The banners of Luxenberg snapped in the wind as the allied host departed the southern gates of Roma, their silks flashing silver and blue beneath the early spring sun. The morning air was cool, touched by the lingering breath of winter, and the cobbled road ahead shimmered like a river of pale stone stretching toward the horizon.
Victor rode at the head of the column, the polished steel of his cuirass muted under a travel-stained cloak. His eyes—keen, calculating—were fixed not on the miles before him, but on what waited at the end of them: Florenzia, jewel of the southern counties, stronghold of the proud and unpredictable Tomasso Florent.
Beside him, though several lengths back and incapable of matching his orderly pace, came the contingent of the Green Visconte faction, led by Prince Alphonse. The contrast between the two forces had not improved and still remained as stark as night and dawn.
Victor's soldiers marched in tight, unbroken ranks, their muskets gleaming, their drums steady as a heartbeat. Alphonse's men, by comparison, still moved more like a tide than a formation—talented individually, fierce in small skirmishes, but lacking the discipline bred from multiple military campaigns.
Six weeks lay between Roma and Florenzia. Six weeks of road, weather, politics, and roiling tension.
By the end of the first week, the alliance already showed signs of strain.
King Victor held a war council every evening beneath his pavilion—an orderly ritual of maps, scouts' reports, and measured voices. Prince Alphonse attended, but seldom quietly. He paced, interrupted, dismissed warnings, and arrogantly insisted that Florent would surely surrender once confronted by two of them.
Ever since capturing Roma, the attitude and arrogance of Alphonse had grown more obvious. What started as a respectful and amicable friendship between the two men had slowly begun to unravel. It was Victor who pressed Alphonse to settle the matter with the Pope. He was the reasonable one when Alphonse wanted to go to war with the Church. Nevertheless, they were allies, and once this war had concluded, Victor could return home.
The countryside changed as they pushed northward. Rolling vineyards gave way to broad fields of barley and rye. Hilltop monasteries watched silently as the column passed, their bells tolling warnings or blessings—none could tell which. The people came out to stare at the marching banners, some bowing, others whispering in fear of conflict spreading to their doorsteps.
Rain began to fall during the third week.
What had been dust became mud. Wagons groaned under their loads. Horses stumbled in the muck, and progress slowed. Victor's disciplined regiments kept formation even in a downpour, their officers barking commands over the thunder. Alphonse's men, by contrast, grumbled openly, seeking shelter beneath olive groves, losing equipment, and squabbling in the rain.
One night, a fistfight broke out between a Luxenberg infantryman and a Visconte cavalryman. By morning, the skirmish had grown into a brawl of dozens. The sound of it—shouts, curses, the scrape of steel—woke the entire camp.
Victor rode in at dawn, rain dripping from the brim of his hat, and dismounted in the mud. The moment the soldiers saw their king, they froze. He said nothing at first. Silence rolled outward like a cold winter wind, swallowing the chaos.
Then, with a voice colder than the rain, he ordered:
"If you wish to kill each other, do it after Florenzia. Until then, you march as allies—or not at all."
And that was that.
Even Alphonse, arriving moments later and brushing wet hair from his eyes, felt the sting of the rebuke. But nothing united a quarrel like the shame of offending Victor Luxenberg. By the next night, the men shared fires again, though the mood remained brittle.
The fourth and fifth weeks brought warmth at last. Poppies bloomed along the road, and shepherds led flocks across green meadows. For a time, the march felt almost peaceful. Birds sang their songs, and the cool breeze made the march bearable.
The final week was a march through tightening breath.
Florenzia rose on the horizon—white towers, red-tiled roofs, glittering domes, and the great citadel crowning the hill at its centre. It was second only to Roma in grandeur, a city of artists, bankers, and warriors, proud and fiercely independent.
As the allied host approached, the bells rang—not in welcome, but in warning.
Tomaso Florent was waiting.
Alphonse sat straighter in the saddle.
Victor lowered his hood, revealing a face carved with resolve.
Their armies stretched behind them like two braided rivers—one calm, disciplined, unyielding; the other volatile, passionate, and dangerous.
Both were necessary.
Both were flawed.
And Florenzia, like a lion roused from sleep, watched them come.
The six-week march had ended, and the battle for Florenzia would soon ensue.
The city was surrounded, lines upon lines of tents formed around the perimeter of the city. Artillery positions were beginning to be established, with the Luxenberg rockets also being deployed. Florenzia was not Roma; there were no sacred cathedrals or holy sites in the city.
Victor wanted a swift end to this war, and with that in mind, the Luxenberg rockets would be a key contributor to the battle to come. But before Victor could focus on the battle, Alphonse was confident that Tomasso would surrender.
Arrogantly, Alphonse sent a messenger demanding that Tomasso and Maria surrender. They were treasonous individuals who would need to pay for their crimes. To Alphonse's stupid surprise, they did not accept.
Victor could only shake his head in disbelief that Alphonse was so arrogant as to believe they would surrender.
His growing frustrations with Alphonse made him want to finish this war sooner rather than later. As soon as Florenzia and Madena were captured, he intended to march north, back to Sinolla, where his fleet remained and sail home.
With Tomasso and Maria's refusal, Alphonse wanted to immediately bombard the city and bring down its high walls. Victor urged patience; there was no need to rush an enemy that was boxed in. Thorough preparation would do them well, especially if every cannon could be set up. They had only begun to set up their artillery, and only a quarter of it was ready to be fired.
Alphonse could not dare go against Victor's advice, especially when he and his army were battle-hardened from years of military campaigns. As such, they waited a week for every piece of artillery to be set up before commencing a bombardment.