News of Basra's fall was quick to reach the Asharanian capital of Turkistan.
Word spread quickly through the marble halls, whispered first by servants, then by guards, until at last it reached the chamber of Sultan Mehmet of the Hakim Sultanate.
He listened without interruption.
The messenger knelt on the polished floor, trembling beneath the weight of his own words. "Basra has fallen, my Sultan… and Field Marshal Bayezid… he fell during the siege."
For a long moment, the chamber was silent except for the faint rustle of silk curtains shifting in the morning breeze. Mehmet stood beside a tall window overlooking the gardens, his hands resting on the carved stone railing.
The light of the rising sun turned the fountains below into glimmering silver, but his eyes were fixed far beyond them—beyond the city, beyond the deserts, to the distant battlefield where the Christian infidels captured a city of importance.
"Bayezid…" he said quietly.
The name lingered in the air like a prayer.
Bayezid had not merely been a commander. He had been the sword of the Sultanate for twenty years, a man whose victories were sung by soldiers and feared by enemies. Now that the sword was broken.
Mehmet's fingers tightened slowly around the stone rail.
"They say Victor commands seven hundred thousand soldiers in Basra now, with many more still to arrive on our continent" the messenger added hesitantly. "Disciplined men… they march beneath dark banners."
The Sultan turned at last. His face bore no outward anger, no rage, only a calm that was somehow more unsettling than fury."Basra can be retaken," he said. His voice was steady, but the words carried the weight of a vow.
He walked slowly across the chamber, the hem of his robe whispering against the marble floor. Around him, ministers and generals watched in uneasy silence, waiting for the storm that must surely come.
Instead, the Sultan stopped before the great map of his realm spread across the wall. His hand rose and rested upon the painted coastline where Basra once stood secure under his banner.
"Victor believes he has won something permanent," Mehmet murmured. "But he is mistaken, Basra and Field Marshal Bayezid were necessary sacrifices. If he believes that his soldiers will go further into our country, he is sorely mistaken."
Then he looked to the assembled commanders, and for the first time, there was fire in his eyes.
"Our forces are already stationed in nearby cities and smaller settlements. Let us be the desert wind that sweeps his soldiers to the afterlife."
While the Sultan schemed with his commanders, Victor was in turn planning with his. He had already ordered his transport ships and their escorts to return to Hannover; it was time to bring the rest of his soldiers to the front.
With all his commanders present, pointed toward the map of Asharan. From Basra to Jordaan was 3 months, while going from the furthest eastern point to the furthest western point was 7.
There were three smaller cities within a three-week march of Basra. They were significantly weaker than Basra and held no real value. But for Victor, these cities were to be used as supply depots. He needed to be able to branch across the continent while keeping his soldiers well supplied.
"General Gimborn, Tuchkov and Kamensky. Your three corps will be our advance party. March directly south to take the city of Beirot. Its total soldier count should be about 30,000, according to what our intelligence reports. Conquer the city and await further instruction. Your troops will depart in three days. See that all preparations are thoroughly seen to." Victor commanded. The three generals saluted and departed from the meeting room.
"Is it wise to send an advance party to take a city in this situation, my liege?" General Bülow asked.
Victor nodded, "I trust in our spies and their intelligence. The nearest armies that could oppose us are at least two months away. If we can establish a foothold with Basra and these three nearby cities, then we can look to be more secure when going on bigger excursions."
Bülow slowly nodded as he began to understand Victor's plan. The other commanders began to discuss troop assignments and setting up new lodgings outside the city for the majority of the army.
That evening, the three departing commanders met to discuss their assignment.
General Tuchkov studied the map with the calm patience of a man who believed wars were won by preparation rather than passion. His finger moved slowly along the inland roads.
"Just over two weeks," he said. "Fourteen days if the columns maintain their pace. The terrain grows harsher once we leave the river valleys—dust plains first, then the low ridges before Beirot. Water will decide the speed of the march."
Beside him, General Gimborn paced near the balcony doors, restless as a hunting dog. Beyond the railing, he could see the camps stretching into the darkness, thousands of soldiers preparing to move again so soon after victory.
"Beirot's governor will hear rumours," Gimborn said, glancing back toward the table. "But rumours travel slower than armies. If we march immediately, we arrive before they believe the news."
At the far end of the room stood General Kamensky, whose reputation had been forged in Simbar due to him unleashing rocket artillery onto the enemy. He looked at the map not with curiosity but with certainty.
"Then we give them no time," he said.
He placed his hand firmly upon the symbol marking Beirot.
"Our king did not seize Basra to admire the walls," Kamensky continued. "The campaign has only begun. We march south in three days, infantry first, artillery behind, cavalry screening the flanks."
Outside, the great army of twenty thousand was already transforming itself from a garrison into a marching host once more. Powder wagons were sealed, muskets cleaned under lantern light, officers moving through the ranks with quiet orders.
Kamensky looked toward the dark horizon beyond the city gates.
"In fourteen days," he said quietly, "Beirot will learn what Basra already knows."