The first evening before Madena came with a wind that smelled of brine and pine resin, rolling down from the coastal hills. The sea shimmered to the west in a great sheet of hammered silver, while the walls of the port city—white stone in daylight, pale gold now under the sinking sun—stood quiet and watchful.
Prince Alphonse and King Victor rode at the front as the vanguard halted on a rise overlooking Madena. The land between the city and army was open: gently sloping meadows, a scattering of olive groves, and a ribbon of dusty road that ran straight to the northern gate.
"Well," Victor muttered, adjusting his gloves, "it's a fine place to pin a city down."
"Wide ground," Alphonse agreed, "and no hills for Garbisi to hide artillery. He'll fight from the walls."
Victor nodded once. "Then let us give him something to look at."
Orders rippled through the ranks. Within minutes, officers were shouting to the engineers; wagons were wheeled to the fore; the long poles of surveyors rose against the sky like thin, defiant spears.
The engineers—those wiry, mud-stained alchemists of war—were the first to descend to the meadow. Under the direction of General Bertrand, they planted red-marked stakes at measured intervals, tracing the outline of the siege lines.
Given General Bertrand's excellent skill in siege warfare and construction, Victor assigned him to be in charge of setting up the siege camp and preparing the artillery positions.
"HERE!" he barked, driving a stake into the ground so violently it quivered. "The bastion begins HERE, not ten paces east! Do you mean to align the guns with the heavens? Because I assure you, gentlemen, they will not appreciate the courtesy!"
His men scattered to correct their placements.
By nightfall, the camp began to take shape. Rows of tents sprang up like pale mushrooms across the open field—first the officers' canvas pavilions, then the long lines of infantry shelters, and finally the wagon circles for the artillery and supply trains.
Hundreds of fires ignited across the plain. Their glow rolled up the sloping ground like a soft, flickering tide. Soldiers ate hot stew from tin bowls, cleaned muskets, sharpened bayonets, and told stories in low voices. Drummers beat slow evening rhythms while quartermasters tallied crates under lanternlight.
Madena's walls answered with silence.
Only the distant crash of the tide against the harbour broke the stillness.
At dawn the second day, the artillery columns rolled into the marked positions. The monstrous 12-pounders of the Luxenberg artillery were set up first. Their thunderous booms would send shivers down the spine of the defenders. Alongside them were 9 and 6-pound cannons ready to assist in the barrage.
Further back were Victor's special weapons, the Luxenberg Rockets. Ever since he had acquired them during the siege of Joltz, they have been a key contributor to his army in multiple battles stretched across multiple continents.
With them out of enemy range, they could wreak havoc upon the city unopposed. Victor's rockets still had half of their ammunition left. He made sure they did not exhaust all the rockets during the siege of Florenzia.
While the guns were aligned, the infantry dug.
They dug until their hands blistered, until their shoulders burned, until the white stones of Madena's walls seemed to watch in cold amusement. Trenches advanced in zig-zag patterns from the rear line to the forward redoubts. Parapets rose—first as raw piles of earth, then reinforced by wooden planks, wicker gabions, and sand-filled barrels.
Sudes were created and placed in front of the trenches as an added layer of protection. If the Garbisi soldiers wanted to sally forth, then having these Sudes would slow down the enemy advance, especially if they had cavalry.
Victor wanted to make sure that the defences were flawless, and Bertrand enforced this wish upon his men. This siege would be the last stand of the Red Visconte faction. Anything could happen, including the enemy sallying forth to meet the besieging army in the field. If that were to happen, Victor wanted to make sure that the army would be ready to properly defend against it.
It was work that turned men's backs to iron and their sleep to stone.
By the third afternoon, sweat-darkened shirts hung from nearly every soldier. Mud streaked their boots and faces. Even the officers had discarded coats in favour of rolled sleeves and linen undershirts.
General Bertrand paced the works like a restless spectre.
"No, no, NO!" he shouted at a team of sappers. "A redoubt slants forward like a thrusting blade, not sideways like a drunkard's stumble! Fill in this mess and begin again!"
One of the sappers muttered under his breath. Bertrand whipped around. "I HEARD THAT!"
The sapper paled.
Victor laughed in the distance. Bertrand was a humorous and lovable character when amongst his own men, but to the enemy, he was a monster. The moniker, Bertrand the Impaler, still lingered. Many on Bulgar know of what happened to the Rebels in Joltz, and as such, they knew never to commit a grievance against him.
It was near dusk on the third day when the first sign of response came from the city.
A trumpet call echoed from the walls—sharp, metallic, unmistakably deliberate. A moment later, new banners unfurled from the north tower: deep crimson strips bearing the emblem of the Red Visconte.
Then the cannons appeared.
Victor grinned. "At last."
Alphonse's expression was quieter, more contemplative.
Garbisi had waited until the siege works were nearly complete. Until the camp was committed. Until the soldiers had settled into routine.
A deliberate choice.
One that spoke of a commander who understood timing.
"He wants us to know he's ready," Alphonse murmured.
"Oh, I know," Victor said. "And tomorrow he will learn that we are."
The fires were lit. The men settled to rest. The sea whispered against the distant harbour. And high above, the crimson banners of Madena rippled in the cool coastal wind—taunting the armies poised to bring them down.
The siege had begun.