The morning broke with a sky the colour of tarnished silver, the clouds sagging low over the sea as if waiting for the world to hold its breath. Prince Alphonse stood beside the Luxenberg 12-pounders, watching the gunners tamp powder and shot with practised precision.
General Bertrand lifted his hand. "Range set. Elevation fixed. Ready, Your Majesty."
Victor nodded. "Let the cannons roar, General."
General Bertrand lowered his arm. "FIRE!"
The cannon bellowed like a titan waking from centuries of sleep. The recoil slammed the carriage backwards; clods of earth leapt from the ground. Smoke burst outward in a roiling white cloud, thick with the stench of sulphur and iron.
A heartbeat later, the shot struck Madena's northern wall with a stone-splintering crash. Dust erupted in a pale fountain.
Cheers rose from the trenches.
But almost at once the city answered.
Dozens of cannons fired from the battlements—its deep roar echoing across the plain. The shots screamed overhead, tearing through the smoke. One struck a field wagon behind the forward line, exploding barrels and sending shards of wood spinning.
Through the morning and well into the afternoon, both sides traded measured volleys. The besiegers fired slowly—establishing range, adjusting angles, calibrating for wind. The defenders returned fire with equal restraint. A testing dance, each side learning the other's rhythm.
By dusk, the walls bore scuffs and fractures, but nothing more.
The siege had truly begun, yet Victor had not revealed his entire hand yet.
If the first day had been cautious, the second erupted with fury.
A bright, pitiless sun rose over the sea, burning the mist from the meadow. The heat drove the smell of powder deep into the air. Before breakfast, drums had finished their morning call, and the Red Visconte guns opened fire.
BOOM. BOOM—BOOM.
Three volleys in swift succession. Their accuracy had sharpened overnight; one struck the angled face of the forward redoubt, showering sappers with dirt and splintering the parapet.
Victor cursed. "It seems like Garbisi wishes to wake the army up. He must have moved more guns to the northern wall."
General Bertand squinted through a glass. "It is looking quite crowded upon the wall, they have tried to fit as many cannons as they can.."
Victor lowered his voice. "Then today we silence them."
At his word, hundreds of Luxenberg guns roared in unison. The plain quaked under them. Thick smoke rolled in waves, drifting inland like storm clouds. Men shouted through the haze, adjusting ropes, hauling ammunition, shouting ranges.
CRACK!
A section of Madena's wall spat stone. Chips rained down on the city side, though the breach was still small.
Garbisi's reply was swift. His gunners found their mark on the third volley: a direct hit on one of the batteries. A gunner flew backwards, sprawled lifeless before his comrades.
Victor, grim-faced now, barked: "Shift range! Aim for the enemy guns—NOT the wall!"
The next volley hammered the battlements. A dozen of Garbisi's cannons toppled sideways. A plume of red-clad soldiers scattered from the impact.
For the first time, Madena's wall seemed vulnerable.
By nightfall, the men were exhausted—ears ringing, hands blistered, throats raw from powder smoke—but their spirits soared. They had bloodied the city.
Rain threatened but never came. Instead, a heavy humidity settled over the plain, turning every breath into warm vapour. Smoke clung low to the trenches, refusing to lift.
The cannons resumed at dawn, but this day felt different.
The Red Visconte gunners changed tactics. Instead of aiming at the batteries, they targeted the trenches—bouncing shots intentionally along the ground so they skipped like a stone thrown over water.
It was brutal.
One ricocheted ball slammed into a line of infantry waiting in reserve. Two men were killed outright; another screamed for his mother until the surgeon reached him.
Victor remained cool and composed, placing his hand against the nearest gabion. "The Madena garrison has spirit, I will give them that. But today that shall break." He then turned to General Bertrand and yelled, "Unleash the rockets!"
General Bertrand nodded and signalled for the rockets to fire. Their screeching had many of the defenders terrified as they watched these flying spears descend upon them. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Dozens of Garbisi cannons were thrown about, with hundreds of defenders affected by the blasts. Their situation grew worse as Victor's guns struck harder. They began firing heated shot—glowing red spheres heated in iron furnaces. When they struck the battlements, bits of parapet burst outward in showers of molten fragments.
One shot hit the roof of a gatehouse and sparked a fire. Smoke rose from inside the city.
A cheer went up, but it was merely the beginning. Fire began to appear inside the city, rockets had strayed further into the port city, setting warehouses, homes and shops a blaze. Desperate conscripts acted as firefighters, hauling buckets of water, trying to combat the spreading flames.
By the end of the third day, the northern wall was cracked in several places. Not yet ready to fall—not yet a breach—but weakened.
The fourth day would be crucial, especially when Victor hoped to play his final card.
With the rising of the morning sun, the fourth day of the siege began. Victor adjusted his telescope. "General Bertrand, now. Hit the weakened sections."
General Bertrand barked the order. The guns fired in disciplined volleys, each shot aimed at the same two cracks running through the wall like veins of old marble.
Stone chunks fell. Dust clouds billowed.
Madena's reply came slower than before.
Victor noticed immediately. "Their powder stores must be strained."
"Or their men," Alphonse murmured. "Fatigue affects defenders too."
Just after midday, the eighth allied volley struck the same intersection of cracks. The wall shuddered. Birds exploded from the rooftops. A deep groan rolled through the stone like thunder inside a cavern.
A section collapsed—small, hardly a passage—but enough to expose the inner wall-walk.
Marquis Garbisi, who was spectating from his palace, grew nervous. His men grew tired; they had the powder, unlike what Victor believed, but the crews were running short on energy. Many were heavily fatigued from three days of intense fighting.
The Marquis knew that the hope of victory was further slipping away, but what sealed his fate was the unexpected arrival of reinforcements.