The third day of the Battle of Porto Dourado opened with a damp mist crawling across the field, wrapping the soldiers in a curtain of ash that seemed to absorb even sound itself. The echoes of the two previous days were still felt: broken bones buried in the earth, dead horses sunk in black pools, torn banners fluttering in a cold wind that smelt of iron and gunpowder.
Both armies were exhausted. Some troops staggered, their hands trembling, holding weapons that weighed more than their own bodies. Among them, those who had survived looked like shadows of themselves, hollow-eyed and full of restrained terror, breathing with difficulty, aware that each moment could be their last.
Although the previous day had ended without a clear victor, Queen Valeria Ventoforte stood firm on the crest of the hill, where her position dominated the entire valley of Porto Dourado. She was surrounded by close to twenty-nine thousand soldiers, each of them with eyes alight with confidence and morale raised like a shield against doubt. She had inflicted a heavy defeat on Sor Galvano da Torre, whose forces now numbered little under thirty-nine thousand men and women, according to the scouts, many of whom already staggered under the weight of fear and despair.
Valeria watched the Aurelian field with cold, calculating eyes. Every movement of Sor Galvano, every attempt to advance upon her lines, was met with a contained smile and a wave of the hand summoning her troops to maintain the pressure. The battle of the previous day may not have had a declared winner, but the spirit of war was already decided: the Queen of the Winds held the advantage, and all knew it would be the enemy who paid the price of his miscalculated ambition.
Despite everything, Sor Galvano da Torre did not give up. With what strength remained to him, he tried to launch new frontal assaults against the Ventoran positions, as if sheer determination could bend the advantage Valeria had secured.
The Aurelian charges came, one after another, obstinate and desperate, but each advance seemed more a step towards death than towards glory. Soldiers fell in heaps in the black mud of Porto Dourado, bodies crushed under the hooves of horses or by their own ranks entangled in confusion. The field was unrecognisable: sunken trenches, torn standards, broken wagons and shattered weapons scattered like the bones of dead animals. The smell of burnt iron, gunpowder and blood saturated the air, making every breath a painful effort.
The smoke of artillery covered everything, creating a suffocating haze that hid the horrors, but could not conceal the screams. Screams of pain, of rage, of fear. The roar of the cannons fell upon men and women like thunder, hurling earth and fragments of metal that tore flesh and broke bones. Each shot that buried itself in a body wrenched a scream, each explosion left behind twisted corpses and wounded clutching at life with bloodied hands.
In the midst of the carnage, the Aurelian soldiers tried to advance, but they were repelled, each attack crushed by the implacable discipline and relentless fire of the Ventoran troops. Officers shouted orders that were lost in the chaos, while exhaustion made each step heavier. Many staggered, fell, were trampled by those behind, and some simply surrendered to silent despair, lying in the mud with their eyes fixed on the grey sky.
Death lurked at every step. Cavalry was hurled to the ground, bayonets pierced bodies, and the wounded cried out for help that would never come. Among the Ventorans, coldness and efficiency prevailed, but even they could not ignore the sight of human suffering spread across the field.
After hours of confrontation, the field of Porto Dourado seemed suspended between smoke and mud, but Queen Valeria remained impassive. Her eyes swept the ground, measuring the exact moment to strike. Where once the enemy had advanced, now she would launch the attack, turning defence into a devastating blow.
With a firm gesture, she summoned her Cavalry of the Winds. Men, women and horses, like lightning imprisoned in steel and leather, lined up in silence before the charge. Each soldier felt the weight of responsibility, but also the flame of confidence that Valeria instilled in the hearts of her army. When she rode at the front, her cuirass gleaming and sabre raised, the hearts of the Ventorans beat stronger.
The impact was brutal. The cavalry burst through the flanks of the Aurelian forces, cutting lines, spreading chaos and wrenching artillery from the hands of those who dared to hold it. Cannons were overturned, wagons destroyed, and men and women fell in heaps under hooves and shining blades. The roar of the Ventorans mingled with the screams of pain and panic of the Aurelians; each charge increased despair and corroded the enemy's organisation.
Sor Galvano saw his formations crumble, and each breach increased the confusion. Troops who had advanced with courage now found themselves surrounded, isolated, crushed by the force of the Cavalry of the Winds. The Aurelian artillery, once threatening, became useless before the precise and overwhelming attack of the Queen. Each cannon toppled, each banner cast down, made it clear that the tide of battle had shifted: the Ventoran army, renewed and led by Valeria herself, began to turn the enemy's suffering into imminent victory.
The Aurelian defeat was now inevitable, as clear as the cold gleam of steel that still shone in the hands of Queen Valeria, but Sor Galvano could not allow his army to disintegrate without fighting. With a grave and hoarse voice, he ordered the four thousand soldiers of the Golden Sun Guard to form a square – a wall of muskets and bayonets, firm and compact, meant to repel the cavalry approaching like a living storm.
Around him, however, the rest of the Aurelian forces collapsed. The lines, already fragile and exhausted, broke under the weight of the Ventoran attack that followed their queen. Desperate, the Aurelians abandoned their standards, threw weapons to the ground and fled across the muddy field with panic in their eyes. Some tried to escape in groups, stumbling over one another, while others were pressed to remain and fight, receiving orders that no one had the strength or will to follow.
Chaos spread. The idea of defeat ran from mouth to mouth, sweeping across the field with the swiftness of an icy wind. Shouts of orders mingled with those of fear and the sobs of those carrying wounded on their shoulders. Many fell in the mud, thrown by horses or stumbling among the bodies of the dead. Those who tried to flee were driven back by the Ventoran soldiers, forced to face the inevitable.
At the centre of the square, Sor Galvano stood firm, a sober and determined figure, but even he could not ignore the signs: mass flight was overtaking the field, the disorganised ranks turned into a sea of panic and blood, and the certainty of defeat loomed like an implacable shadow. The fate of the Aurelian army was sealed.
Valeria Ventoforte advanced across the field with the confidence of one who knows her own destiny. Her cavalry encircled the Golden Sun Guard on all sides, forming a ring of steel and horses that blocked any escape. Her soldiers marched with precision, firm steps crushing the mud and the remnants of the enemy's formations. The sun, weak and shrouded by the battle's mist, reflected on blades, cuirasses and helmets, transforming the ground into a stage of cold, threatening lights.
In a gesture that was both of mercy and authority, Valeria raised her voice and shouted to Sor Galvano:
– Sor Galvano! – it could be heard clearly, cutting across the roar of the battle. – You do not need to die on this field. You have a choice, an opportunity to surrender, to preserve the lives of your soldiers, even after all that has happened.
Sor Galvano, surrounded by the four thousand of his loyal guard, did not avert his gaze from the Queen. His eyes shone with pride and defiance, determination hardened by despair. No plea, no offer of mercy could break his will.
– Go back to the shit where you came from! You and your opportunity for us to surrender! – he said, his voice laden with fury and despair. He and his guard would resist until the last soldier.
The silence that followed was tense, broken only by the wind and the distant cries of wounded soldiers and weary horses. Valeria's promise hung over them like a cloud of steel, and Sor Galvano's determination like a stubborn flame.
In the end, without a single word spoken, Valeria ordered her troops to withdraw slowly, each step measured, each soldier conscious of the silence, heavy with tension, spreading across the field. As the Golden Sun Guard and the few remnants of the Aurelian forces watched them, what seemed to be merely a strategic retreat revealed itself as a masterful ruse: the Ventoran cannons emerged from the shadows of the mist, lined up and aimed with deadly precision, ready to turn the remaining battlefield into a trench of fire and metal.
The first thunderclap tore through the air like an unforeseen storm, raising a cloud of dust and smoke that swallowed troops, horses and standards. Each shot that followed was a hammer upon bone and flesh, an explosion that shattered bodies and hurled what remained in impossible directions. Soldiers screamed, stumbled, fell and vanished beneath the relentless force of the artillery, unable to react or escape.
After three days of desperate and courageous fighting, Sor Galvano da Torre met his end surrounded by the few soldiers of his Golden Sun Guard, resisting until the last instant, but neither the loyalty of his soldiers nor his own courage could save him. Each artillery shot shattered his position, reducing them to a shapeless mass of blood and flesh. Sor Galvano fell among his men, without glory, without triumph, only the echo of the roar of cannons and the cries of the wounded bearing witness to his final defeat.
With his death came the triumph and melancholy of Valeria, who rode through the midst of the battlefield. The victory was hers, but the silence that spread across the ground reminded her of the sacrifices that had made it possible. The mud, smoke and blood were silent witnesses of fallen troops and horses, of courage and despair entwined in the history of that place.
With a firm voice, yet unhurried, she gave precise orders to her officers: those who still tried to flee should be captured, but not destroyed. They would be offered the choice to surrender and join the Queen, to continue fighting at the side of the triumphant army that now dominated the valley.
Riding past the bodies and the places where so many had fought, she made her calculations in silence. Her own losses were relatively light – around two thousand five hundred to three thousand eight hundred soldiers dead or wounded – proof of the effectiveness of her leadership and the flawless discipline of her troops. But the Aurelian army, which had once risen with courage, had suffered devastating casualties: between nine thousand seven hundred and fifty and thirteen thousand six hundred and fifty, not counting those who had fled or deserted in the final chaos. Each number was a life, torn from the world by gunpowder, steel and fury.
The silence that followed the carnage was almost absolute, broken only by the distant crack of collapsing trunks and the moans of the few survivors. She breathed deeply, feeling the weight of every life lost, of every soldier who had fallen under steel or been obliterated by the cannons. Yet, amid that melancholy, a firm thought emerged: the main Aurelian army had been defeated.
At that moment, the road to the capital, Aureliana, lay open, clear as a path of opportunity. A cold wind swept through the valley, carrying with it the smell of gunpowder and blood, but also the promise of dominion, of a future that could be shaped to her will, and with it, the promise of an ending that only she could write.