The frigate Lua Ardente floated on the black waters like a patient predator, the hull almost invisible beneath the cloak of night. The lanterns were covered, reduced to mere flickers of flame, and the sails, expertly furled, whispered no more than a timid lament to the salty wind. For days, Victória had guided the ship along forgotten routes, avoiding Solterran patrols as one would dodge blades in the dark. Now, Arenosa loomed ahead – a blotch of stone and distant fire, confident in its own security, unaware of the danger silently watching it.
From the deck, Victória studied the city like a general surveying a battlefield before the blood began to flow. The forts lined the coast like worn teeth, poorly positioned, facing more towards the open sea than the treacherous inlets. Enemy ships lay at anchor, overconfident, too close to one another, their crews indulging in wine and routine. The barracks, visible even from a distance, were heavy shadows along the walls – full of soldiers, but lacking vigilance. Arenosa did not expect a battle that night, and that would be its greatest weakness.
While the Lua Ardente waited motionless, the fight was already insinuating itself on land. Matteo Perladoro had entered the city days before, not as a soldier, but as a merchant. He moved through narrow alleys and stifling courtyards where the smell of sweat and misery clung to the stones. He carried discreet agents, men and women with ordinary faces, trained to listen more than to speak. His mission was not to conquer walls, but weary hearts – those of the enslaved population, crushed by generations of chains and punishments.
Matteo spoke to them of freedom as one lights a flame in a dry barn. He offered no miracles, but choices: open gates, cut bindings, avert glances at the right moment. In return, he promised what Arenosa had always denied them – the right to leave, to live without masters. Many were suspicious; others feared hope itself, some accepted silently, fear lodged in their bones. Matteo knew not all would be brave, but a few were enough for many to rise.
The Caelestis remained at a distance, a colossal shadow floating beyond the most accurate reach of the coastal batteries. It was a ship built for war and patience, its hull thick as a wall, its cannons aligned. When the first shot rang out, the night shuddered. It was not a blind thunder, but a calculated blow – heavy, rhythmic, relentless.
Cannonballs tore through the air, falling upon the forts like iron hammers. The walls did not crumble; that was not the intent. The fire from the Caelestis sought the enemy gun ports, the parapets, the winches, the soldiers running to serve the cannons. Each impact was a silent command: duck or die. Smoke gathered in the bastions, thick and suffocating, and the defenders, stunned by the constant roar, clung to their positions, unable to manoeuvre, unable to see what truly mattered.
That was the signal for the Lua Ardente to advance. It slid like a blade over the water, sails suddenly hoisted, catching the wind in a clean, decisive movement. Under the cover fire, Victória's ship closed the distance to the harbour before the lookouts noticed its approach. By the time they realised, it was already too late.
The first to respond were the gunboats, small and nervous, spitting fire in hurried volleys. Cannonballs ricocheted off the Lua Ardente's hull or fell short in the water. Victória answered with cruel precision. One well-placed shot shattered the deck of one; another tore off its rudder, leaving it spinning uselessly like a wounded animal. In moments, the gunboats were burning or sinking, silenced without mercy.
Next came the schooners, faster, attempting to flank, confident in their agility and numbers. That confidence was short-lived, for the Lua Ardente turned with mastery, presenting a full broadside. The crash was deafening. Wood splintered, masts broke like old bones, sailors were thrown into the sea with short, final screams. One schooner lost its main mast and heeled; another tried to flee, but a shot pierced its hull below the waterline, condemning it to a slow and inevitable sinking.
The brigs, heavier, offered more stubborn resistance. One managed to fire at close range, and the Lua Ardente felt the impact – a tear in the side, a few sailors down on the deck, blood mixed with salt. But Victória did not hesitate. She closed in further, ignoring the risk, and ordered concentrated fire. Two successive broadsides reduced the brig to a smouldering wreck, the deck covered in dead and wounded, flags falling amid the flames.
When the smoke began to clear, the harbour was silent. Remnants of ships burned slowly, casting reflections of copper and red across the water. The Lua Ardente stood tall – slightly damaged, but firm. Losses had been few; the sailors remained at their stations, the cannons still hot, and the spirit still intact.
The Lua Ardente approached Arenosa's secondary docks like an experienced thief returning to the scene of a crime – unhurried, but without hesitation. They were moorings used by poor fishermen and cautious smugglers, away from the main lanterns and the garrison's eyes. The water there was even darker, thicker, as if it too conspired.
The longboats descended silently. Victória was the first to set foot on land, sword sheathed but ready, her gaze firm, hard as tempered steel. Behind her came the fusiliers and the Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse, soldiers trained to fight on deck and in mud, with well-oiled muskets and bayonets gleaming in the faint light of the moon. There were no speeches, only brief signals and measured steps.
They advanced through narrow alleys to the slave markets, where the smell of fear was stronger than that of fish and salt. Rotting wooden barracks lined up like cages, guarded by a few Solterrans – overconfident, too used to the submission of those they watched. The surprise was total: a sharp shot here, a swift blade there, and the guards fell before they could call for help. Doors were broken down with weapon butt strokes and kicks, chains shattered by axe blows.
The slaves emerged hesitantly, eyes wide, bodies marked by old and recent scars. Many hesitated, expecting the inevitable punishment. It was then that Victória spoke for the first time:
– Tonight, no one will put chains on you again. This is the beginning of the end of Arenosa, and the masters of this city are distracted, dying, or dead. Your freedom is within your own hands.
Weapons were distributed there and then – worn swords, simple muskets, nothing luxurious, but enough to kill and die. Some trembled taking them; others smiled for the first time in years. The promise of freedom spread faster than any military order, passing mouth to mouth, heart to heart. It was not discipline that moved them, but ancient rage and newborn hope.
The mass of ex-slaves spread through the streets like water released from an old dam, untrained, without banners. Victória moved ahead, pointing directions, choosing targets, letting chaos do the rest.
They did not fight like conventional armies, but like shadows. They emerged from alleys, from the rears of warehouses, from forgotten courtyards, striking and disappearing before the enemy could react. The barracks were the first to feel the iron. Rear gates, poorly watched out of habit or arrogance, gave way under sudden fires and close-range musket volleys. Soldiers were caught dressing in uniforms; others died in narrow corridors, with no space to form lines or raise bayonets.
The fire spread. Public buildings – administrative houses, tax warehouses, merchant offices – burned like torches offered to the night. Smoke rose thick, suffocating, mingling with the smell of gunpowder and burning flesh. Bells rang without order, sometimes in echo, sometimes in despair, but no one knew whom to obey.
The city soldiers tried to react, and they were easy to spot even in the chaos. Their red coats, with gold details now blackened with soot, stood out like living targets. White trousers quickly became stained with mud and blood, and black boots slipped on the slick cobblestones. On their red turbans, the golden sun insignia shone for moments in the light of the flames – a symbol of order in a world that no longer recognised it.
They were divided: part of the garrison remained in the coastal forts, crushed by the incessant bombardment of the Caelestis, ears bleeding and nerves in tatters; the other part ran through the inner streets, trying to suppress a mutiny that had neither centre nor single face. Every corner was a potential ambush; every closed door, a threat.
The orders contradicted each other. Captains shouted to hold positions that no longer existed. Messengers did not return. Entire platoons were sent to a fire, only to discover, too late, that the real attack was coming from behind. The city demanded too many soldiers to be controlled by so few.
The chaos was not just noise and fire – it was opportunity, and Victória recognised it with the coldness of one who had learned to read war as others read ancient maps. While Arenosa burned from within, she moved to the points that truly mattered, those from which orders sprang and to which power flowed.
The command buildings were taken first, not with glorious assaults, but with surgical strikes. Small groups advanced through side corridors, service staircases, inner courtyards that rarely saw military boots. The officers were caught arguing over outdated reports, shouting orders to soldiers who were already dead or fleeing. Some tried to resist, brandishing ceremonial swords; others offered surrender in trembling voices; but few had time to choose. The city's flags were torn from the masts and thrown to the ground, trampled under boots that hours before had no right to walk freely.
The ammunition depots came next. There, Victória had relentlessly surrounded the warehouses, disarmed or killed the guards, and sealed the doors. Part of the gunpowder was taken and redistributed; the rest, sabotaged, rendered useless with saltwater and sand. Each neutralised barrel was a cannon silenced before it could fire.
At the same time, at sea, the Caelestis continued its grim work. The bombardment did not cease, and the walls trembled. The forts no longer responded effectively, and the surviving gunners fired more out of habit than hope. The sky was permanently lit by flashes of fire.
Trapped between the hammer and the blade, the defenders began to break. Soldiers dropped their weapons to aid the wounded, and officers tore up maps and burned documents. Fear seeped in like a slow poison, corroding the little discipline that remained. The city could no longer be defended as a whole; it was merely a collection of isolated positions, surrounded by enemies on all sides.
When the white flag finally appeared, raised by weary hands on a half-destroyed tower, no one was surprised. It was not honour that led them to surrender, for they knew what would follow if they resisted: streets awash with blood, uncontrolled fire, vengeance unbridled. Surrender was the last wall they could still raise.
The fall of Arenosa had been too swift for the Imperial Palace to prepare as it should. Orders had been lost in the smoke, messengers never arrived, and when the silence of the cannons announced the city's surrender, it was already too late to raise new defences. Victória gave no time to fate, knowing the element of surprise still belonged to her.
The fusiliers and the Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse advanced along the wide avenues leading to the palace, treading cracked mosaics and passing fountains that were now dry. They marched in tense silence, muskets ready, bayonets fixed, faces marked with soot and determination.
The Palace of Arenosa rose like a fortress of marble and sandstone, crowned with golden domes reflecting the distant glow of the burning city. Before the gates awaited the Guards of the Burning Sun – the Empire's last blade. They did not retreat, did not shout challenges, merely formed tight lines, as motionless as the statues flanking the entrance.
They were soldiers shaped by the desert. Their bodies bore the hardness of the merciless sun and long campaigns away from water and shade. They wore red uniforms with black trim, colours of fire and ash, the fabric worn in the right places, where war touched most often. Their weapons were light, made for speed and shock; many had fought as light cavalry, hunting enemies in open terrain, surviving where other armies wilted. Now, dismounted, they were ready to die on foot.
The Guards of the Burning Sun advanced first, moving with coordination and knowing that hesitation kills. Victória responded with cold precision. A brief gesture of her hand, and the Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse fired short volleys, not to annihilate, but to break the momentum. Smoke spread over the marble, and some Guards fell, but the rest pressed on, crossing the curtain of gunpowder like figures from a solar myth. The distance closed rapidly, and the fight became intimate and brutal.
Bayonets found flesh, swords clashed against hilts and steel. In the narrow corridors, the Guards' advantage dissipated, but not their ferocity. They fought with desperate discipline, protecting each other, retreating only to gain space for another strike.
Victória was at the centre, her sword rising and falling with lethal precision. A Guard attempted to flank her; she spun, deflected his blade, and drove her own into his exposed flank, feeling the dry impact of steel through ribs.
The Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse, accustomed to fighting on slippery decks and in chaotic combat, adapted quickly. They used columns, torn tapestries, and imperial statues for cover, pulling enemies into short, violent ambushes. One Guard was felled by three soldiers, fighting to the last breath, biting and striking even when he could no longer rise. Another took down two Sailors before being shot dead a few steps away.
Step by step, they advanced, leaving behind red-and-black bodies mingled on the marble floor, now stained with blood, ascending the palace steps and entering within, reaching the doors of the imperial hall. The palace, once silent and solemn, groaned with the sound of combat – steel against steel, cries of pain, orders shouted amidst the echo of the domes.
In the palace's final corridors, they fought almost shoulder to shoulder with the invaders, exhausted, wounded, but still dangerous. One of them, with his uniform torn and face smeared with dried blood, held a narrow passage alone for long seconds, felling a fusilier and wounding another before falling under a volley of bayonets.
The last Guard of the Burning Sun fell like a broken statue, body still tense at the moment of death, fingers clenched around a blade he could no longer raise, before the great doors of the throne room, tall, reinforced with bronze, adorned with sun reliefs in eternal glory.
Victória gave a single signal, and the doors of the throne room were pushed open with effort, creaking as if the palace itself protested. The bronze hinges gave way slowly, revealing a vast and solemn space, lit by tall torches casting long shadows over golden columns.
Some Guards remained inside – few, exhausted, wounded, more loyal to madness than duty. They did not retreat nor plead for mercy. They advanced in a final gesture of defiance, but there was no glory in the final fight. The fusiliers and the Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse fired almost simultaneously. The thunder of gunfire echoed through the hall like restrained thunder. One Guard fell chest-first, another dropped to his knees before being struck by a bayonet, and the last attempted to raise his sword, only to be pierced by two swift strikes.
Heavy tapestries hung from the hall walls, woven with scenes of glorious campaigns, now stained with smoke and splattered with fresh blood. On the elevated centre, atop wide steps worn by centuries of upright footsteps, stood the Throne of the Burning Sun – crafted of interwoven gold and bronze, a solar symbol. Seated upon it was Emperor Solário Ignifer.
He wore only a ceremonial robe, red and gold, far too simple for a man who ruled an entire empire. The sword rested in his lap, held with both hands, more a weight than a weapon. His face was pale but serene, and his eyes retained a calm lucidity, almost gentle, despite the massacre that still echoed in the corridors.
As Victória approached, he rose with effort, descending the throne steps without haste, each step measured, dignified, walking toward her as a host receives a late guest.
– Is the battle over? – he asked, his voice calm, devoid of fear.
– It is – replied Victória, without embellishment.
Solário Ignifer smiled, a small, tired, yet sincere smile.
– Did any of my soldiers survive?
Victória met his gaze.
– Those who did not die surrendered.
The Emperor's smile deepened for a moment, as if that answer brought him a strange relief. Without another word, he raised the sword with both hands and extended it to her, offering the hilt as though handing over not just a weapon, but an entire world.
– Congratulations on your victory – he said. There was no bitterness in his words.
Victória took the sword. The steel was heavy, ancient, perfectly balanced. It was then she noticed that the Emperor's wrists were cut, the sleeves of his robe stained a dark red, blood flowing slowly and irreversibly. She looked up at him with contained surprise.
Solário Ignifer continued to smile. He turned, and with the dignity of a man who had already made his final decision, walked back to his throne and sat down slowly, settling as one returns home after a long journey.
– I wish Queen Luna Caelestis all the luck in the world in ruling my empire – he said, his voice now lower. – And even more luck in ruling it better than I did.
Victória bowed her head in a brief, courteous bow, not of submission, but of recognition between victor and vanquished. Then, she turned her back and walked away, her steps echoing through the hall. She did not look back.