The smoke of Hulmatu rose in the deepest darkness before dawn, the light of the explosions painting the sky a dark red.
At a garrison stronghold in the city's northeast area—the third-floor window of the city hospital, Colonel Ross held up binoculars with his bandaged left hand.
In his field of view, the black flags of 1515 had already been planted on every major building of the city hall, post office, and central square.
Those flags fluttered in the morning wind, like the wings of crows symbolizing death.
"Sir, D District has completely fallen, the remaining troops have retreated to the market square area, with casualties over sixty percent."
"E District is still in a firefight, but there are only three anti-tank missiles left."
"F District is requesting emergency reinforcements, they are surrounded on three sides, the commander says... they can hold out for at most one more hour."
Bad news came one after another, like a dull knife cutting flesh.
