The march to Turkistan did not slow.
For four days, the Luxenberg army moved with a steadiness that bordered on inevitability. There were no diversions, no hesitation, no sign of the strain that such a campaign should have imposed. The victory in the sands had removed the last obstacle between Victor and the capital, and the army advanced as if drawn forward by that fact alone.
Columns stretched across the land in ordered depth. Infantry marched in disciplined silence. Cavalry ranged along the flanks, watchful but untested. The artillery followed in vast numbers, wheels grinding over dry earth, the sheer scale of it announcing what was to come long before the city itself came into view.
When Turkistan finally rose on the horizon, it did not appear fragile.
It stood solid, its walls broad and unbroken, its towers rising with quiet defiance against the sky. The banners of the Sultanate still flew, unmoved by what approached.
Victor halted the army at distance. Not out of caution. Out of control.
The deployment began immediately.
Every gun was brought forward.
Not some. Not most.
All.
The field before Turkistan transformed into a vast line of iron and timber as artillery was unlimbered and set into position with precise care. Batteries stretched across the front, their placement deliberate, their spacing calculated to create overlapping fields of fire that would leave no section of the wall untouched.
Crews moved with practised efficiency, hauling ammunition, adjusting elevation, aligning barrels toward the distant stone. Officers moved among them, ensuring that nothing was rushed and nothing was misplaced.
Among them, for the first time in the campaign, the rocket artillery was brought forward.
The Congreve rockets, long held in reserve, were positioned alongside the conventional guns. Their frames angled toward the city, their purpose clear. They would not be saved now. There was nothing left to save them for.
Anton watched as the preparations unfolded.
"You mean to use everything," he said.
Victor did not look at him. "Yes."
Henri glanced toward the city walls. "They will see this," he said.
"They already do," Victor replied.
Within Turkistan, the response was measured.
From the walls, defenders watched the deployment in silence. The scale of the artillery could not be hidden. It stretched across the horizon, a line of intent that needed no explanation.
Beside the gates, General Selim Furuq stood with a small group of officers, his expression unchanged as he observed the enemy's preparations.
"They bring all of it," one of the officers said quietly.
"Yes," Selim replied.
"They do not intend to test us."
"No," Selim said. "They intend to break us."
Behind him, the city moved.
Militia were positioned along the walls, their nervous energy tempered by the presence of veteran soldiers placed among them. Cannons were readied, though far fewer in number. Ammunition was distributed carefully, every shot now a resource that could not be wasted.
Selim turned from the wall. "Keep them steady," he said. "They will look to you before they look to the enemy."
The officers nodded.
Back on the field, the final arrangements were made. The artillery stood ready. The infantry held behind it in ordered reserve. The cavalry remained on the flanks, waiting for a moment that would come later, not now.
Victor surveyed it all.
Then he spoke. "Send word."
The offer was simple.
A parlay.
It was carried under a flag of truce to the gates of Turkistan, where it was received without delay. The request was not refused.
Within the hour, the gates opened. Not fully. Just enough.
From within emerged a small delegation, at its head Sultan Mehmet, flanked by guards and accompanied by Mahmud Pasha. They did not rush. They did not hesitate. They moved with the same composure they had maintained throughout the war.
Victor rode forward to meet them.
Anton and Henri remained just behind him, silent observers.
The distance between the two groups closed until they stood within speaking range, the vast armies behind each side held in stillness by the moment.
For a brief time, there was no sound at all.
Then Victor spoke.
"You know why I am here."
His voice carried clearly, without strain.
Sultan Mehmet regarded him coldly. "I do."
Victor gestured slightly toward the field behind him, toward the long line of artillery now trained upon the city.
"This does not need to happen," he said. "The war is decided. Your army is gone. There is nothing left to change what comes next."
Mahmud Pasha watched closely, but did not speak.
The Sultan's expression did not shift. "Yet you stand here," he said.
"Yes," Victor replied. "To offer you the choice you no longer have on the field."
A faint pause.
"Surrender the city," Victor said. "Spare your people what will follow. There will be terms. There will be order. What remains of your state will not be erased."
Silence followed.
The weight of the words hung between them, unbroken.
Sultan Mehmet looked past Victor briefly, toward the army behind him, toward the artillery that would soon speak.
Then he returned his gaze.
"You speak of inevitability," he said. "As though it grants you mercy."
Victor did not respond immediately.
"It grants me clarity," he said.
Mahmud Pasha shifted slightly, but the Sultan raised a hand, stopping him.
"You believe this city cannot stand," Mehmet continued.
Victor held his gaze. "It cannot."
Another pause.
"Then you will take it," the Sultan said.
There was no anger in his voice. No defiance. Just acceptance of the path ahead.
Victor's expression remained unchanged. "I will," he said.
"Then there is nothing more to discuss," The Sultan scoffed.
The parlay ended without ceremony. No agreement. No compromise. Only understanding.
Victor inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgement rather than respect.
The Sultan returned it in equal measure.
Then they turned.
Each rode back to their own lines, the distance between them widening once more, the moment of stillness passing.
Anton exhaled slowly as they returned. "He was never going to surrender," he said.
"No," Victor replied.
Henri glanced back once toward the city. "He knew what this means."
"Yes," Victor said.
There was no satisfaction in it. Only certainty.
The army settled again into silence.
Orders were given quietly, passed from officer to officer until every man understood what came next.
Artillery crews took their positions. Fuses were checked. Powder measured. Guns aligned one final time. Along the line, the rocket frames were adjusted, their angles fixed, their payloads ready.
Everything was prepared. Nothing moved.
Victor remained at the front, watching the city.
Behind its walls, he knew, the defenders were doing the same.
Two forces, separated by distance and stone, waiting for the same moment.
Anton spoke again, more quietly now. "This will be the end."
Victor did not look at him. "Yes," he said.
Henri said nothing.
Time stretched. The light shifted slowly across the field, casting long shadows from the guns, from the men, from the walls themselves.
No one fired. Not yet.
Because once it began, it would not stop.