The city narrowed toward the palace.
Streets that had once been crowded with trade and ceremony were now stripped down to movement and intent. Smoke drifted low between buildings. The sound of fighting had changed, no longer the wide chaos of a city under assault, but something closer, more focused, as every surviving defender gave ground toward a single point.
At its centre stood the palace. Victor did not advance with the first waves that pressed inward. He watched, receiving reports, measuring what remained.
"Five hundred," Anton said quietly. "Janissaries. Formed before the palace."
Victor nodded once.
"They will not break," Henri added.
"No," Victor replied. "They will not."
He turned slightly. "Send the 4th Corps, let Lefebvre's men show why they are the pride of the infantry."
Marshal Lefebvre did not waste words.
He stood before the veterans of the Fourth Corps, men who had marched through every phase of this campaign, who had seen cities fall and armies collapse, who understood what it meant to be sent forward now.
"You know what stands ahead," he said.
There was no need to explain further.
"They will not yield," he continued. "So we take it from them."
A pause.
"Forward."
The Janissaries stood in silence as the Luxenberg advance approached.
Five hundred men. Their formation precise. Their posture unchanged. Their eyes fixed forward.
Behind them, the palace rose, untouched by the chaos that had consumed the city around it. Its gates remained closed. Its walls intact.
Before it, the final line.
One of the Janissary officers stepped forward slightly, his voice calm. "They come."
Another nodded. "They always do."
There was no fear spoken aloud. None needed to be.
Lefebvre led the approach on foot.
The streets did not allow for anything else. His men formed behind him, ranks tightening as they moved into the final space before the palace square.
He raised his hand.
"Steady," he said.
The line halted. For a moment, both sides simply looked at one another. Veterans and veterans. Men who understood what came next.
The first shots were deliberate.
Luxenberg infantry fired in controlled volleys, their muskets cracking in sequence, smoke rolling forward toward the waiting Janissaries.
The Janissaries answered.
Their return fire was no less precise, their discipline holding even now, their volleys striking into the advancing ranks with lethal effect. Men fell on both sides. The distance closed.
There was no second exchange at range.
Lefebvre lowered his arm. "Advance."
They met at the edge of the palace square.
The clash was immediate, violent, and absolute.
Janissaries did not give ground.
They stepped forward into the attack, their blades meeting bayonets, their movements practised, controlled, deadly. Each man fought as part of something larger, their formation holding even as the lines collided.
The first Luxenberg soldiers to reach them paid for every step.
A veteran lunged with his bayonet and was struck aside, cut down before he could recover. Another pushed forward only to be dragged down by a Janissary who refused to release him even as he was struck from behind.
"For every one," an officer muttered, watching the early losses mount.
Lefebvre heard it.
"And we send three more," he replied.
The fighting tightened.
There was no room to manoeuvre, no space for grand movement or sweeping charges. It was a contest of inches, of pressure, of endurance.
Janissaries held their line.
They did not scatter. They did not break into isolated fights. Even as men fell, others stepped forward, closing the gap, maintaining the shape of their defence.
A Luxenberg soldier drove his bayonet forward, striking a Janissary in the chest. The man staggered, then grasped the weapon, pulling it deeper as he struck back with his blade, killing his attacker before collapsing.
Another fought with a broken musket, its barrel bent, using it as a club to hold back two advancing soldiers until a third finally brought him down.
They did not retreat. They did not yield.
Lefebvre pressed forward.
"Keep the pressure," he ordered. "Do not let them breathe."
More of his men surged into the fight, replacing the fallen, adding weight, adding numbers, forcing the line forward inch by inch. But the cost was undeniable.
For every Janissary that fell, more Luxenberg soldiers lay beside him. The ground before the palace became layered with bodies, the struggle turning it into something unstable, something that shifted underfoot even as men fought upon it.
Anton watched from behind the advancing line, his expression tightening.
"They are holding," he said.
"For now," Victor replied.
Henri shook his head slightly. "They are killing too many."
Victor did not answer immediately. "They are soldiers," he said at last. "They were trained for this. Some even relish the opportunity for a soldier's death. Do not forget this, my sons, no sacrifice, no victory. "
Both of them remained silent, engraining this moment into their minds.
The Janissary line began to thin. Not break. Thin.
Gaps appeared where men had fallen and could not be replaced quickly enough. The formation, once solid, began to show strain, its edges pulled apart by the constant pressure. Still, they fought.
An officer at their centre raised his voice. "Hold the line," he said.
They did.
Lefebvre saw the change.
"Now," he said.
He pushed forward with the next wave, driving into one of the widening gaps, forcing it open further. His men followed, their numbers finally beginning to tell.
The Janissaries closed around them, turning the breach into another point of brutal resistance, but the balance had shifted. Where once they had matched every step, now they were being forced back.
One by one, they fell. Not in retreat, but in place.
Each man holding as long as he could, striking until he could not strike again, standing until he could no longer stand. The line shortened. Contracted. Then broke into smaller clusters.
Still fighting. Still refusing. Until there were too few left to hold even that.
The last of them stood before the palace gates. A handful now.
Their numbers no longer mattered. They fought anyway.
A Luxenberg soldier hesitated for a moment before advancing.
"They will not stop," he said.
"No," Lefebvre replied. "So we finish it."
The final Janissary fell. Not with ceremony. Not with a final cry.
He simply could not stand any longer. And then it was over.
The palace gates stood closed for only a moment longer.
Then they were forced. The wood splintered under repeated blows, hinges giving way as the weight of the assault drove inward.
Lefebvre stepped through first, his men following.
Inside, the resistance had already ended.
Courtiers moved through the halls in panic, their composure shattered, their attempts to flee disorganised and desperate. Some tried to hide. Others ran, seeking exits that no longer existed.
None escaped.
The palace was taken room by room, its grandeur offering no protection against the reality that had reached it.
At its centre, the throne room remained. Untouched. Unhurried.
The doors were opened.
Inside, Sultan Mehmet sat upon his throne.
He had not moved. He had not fled.
Around him, a handful of attendants lingered, uncertain, caught between duty and fear.
The Sultan did not look at them. He looked forward.
Lefebvre entered first, then stepped aside as Victor approached.
The room was silent. No battle sounds reached it now. Only the aftermath.
Victor walked forward, stopping at a distance that did not presume.
"You have come," the Sultan said.
Victor inclined his head slightly. "Yes."
Mehmet regarded him with the same coldness he had shown before the siege.
"The city has fallen."
"Yes."
A pause.
"And my Janissaries are dead."
Victor did not answer.
The Sultan continued.
"They chose their end."
There was no grief in the words. Only acknowledgement.
Behind Victor, Anton, and Henri stood in silence. They could not understand a word of the conversation, since it was in Asharanian
The war had led to this moment. Not with noise. But with stillness.
The throne room did not feel like a place of defeat. It felt like an ending that had been expected.
Accepted.
Victor spoke. "Your rule ends here."
The Sultan's gaze did not shift.
"Yes, but in my place, you will have to watch these lands in constant worry. Our resistance to infidel rule will cause you many sleepless nights," he said.
There was nothing more to add.
The war had reached its conclusion.
And the capital had fallen.