The Story of Tygoth

Chapter 15: Aftermath on the Surface

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a dim, orange glow across the devastated ruins of Tygoth. Smoke from smoldering buildings still lingered in the air, curling skyward in ghostly spirals. The pillagers had long since retreated, their monstrous war machines having left the city in ruins. But the battle scars of that brutal assault remained etched into every corner of the once-proud city. It was now around 3:42 pm, just hours since the initial attack that had thrown the city into chaos, and its people were still reeling from the destruction.

The Council, Tygoth’s remaining leadership, convened in a makeshift hall fashioned from what was left of the grand chamber. A large tent had been erected near the heart of the city, with a perimeter secured by the remaining guards, who had managed to survive the onslaught. Crates of food and medical supplies were stacked haphazardly along the side, and the wounded lay on cots, being tended to by the city’s healers.

Elder Darnath, the head of the Council, stood at the center of the tent. His once immaculate robes were singed and torn, and his face bore the weight of exhaustion. Around him, the other Council members were locked in heated debate. Their voices, rising and falling with urgency, carried the fear and frustration of the people they represented.

“We cannot wait any longer,” one of the councilwomen urged. Her voice cracked with strain. “If we don’t act soon, the remaining survivors will lose all hope.”

“And do what, exactly?” snapped another councilman. His gaunt face was streaked with grime. “We’re barely holding this city together as it is. Reinforcements from the neighboring kingdoms could take days—weeks, even.”

Elder Darnath held up a hand to silence them. “Enough. We must focus on the task at hand. The defenses must be rebuilt as best we can with the materials we have. The city’s people need to see that we are still standing. And as for the survivors who fled to the dungeons…” His voice trailed off, a pained expression crossing his face. “We have no news.”

“They’ve gone too deep,” one of the guards said grimly. “That place is filled with untold dangers. If they don’t make it out soon…”

“We cannot give up hope,” Darnath interjected. “We must hold on to the belief that some of them may yet return.”

While the Council debated and plotted their next steps, the citizens of Tygoth moved like ghosts through the ruins of their home. Families picked through the rubble of their houses, salvaging whatever they could. The sounds of hammers striking wood and the occasional cry of relief when someone found an intact keepsake or piece of furniture echoed through the streets. It was an eerie kind of calm, a fragile peace after the storm of violence that had torn through the city.

Among those wandering the ruins were Rolf’s family. His parents, Maren and Andrik, searched anxiously for any word of their son. Rolf had only left a few weeks prior to gather experience for his College of Magic studies, and he had promised to stay out of danger. But the attack had come swiftly and without warning, and now, with no news of him or the group he had joined, fear gnawed at their hearts.

Maren clutched the pendant Rolf had given her when he left, her fingers trembling as she tried to hold back her tears. “He has to be alright,” she whispered to Andrik, her voice thick with emotion. “He’s smart. He wouldn’t have gone too deep.”

Andrik, though stoic, could not hide the worry in his eyes. “The dungeons are dangerous, but they were meant to protect us. If anyone can survive down there, it’s Rolf and the others.”

They had heard stories of the adventurers who ventured into the dungeons—heroes who braved the depths to protect Tygoth from whatever dark secrets lay beneath the city. And yet, now, even those brave souls had disappeared. As the hours passed, the city’s survivors became more anxious. Whispers began to circulate that the Council had no idea what to do, that the adventurers who had descended into the dungeons might never return. And with them, their sons and daughters, husbands and wives, were lost as well.

Elsewhere in the city, small groups of survivors gathered around hastily constructed campfires, sharing stories and offering comfort to one another. Families that had lost their homes and loved ones huddled together, their faces lined with grief and exhaustion. For many, the weight of the attack was still too much to process.

Among these groups, a woman named Isla sat quietly with her two young children. They had been forced into the dungeons during the attack, and now, having returned to the surface, she found it difficult to believe that the city they had called home was in ruins. Her children, still too young to fully understand what had happened, clung to her side, their wide eyes reflecting the flickering firelight.

“I heard some of the adventurers made it to the lower levels,” a man nearby murmured. His voice was hushed, as though speaking too loudly might invite more calamity. “Maybe they’ll find a way back up. Maybe they’ll bring news.”

“Or maybe they’ll never return,” another added, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Those dungeons aren’t meant for us normal folk. Who knows what lies down there?”

As the hours passed, Tygoth’s people struggled to rebuild both their city and their spirits. The devastation had struck deep, leaving scars that would take years to heal, if they ever could. And as the sun began to set over the smoldering ruins, the uncertainty of what had become of their loved ones weighed heavily on their hearts.

For now, the fate of those who had ventured into the dungeons remained a mystery. But for the families of the adventurers—like Rolf’s parents, waiting anxiously for news—the hope that their children would return was all that kept them going. Tygoth may have been shattered, but its people were not yet broken.