By midday, Florenzia burned openly. Plumes of smoke rose like black pillars, blotting out the sky. The thunder of bombardment rolled without pause—cannon, then rockets, then cannon again.
The city trembled.
The alliance between Victor and Alphonse trembled with it.
At the ridge, Alphonse rode toward Victor, fury sparking in his eyes.
"This is devastation," he said.
Victor turned slowly. "It is a siege."
"This is soon to be my city. I do not wish to rule over ashes!"
"I promised to help you defeat your enemies," Victor corrected. "And to defeat them, sometimes walls must shake."
Alphonse stared at the city—his friend's city—burning.
"And when the Pope hears of this?"
Victor's voice grew cold.
"The Red Visconte faction would not surrender, we were left with no other option. Tomasso was never going to surrender. Let him see the error of his way"
Behind them, another volley of rockets shrieked skyward, painting arcs of fire above the smoke-choked city.
Florenzia burned into the night.
Night settled over Florenzia like a velvet shroud, thick and breathless, pierced only by the feverish rhythm of war. The sun's retreat did nothing to calm the fury outside the walls — if anything, darkness emboldened it. Torches guttered along the siege lines, their trembling flames casting long, skeletal shadows over the trenches and batteries sprawled across the plain. And above all, the rockets never truly slept.
Victor stood atop a forward redoubt, cloak pulled tight against the sharp midnight wind that swept down from the Apennines. Behind him, the ordered quiet of his camp pulsed with disciplined efficiency — murmured commands, the creak of timber as fresh ammunition was carted to the lines, the clatter of engineers reinforcing embrasures. Ahead, Florenzia's walls glowed like smoldering embers, still holding but undeniably wounded.
Every few minutes a rocket shrieked skyward, its tail a blazing comet that tore across the night. The rockets did not land with the clean, deep-throated authority of cannonballs; they screamed, cracked, and scattered fire unpredictably, splintering rooftops, igniting market stalls, and sending civilians and soldiers alike scrambling for cover. The city's skyline changed with every strike — a burning tower collapsing inward, a warehouse erupting in a column of sparks, a church bell falling silent mid-toll.
Prince Alphonse's camp, by contrast, a patchwork of haphazardly pitched tents and fires burning too bright for safety. Drunken voices carried easily across the fields, punctuated by arguments, laughter, and occasional musket shots fired skyward in undisciplined celebration or fear. The men were brave, yes — but they were reckless. Ill-trained. More eager for glory than survival.
Victor watched another rocket arc over the walls, its trail illuminating the battlements for a frozen instant. Figures could be seen moving along the parapets — Florent militia and hired urban guards — scrambling sandbags and repositioning guns with desperate haste.
One of the defenders paused, staring out toward the siege lines as though he could see the king himself. Then the rocket struck. A brilliant explosion flared, consuming the figure in molten light before plunging the wall back into night.
Alphonse approached at a hurried stride, boots crunching on the frost-hardened earth. His cloak was unevenly fastened, thrown around his shoulders in haste, and his eyes gleamed with restless energy — part outrage, part fear.
"Victor," he panted. "My scouts report a breach forming near the western wall. The walls can't withstand this bombardment much longer."
Victor didn't look at him yet. He observed the flicker of flames in the western quarter, the glow rising where a rocket had ignited a cluster of cloth dyers' workshops. Shouts echoed faintly — not soldiers, but families fleeing down narrow lanes, clutching bundles of possessions, shepherding children through smoke-choked streets.
"A city does not die quickly," Victor said at last. "It suffers first."
Alphonse bristled. "You make it sound as though I wanted this."
"Did you not?" Victor asked softly, turning to face him. "You asked me to crush your enemies. You pressed for action. You demanded retribution. And now…" He gestured toward the burning skyline. "Now we are nearing the conclusion of this war, once Florenzia falls, all that is left is Madena and then you will be a King."
Alphonse remained quiet, he had no right to argue. It was true that he brought Victor into this war, it was true that he wanted those who wronged him to pay for their crimes. But this did not feel right.
A fresh volley of rockets interrupted his train of thought — launched in perfect succession, hissing upward with a terrifying precision that only Victor's engineers could manage. They streaked toward the Palazzo Florent district. Alphonse flinched as four explosions erupted in rapid sequence, painting the palace area in violent orange.
"The night will be long," Victor murmured. "And cruel. Sieges always are."
Behind them, drums thudded — slow, steady, signaling the repositioning of two batteries. Lanterns bobbed through the dark as gunners dragged field pieces closer, preparing for coordinated bombardment at dawn. Rifles were stacked neatly in pyramids. Ammunition wagons creaked along fortified trenches. Even the horses stood stiller than usual, trained to silence under fire.
The contrast with Alphonse's forces was impossible to ignore; the prince's men were only now waking, stumbling toward their lines with half-buttoned coats, sloshing water over their campfires, and muttering nervously as the rockets continued to lash the sky.
"You must keep your men under control," Victor said without turning. "Night is when discipline matters most. Panic is a contagion."
Alphonse could only nod, he had no excuse for the discipline of his men.
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant thunder of cannon and the crackling of burning timber within the city.
At length, Alphonse spoke again—quieter now. "Tomasso Florent will not surrender. Not while his people watch him. Not when he knows the dim fate that awaits him once he is captured."
Victor nodded. "He is proud. And proud men fight harder when cornered."
"What will happen when we breach the walls?"
"Chaos," Victor replied. "Unless you regain control of your army by tomorrow. If you cannot hold them in formation now, they will not restrain themselves in the streets."
Alphonse stiffened. He opened his mouth—perhaps to protest, perhaps to swear he could—but another rocket soared overhead, turning their faces stark and pale in its light.
Victor rested a gloved hand on the prince's shoulder.
"War does not care for pride, Alphonse. Nor alliances. Nor the honour of ancient families." His grip tightened slightly. "It cares for decisions. Make the right ones."
In the distance, Florenzia burned on. The night roared with fire, wails, crashing stone, and the relentless shriek of rockets carving their trails across the heavens — like fiery quills writing the fate of the city.
And the siege pressed deeper into darkness.