"Look there," Victor murmured, pointing with his riding crop. "The Florent Palace still stands. Even after all the rockets."
Alphonse followed his gaze. The palace—the ancestral seat of the Florent family—rose out of the ruin like an island of cracked marble. Its ornate façade was scarred by fire and impact, yet the structure endured, the great bronze doors still intact, though battered. Soot streaked down carved columns shaped into the forms of ancient heroes. Many of their faces had been blown away.
It was the last defiant shape in a conquered city.
The two men dismounted at the foot of the palace steps. King Victor's boots crunched upon fragments of coloured glass that once formed the windows.
Rows of the Luxenberg Royal Guard moved ahead, bayonets fixed, muskets still warm. The soldiers had taken the palace courtyard at dawn, but they had not pressed further.
As Victor and Alphonse stepped forward into the courtyard, a pair of Florent retainers—pale, exhausted, but composed—bowed their heads.
"They await you in the grand hall," one said. "Lord Tomasso instructed that you be admitted without delay."
Victor exchanged a glance with Alphonse. No resistance. No final act of pride or desperation. Only acceptance.
Tomasso Florent stood at the centre of the hall.
He wore no regalia, only a dark coat buttoned neatly at the throat. His face was gaunt, his hair streaked with dust and grey. When he looked up at Victor, it was not with hostility, but with the weary dignity of a man who had measured the cost of defiance and found it too steep to pay.
"King Luxenberg," Tomasso said, inclining his head.
Victor bowed slightly in return. "Marquis Florent."
"I understand the city is yours," Tomasso continued. His voice was steady, though underlined by grief. "I will not dispute the outcome. My people have suffered enough."
A long silence followed. Alphonse shifted his weight, uncertain how to stand in the presence of a man who had just lost everything—including a son. But this was also the man who had helped steal his throne from him, a man who helped cause a civil war on the continent.
Victor finally spoke. "Your surrender was acknowledged. You will be treated with the respect due to your rank. You and your sister will be placed in the custody of Prince Alphonse."
Tomasso closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they shone with a muted, unspoken agony. "Very well…You will find my sister in the gardens."
Maria was standing in the long colonnade overlooking the palace gardens. The gardens themselves were half-ruined—hedges scorched, statues toppled, the reflecting pool cracked—but she watched them as though they were still whole.
When Victor and Alphonse approached, she turned to them with a composed but defiant look.
"My brother has surrendered," she said before they could speak. Her voice filled with annoyance. "Well, get on with it. If you are here to capture me, then hurry up and do it. I will not be toyed with by some foreign bastard and the useless cur that got in the way of this continent's prosperity."
Alphonse, struck by her clear annoyance, hesitated before asking, "Is there anything you wish to bring with you, Lady Maria?"
Maria looked down at her hands. They were empty.
"There is nothing left to take, you have seen to that," she said, giving the two men attitude.
With no other words exchanged, Victor's Royal Guard detained her and reunited her with Tomasso.
They both were escorted down the main staircase, which was dusted with plaster and lined with soldiers standing in respectful silence. Outside, the light had begun to fade; rays of pale gold glinted off Victor's standards as they fluttered in the courtyard.
A small crowd of Florenzians watched the procession. Their expressions were unreadable—some sorrowful, others hardened, many simply defeated. No voices rose. No stones were thrown. The city, like its rulers, was too exhausted for protest.
At the foot of the steps, Victor paused.
"Lord Florent," he said, "take one more look at your home. Knowing Alphonse, I doubt you will see this place again."
"Home," Tomasso echoed with a faint, bitter smile. He took a moment to observe his palace, a once glorious and welcoming sight that had faded to memory within a day. The grandeur of it was ruined by battle.
Maria stepped into the waiting carriage first, gathering her skirts with quiet composure. Tomasso followed more slowly, turning once to cast a final look at the palace—its cracked windows, the smoke-stained marble, the broken legacy of his line.
He did not weep. But something in his face hollowed further, as though seeing the true finality for the first time.
The door closed gently behind him.
Prince Alphonse watched as the carriage pulled away, wheels crunching over scattered debris."Are you sure it is wise for us to transfer them back to Roma?" he murmured. "I trust my men to do this task, but what if they are ambushed and the pair are freed.
Victor wiped soot from his sleeve. "Having them around would only cause more division. By removing them from the city, you remove the chance for rebellious elements to install them as rulers once again. For now, we must look to tend to our wounded and secure the city. This war is not over yet. "
Alphonse nodded in agreement. It was a wise decision. But now the task was to begin securing the city. This was of paramount importance. The sooner the city was under control, the sooner the army could move onto their next and final target, Madena.
Madena was a port city three-week march away and the last stronghold of the Red Visconte faction. With no allies and no real standing army to support them, they were now isolated. When the news would reah Marquis Garbisi, it would be clear that the city would share a similar fate to Florenzia. Blood would stain its streets, and corpses would pile up higher than the walls.
But for now, the Marquis was desperately waiting for news on the fate of Florenzia.