The banners of Florenzia still hung limp in the air, their colours dulled by the smoke of a conquest already turning to memory. Two months had passed since Prince Alphonse and Victor had seized the grand city after a siege more bitter than either had anticipated. The broken wall and patched ramparts were a reminder that victory was often merely the first page of a longer story.
Now, at dawn on the first day of their march, the two commanders stood upon the southern gatehouse overlooking the long, dusty road uncoiling toward the south-eastern sea. Three weeks of marching lay between them and Madena—the last stronghold of the Red Visconte faction.
A faction that had bled the continent for two decades. And at the head of that remnant stood Marquis Pietro Garbisi: a lord whose intellect for trade and governance was said to equal his treachery, and whose loyalty shifted like the tide.
Prince Alphonse stood with hands clasped behind his back, his silhouette cut sharp against the pale horizon. He was scarcely twenty-six, though the war had made older lines about his eyes.
"Victor," he said quietly, his gaze affixed to the shimmering ribbon of countryside. "When one conquers a city, it is stone that breaks. When one conquers a faction, it is spirits that must bend. Madena will not yield its spirit lightly, just like Florenzia."
"Pietro Garbisi will not open his gates at the sight of our banners," Victor replied. "But he will open them at the sound of our cannon."
Alphonse tilted his head. "Perhaps. But I would rather take Madena whole than splinter her against the sea."
Below them, the army stirred. Muskets clattered as they were checked and shouldered. Wagons groaned under barrels of powder and crates of supplies. Horses snorted, stamping impatiently at the cool earth. The officers' calls echoed off Florenzia's old stone, blending into the awakening hum of a force fifteen thousand strong.
By midmorning, the cavalry was already riding ahead to scout the winding passes. The infantry followed in wide columns—Luxenberg blue touching shoulders with Visconte green—while the artillery trundled at the rear, iron wheels kicking up pale dust. The scent of the countryside replaced the stale ache of the besieged city: dry grass, olive groves, the sweetness of ripening grapes from villas half-hidden on distant slopes.
As the column descended from Florenzia's heights, the people watched them go. Some waved; some glared. Others simply stared in silence, neither friend nor foe, but exhausted witnesses to the shifting tides of sovereignty. Alphonse's horse slowed as he scanned their faces. Victor observed him from the corner of his eye.
"You still look for something in them," the king said. "Approval? Gratitude? Hope?"
"Understanding," Alphonse answered. "A ruler who cannot read the people he governs may soon find himself governing none."
Victor slowly nodded, acknowledging Alphonse's insight.
The army made camp that night in the valley below the hills of Florenzia. Fires burned in neat rows, their sparks drifting upward like a second regiment marching toward the heavens. The men ate, drank, sang; some mended their shoes, others their spirits.
In the command pavilion, maps were laid across a long oak table. King Victor stabbed his finger at the coastline depicted in faded ink.
"Three weeks if the roads hold," he said. "Longer if the weather decides to hinder us."
The commanders gathered around the table nodded. Alphonse was paying more attention than he had previously and remained composed during the meeting. His actions were also mirrored by his subordinates, a welcoming sight for the Victor, given their behaviour during the last was undesirable.
Alphonse even took the initiative to deliver his opinion on the coming siege. "Florenzia taught us something," he said softly. "These cities do not fall simply because our armies arrive at their gates. They fall because their people believe resistance is futile. Garbisi will attempt to convince them otherwise."
Victor and his commanders already knew this; they had been in many sieges during the last two decades, but for the Green Visconte commanders, this was something that resonated with them.
Victor turned to Field Marshal Wellington and asked, "Have we received word from our reinforcements?"
Alphonse and his commanders were confused and keen to interject, but the British Field Marshal did not give them enough time to do so. "Yes, My Liege. If all is well with the weather, they will meet us at Madena a week after we arrive."
"Very good," Victor smiled.
Alphonse and his commanders began to barrage Victor with questions, but he did not answer. Instead, he left it to be a surprise for them.
The march continued for days, each step carrying them farther south, deeper into lands where the Red Visconte banners had once flown proudly. They passed vineyards whose grapes lay unharvested, fields abandoned after years of levies and skirmishes, villages where the walls bore the faded smears of painted slogans—promises of liberty, or tyranny, depending on the tongue that uttered the words.
The weather turned warmer as they approached the coast, and the scent of salt began to cling to the wind. The roads widened; the farms grew more numerous. The closer they drew to Madena, the more evident its influence became. That port city was a jewel of trade, wealth, and ambition. A place where ideas clashed as fiercely as armies.
By the twentieth day, the towers of Madena came into view—first as pale smudges against the horizon, then as solid forms rising from the glitter of the sea. The city sprawled along the coast in a crescent of stone and sunlight, its harbour bristling with masts and its walls thick with history. Red banners snapped from the battlements, a final declaration that the Red Visconte faction still breathed.
Alphonse reined in his horse and studied the city long and hard. Victor rode up beside him.
"There she is," Victor said. "Madena—the last refuge of rebels."
"No," Alphonse murmured. "The last refuge of those who believe they are righteous."
Victor squinted at him. "Is there a difference?"
Alphonse didn't answer.
Ahead of them, the sea glimmered like hammered silver. The wind carried the scent of tidewater, tar, and distant markets. It felt peaceful—deceptively so. For beyond those walls lay the final struggle for control of the south-eastern coast. The final breath of a rebellion that had clawed at the peninsula for decades. And perhaps the final test of Prince Alphonse's rising star.
The army pressed onward.
Madena waited.