Three weeks had passed since the capture of Madena, and much had been done to solidify Alphonse's control of the city.
Madena's surrender brought no jubilant celebration, only a heavy exhale—like a city waking from a nightmare and finding the world unchanged, yet no longer on fire.
The white flags remained for three days, their pale cloth fluttering like ghosts over the northern wall. Engineers pulled them down only when the breach was shored u,p and the guns rolled back from their forward positions.
Inside the walls, the streets were narrow and bright with sea-washed stone, but the people walked them as if stepping through the ruins of an earthquake. Windows that had been shuttered for weeks finally creaked open. Merchants swept dust from doorways. Children peeked around corners at soldiers in unfamiliar colours.
But everyone watched the citadel.
Everyone watched the new commanders.
Prince Alphonse entered the city each morning on foot, not horseback. He spoke to merchants, bakers, fishermen—asking what the city needed, what it lacked, what fears kept them awake. His manner was calm, measured, never harsh. This disarmed many, but not all.
He may have been arrogant and stubborn, but he cared for his people, even the ones who were enemies a month ago.
On the sixth day, the city council formally dissolved itself. Too stained by association with the Red Visconte, too divided, they yielded their authority to Alphonse until a new civil administration could be built from the ground up.
It was not quite trust—but it was a surrender of a different kind.
The second week began with rain.
Hard coastal rain that washed the dust from the stone streets and swept old propaganda posters from the walls. Men gathered in taverns again, speaking in low tones. Women returned to the markets. Fishermen dared once more to cast nets beyond the breakwater.
Alphonse toured the city's quarter districts. He discovered that the Red Visconte administrators had amassed a lot of grain in warehouses, in preparation for the siege. At his order, the stores were opened, tallied, and distributed in fair measure.
This alone softened many hearts.
On the fourth day of that week, the northern tower collapsed—not from battle, but from damage left unrepaired. No one was injured, though the noise sent half the city into panic.
Afterwards, General Bertrand and his engineers set up scaffolding across the breach and worked long into the nights, rebuilding the wall stone by stone. Alphonse and Victor visited them one evening and found the General working his men to the best of their capabilities.
That same week, the Red Visconte insignia was quietly removed from all public buildings. Not ceremoniously—simply pulled down, folded, and stored away. The people watched silently, neither resisting nor cheering. Change was happening, but emotion had not yet caught up to it.
By the third week, Madena began to resemble itself—or some gentler version of what it had once been.
The markets filled again. Fishermen shouted prices. Bakers' ovens glowed before dawn. A festival was held to lift the people's spirits and change their perception of Alphonse. More of the surplus food stored in preparation for the siege was brought out, and the people loved it. Children paraded with flower garlands. Old women wept.
For the first time, allied soldiers wandered the city without drawing stares.
And yet, beneath this veneer of renewal, a quiet anxiety remained. The city wanted to trust its new rulers. It wanted peace. It wanted normalcy.
On the third day of the third week, Alphonse convened a public assembly in the main square. Thousands attended. The air smelled of sea salt and fresh bread.
He addressed them not as conqueror but as steward.
"Madena belongs to its people," he said. "It shall be governed not by force, but by order. Not by ideology, but by fairness. In time, a new lord shall rise to rule here; they will be fair and just. Until then, I will guide this city as caretaker—not master."
Silence followed.
Then applause—hesitant at first, then rolling and genuine.
In the final days of the third week, craftsmen returned to rebuilding the harbour fortifications. Merchants reopened warehouses that had been dark for months. Patrols grew lighter. The soldiers' presence became less a symbol of occupation and more a reminder of stability.
The city still bore scars—broken stone, empty homes, the echo of vanished voices—but it also bore signs of healing.
And in the evenings, when lanterns glimmered along the waterfront, and the smell of fresh-caught fish drifted through the alleys, Madena looked almost peaceful.
Almost like itself.
With Madena secured and the continent falling into line with their new ruler, Victor began making preparations.
With the permission of Alphonse, all of the Red Visconte prisoners of war that were guarded by General Picton and General Kamensky were released. They were permitted to return to their homes and families; however, all their weapons remained behind. Victor had also dispatched orders to the two Generals, commanding them to march to Sinolla and await the fleet to pick them up.
As for the rewards of a title, manor and two treasures that Victor was promised, he decided to alter the deal so it would make things easier for both sides. With Alphonse's blessing, Victor still received the boastful title of Grand Duke, but there was no need for a ceremony.
Instead of a manor in the capital and the two treasures, Victor asked for the county of Prato. He already had 10,000 infantrymen stationed there as a garrison after he defeated Count Lamaro. With the Count presumably dead and the county not being of any significance, Alphonse agreed.
The last part of the agreement was the wedding of Anton and Isabella; they were barely 16 years old, and both rulers agreed that once both of them had reached 18 years old, they would wed.
Victor's time in Zandar was coming to an end; some of his soldiers were already beginning to board transport ships. It would not be long until Victor departed from Madena and returned home.