Gunshots cracked from the upper floors of a townhouse. One of Alphonse's men fell, clutching his collarbone, shrieking as his comrades dragged him behind a shattered doorway. Return fire burst upward in a ragged volley—shattering shutters, splintering beams, but not silencing the enemy.
Marshal Lefebvre heard the exchange and signalled a unit of his grenadiers.
"Clear the upper floors."
The grenadiers advanced with brutal efficiency, forcing entry with axes and bayonets, their shadows flickering across the smoke-stained walls. Seconds later, screams echoed from inside. Then silence.
The defenders of Florenzia were fighting house by house—families and militia beside hired guards, unwilling to yield even the smallest corner of their city. And though they lacked discipline, they possessed something equally dangerous:
They knew every street.
A horn sounded from deeper within the quarter—three sharp notes. A warning.
"Ambush," Lefebvre murmured.
Moments later, a barricade rose at the far end of the street—barrels, carts, furniture dragged from homes and stacked hastily but effectively across the street. From behind it, muskets flashed in the dimness.
The volley tore into Alphonse's forward ranks. Three men dropped instantly; another spun sideways, clutching a bleeding leg. A Green Visconte Captain swore, ducking behind a fountain as ricochets chipped marble around him.
Lefebvre marched forward, raising his hand.
"Artillery! Bring up the light guns!"
Two of the Luxenberg field pieces lurched into the street, dragged by sweating crews who manoeuvred them with practised urgency. Within moments, the cannons were unlimbered and aimed directly at the barricade.
"LOAD—GRAPE!"
The first blast obliterated the left side of the barricade in a thunderous spray of wood, iron, and stone. The second blew apart the defenders' cover entirely, sending bodies flying into the street. The survivors fled deeper into the city.
Lefebvre lowered his arm. "Advance. Secure the intersection."
The army pressed forward, the streets widening slightly as they neared the more affluent district surrounding the city plaza. Marble facades rose above them, elegant once, now scarred by smoke and fire. The ringing of bells reverberated through the city—urgent, panicked, relentless.
"Florent reinforcements," a Luxenberg captain muttered. "They're coordinating now."
"They will break," Lefebvre replied calmly. "Your task is to ensure our men do not."
Beyond the shattered barricade, the western section opened into the plaza—normally a market square, now a chaos of overturned stalls, dead horses, broken masonry, and screaming civilians fleeing in every direction. Florent soldiers held defensive lines between fountains and colonnades, firing into the oncoming forces while retreating step by step toward the city centre.
The Luxenberg Army veterans struck them like a hammer.
Bayonets clashed. Muskets flared at point-blank range. Smoke curled around the columns of the old city hall as both sides fought for control of the square.
At the height of the melee, Nero Florent, the only son of Tomasso, emerged atop the grand staircase—armoured breastplate dented, sash torn, but his bearing unshaken. He raised his sword, voice booming above the din.
"Florenzia does not fall today!"
A roar rose from the defenders.
The two armies collided again—deadlier, fiercer, closer than ever before.
And amid the screams, the smoke, and the collapsing facades of burning buildings, the fate of Florenzia tipped toward chaos, blood, and uncertain victory.
The square devolved into a storm of blades and smoke.
The square's broken paving stones were slick with spilt water from shattered fountains and darker stains that glistened beneath the dawn light. Each clash of steel sent echoes bouncing off the pillared facades, turning the piazza into a thunderous chamber of war.
Victor's disciplined veterans pressed on in a slow, crushing surge—unmovable, implacable, every step measured. But Alphonse's men fought like a raging tide beside them—furious, uncoordinated, unpredictable. A few broke rank to chase fleeing Florent militia; others hesitated when faced with Nero Florent and his elite guards.
Surrounded by a dwindling circle of loyal guards, Nero fought with desperate skill, his blade flashing silver in the firelit haze. Each time the line faltered, Nero's voice rang out, rallying his defenders with something close to feral determination.
"For the House of Florent! Hold the piazza!"
His men—bloodied, exhausted, but fiercely loyal—held the staircase with their lives.
By this time, Victor and Alphonse were now on the outskirts of the battle, spectating and issuing orders. Victor rode toward the edge of the melee, surveying the battlefield from atop a half-crumbled fountain. Musket fire snapped dangerously close to him, but the king remained still, calm, studying every street feeding into the square.
He saw the cracks.
To the north, a Florent reserve battalion was forming—fresh troops marching into view beneath a long arcade. To the east, civilian militia had overturned a wagon to form another barricade. And from the south, he glimpsed a glint of cannon wheels being pushed into position.
If those guns fired into the piazza… If Tomaso's reserve joined the fight…
The breach of the wall would become a choke point of death.
"Signal the 3rd Regiment!" Victor shouted. "Take the northern arcade before their reserves form!"
The order rippled outward. His veterans pivoted instantly, surging to intercept the incoming forces. A volley cracked—tight, crisp, disciplined. Florent soldiers at the arcade staggered backwards, their formation breaking before it had even fully formed.
At the same time, Victor pointed toward the southern approach.
"Send the artillery crews! I want counter-battery fire before those guns set!"
His officers sprinted to carry out the command.
Alphonse, sweating and dust-covered, reached Victor's position just as Luxenberg troops drove another wedge into Florent lines.
"They're holding the stairs," Alphonse gasped. "Nero refuses to yield. The square is bleeding us dry."
Victor nodded grimly. "He fights like a man with nothing left to lose."
"Can we break him?"
"We must."
They turned as a sudden horn blast split the air—long and wavering.
It came from the palazzo.
From Nero's vantage point atop the steps, the heir of Florent saw something neither Victor nor Alphonse yet had: movement along the rooftops to the west. Smoke parted just enough to reveal Victor's grenadiers sweeping through the terraces above the plaza.
Nero understood immediately.
He was being encircled.
His eyes flashed with a fury that bordered on heartbreak. He raised his sword high—not in victory, but in defiance.
"You may take my walls!" he shouted. "But Florenzia kneels to none!"
Then, spurring his remaining guards, Nero charged down the steps into the teeth of the oncoming armies.
The impact was cataclysmic.
The Luxenberg front line recoiled under the sudden assault. Alphonse's men staggered backward. Nero fought like a man possessed, driving a wedge through the center of the coalition soldiers, cutting down two, then three, then shoving aside a bayonet thrust before burying his sword in a veteran's shoulder.
But numbers told the truth.
Within seconds the momentum shifted. A dozen of Victor's battle-hardened soldiers closed around the Florent lord. A musket butt struck his armored chest, sending him stumbling to one knee. His guards died around him one by one.
Then a blade struck Nero from the side. He fell, his sword slipping from his grasp and clattering down the blood-slick steps.
Silence rippled through the immediate circle.
But the battle was not over.