so much, son. You mean the world to me. Alas, you cannot stay here. They will find you, your cousin and his men. They will kill you and I cannot have that. As your father, I must secure your future. I love you."
Beinlaus' facial expression could not decide between fright and anger as two royal guards suddenly grabbed Beinlaus from either side, restraining him with their strength alone as he was dragged away.
No words could emerge from Beinlaus' lips. He thrashed, kicked, screamed, and sobbed as the figure of his father eventually disappeared behind the turn of a hallway.
As Beinlaus was forcibly evacuated from Uppsala, Pjotur stayed amidst the chaos, gathering his panic into stoicism, and walked to his throne, sitting upon it with his hands resting on the sabre his dear friend gifted him so long ago.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
"Uncle. A pleasure to meet you."
Shortly after the audible fall of a royal guard's limp body, Lukas and his entourage of elite men entered the throne room. As Lukas stood in front of the door way, the elite men stood between the two family members, forming a circle between where their leader stood and where his uncle sat.
"Despite the circumstances, I want to stay to tradition. Pjotur II Arngrimsson, killer of my father, I challenge you to a duel for the crown!"
Pjotur listened to his words carefully, cognitively taking every portion with deliberate consideration. Slowly standing and stepping down from his throne, he made a distant approach to Lukas.
"I accept."
The two men lunged at one another, swiftly striking each others sabres. The elite men held their Stigyan tech guns with patience, watching the fight unfold before them. It was quickly gathered by both men that they were of equal strength to one another, Pjotur's experience and Lukas' youth. In this equality, the duel was long, each man gaining cuts, bruises, and shallow stab wounds that proved no definitive tide.
Pjotur's age began to catch with him, his prowess victim to his aging body. With increasingly stunted attacks and slowed responses, Pjotur was continuously hit with Lukas' relentless fighting style.
At last with a slash across the chest, Pjotur fell onto the floor, the sabre dropped and rolled away from his hand. He labored in breathing as Lukas slowly approached the infirmed Fylkir. His pace was almost a saunter as he then stood above Pjotur's head, pointing his sabre down, the edge lightly touching his neck.
"Any last words?"
"...I'm sorry, Grankjell."
With a sharp downward slice, Lukas' sabre easily cut through Pjotur's neck. His spewing arteries spat blood across the room, droplets accumulating on Lukas' forehead and cheeks as Pjotur went still. Lukas watched as the arteries became lulled in their blood loss, then finally emptied. Kneeling down, Lukas used his index and middle fingers to shut Pjotur's eyes before moving upward to retrieve the Iron Crown. Holding the simplistic, yet ancient symbol of power in his hands, Lukas stood up. Controlling the subtle excited shake in his hands, he gently lifted the crown and placed it on his head, lowering and staring at his hands in disbelief and amazement. Looking to his side, his elite men could only muster a polite clap as he slowly approached the throne, gently climbing the stairs before seating himself. Each of the elite men kneeled to him, his destiny fulfilled and his claim seized.