The city did not celebrate its fall.
For two weeks after the surrender of Beirot, the work of victory replaced the fury of battle. Where there had been fire and steel, there was now order, discipline, and the quiet, relentless effort of an army securing what it had taken.
Victor wasted no time.
On the first day, patrols spread through every district, rooting out hidden weapons, dispersing lingering pockets of resistance, and establishing a presence that could not be mistaken. The surviving defenders, those ten thousand who had laid down their arms, were disarmed, counted, and marched under guard to designated quarters. They were not mistreated, but neither were they trusted. This was a city conquered by force, and it would remain under watch.
"Control first," Victor said to his commanders. "Comfort later."
Marshal Lannes took charge of the internal order with a focus that bordered on severity. His grief had not faded, but it had found direction. Streets were cleared of debris, barricades dismantled, and key positions fortified anew, this time for defence against any attempt to retake the city.
"Double the patrols at night," Lannes ordered. "No gatherings. No exceptions."
Civilians were brought under regulation quickly. Markets were reopened under supervision, food stores catalogued and rationed, and water sources secured. Engineers moved through the city, inspecting the damage to walls and gates, marking what could be repaired and what would be left as it was.
The breaches remained. Victor had no intention of rebuilding them yet. "They remind us," he said simply.
In the former command quarters, maps were already being redrawn. The fall of Beirot had opened the road south, and Victor had no intention of allowing the momentum to fade.
On the seventh day, he gathered his senior officers.
"We move again," he said. "Two weeks. That is all we take here."
There was no objection.
By the end of the second week, Beirot had transformed. It was no longer a battlefield, nor yet a peaceful city. It was something in between, a controlled space, held firmly by the presence of an occupying army.
When the time came, Victor made his decision clear.
"Marshal Lannes will remain," he announced. "9th Corps will garrison the city. The rest will march."
Lannes inclined his head, accepting the command without hesitation.
"I will hold it," he said.
"I know," Victor replied.
The morning of departure came without ceremony.
Fourteen corps assembled outside the battered walls, their formations stretching once more across the plain. The army had lost men, but it had gained something harder—experience, cohesion, and a sharpened understanding of the war they fought.
Victor rode at the front once again. "South," he ordered.
And the army moved. At the same time, Victor's second wave of soldiers under the command of General Kan Ki and General Orion Valerius had arrived on Asharan's shores. They would wait until Victor issued them orders.
The march from Beirot carried a different weight.
The land beyond the city was harsher still, a stretch of dry plains and broken terrain that offered little comfort and less forgiveness. Yet the army moved with steady confidence. They had taken a fortified city defended by one hundred thousand men. The memory of that victory walked with them now, replacing the earlier shadow of loss.
Scouts ranged far ahead, their reports returning regularly.
"The next city lies two weeks distant," one reported. "Smaller. Less fortified. They call it Zambia."
Victor nodded."And their strength?"
"Twenty thousand defenders, at most."
A murmur passed through the gathered officers.
"That will not hold us long," General Bertrand said.
"No," Victor replied. "But we do not underestimate them. Not again."
The march continued. Days passed in disciplined rhythm. Camps were established with care each night, guards posted, supplies secured. The lessons of the past were not forgotten.
By the twelfth day, the scouts returned with confirmation.
"Zambia is ahead."
Two days later, the army saw it. The city of Zambia stood modestly compared to Beirot.
Its walls were lower, its towers fewer, its defences simpler. It lacked the scale and preparation of the fortress they had just taken. Yet it stood still, banners raised, its garrison ready.
Victor studied it briefly. "They will fight," he said.
"Of course," Rapp replied. "But not for long."
Victor said nothing.
The siege began that same day.
There was no prolonged preparation this time.
The artillery was brought forward with practised efficiency, batteries established in hours rather than days. The army had learned its craft well.
"Begin," Bertrand ordered.
The first volley struck the walls before the sun had fully set. The effect was immediate.
Where Beirot had endured weeks of bombardment before showing weakness, Zambia's walls began to crack within the first day. The defenders returned fire, but their guns were fewer, their positions less secure.
"They cannot match us," one officer observed.
"No," Bertrand said. "And we will not give them time to try."
The bombardment did not ease.
Day and night, the guns spoke. There was no careful probing, no gradual escalation. The full weight of Luxenberg artillery was brought to bear from the beginning, overwhelming the defenders before they could adapt.
Within the city, the strain was immediate.
Buildings near the walls collapsed under repeated impacts. Cannon positions were shattered. Crews were forced to relocate again and again, their efforts to respond growing more desperate with each passing hour.
On the third day, the first breach appeared. It was smaller than those at Beirot, but it was enough.
"Continue," Bertrand ordered. "Widen it."
The guns obeyed.
By the fifth day, two more sections of the wall had begun to fail. The defenders attempted to reinforce them, but the pace of destruction was too great.
"They cannot hold a week," Rapp said.
"They will not need to," Victor replied.
On the seventh day, the walls gave way.
Multiple breaches opened almost simultaneously, the weakened stone collapsing under the relentless bombardment. Dust and debris filled the air, obscuring the view for a moment. When it cleared, the city stood open.
The assault followed immediately. After Beirot, there was no hesitation.
The corps moved forward in coordinated lines, entering through the shattered walls with speed and precision. The defenders fought, but their resistance lacked the depth and discipline of what had come before.
Twenty thousand men could not hold against fourteen corps.
Within hours, the outer districts fell. Streets were taken, positions overrun, and the defenders pushed back toward the centre. By nightfall, it was over, and 15,000 defenders lay dead in the streets.
The remaining forces within Zambia, seeing no path to victory, laid down their arms. The city surrendered.
Victor entered the city the following morning.
He did not linger.
"This is not our destination," he said to his commanders as they stood within the captured walls. "It is only another step."
Behind them, the army moved to secure the city, repeating the process they had perfected in Beirot, though on a smaller scale.
Ahead, the road stretched further south. And beyond it, the capital waited.