A roar erupted from the Florent defenders as they saw their lord fall. Instead of surrender, rage consumed them. Shots burst from windows. A fresh militia unit charged into the square. Flames spread from rooftop to rooftop as a wind gusted through the narrow streets.
The city, wounded and cornered, fought on.
Victor exhaled heavily. "Alphonse. Get your men under control. If we lose cohesion now, the city will turn into a slaughterhouse."
Alphonse nodded, though his eyes lingered a moment longer on Nero's still form.
He turned away, lifting his sword with renewed resolve.
"To me! Reform the line! Drive them back from the plaza!"
The battle swept on in a storm of fury—Florent defenders fighting like cornered wolves, Victor's veterans pushing with unbreakable discipline, and Alphonse battling not just the enemy, but the chaos within his own ranks.
And above them, the smoke rising from Florenzia's burning heart curled into the dawn sky like a dark, twisting omen of what the conquest would cost.
By midday, the smoke had thinned just enough for the sun to break through, casting long, warped shadows across the battered stones of Florenzia. The sounds of battle—those terrible, relentless sounds—had dwindled from a thunderous crescendo to scattered echoes: a musket shot here, a shouted order there, the groaning collapse of a burning roof.
Slowly, painfully, the city's defiance guttered out.
Victor Luxenberg stood in the centre of the Plaza, boots planted among shattered marble and broken banners. Around him, his soldiers moved with exhausted discipline, securing alleyways, aiding the wounded, and extinguishing fires where they could.
Florenzia had fallen.
Prince Alphonse arrived, limping slightly, his green sash stained with smoke and blood. With the city on the cusp of surrender, he fought alongside his men, trying to keep some form of discipline.
His men—those still standing—trailed behind him, pale and hollow-eyed. Discipline had come too late for many of them; reckless charges had given way to chaos, and chaos to heavy casualties. Yet they had not broken. In the end, their will had held—even if only by a fraying thread.
Victor regarded him quietly as he approached.
"It is done," Alphonse said, voice barely above a whisper. "The last militia pockets have thrown down their arms. All the gates are open. The city is defeated"
Victor nodded, but his expression remained grave. "At what cost?"
Alphonse hesitated—glancing around at the ruined piazza, the wounded soldiers being carried past, the weeping civilians huddled beneath the arcade.
"A high one," he admitted.
His inability to keep his men disciplined led to many Green Visconte casualties. 46,000 infantrymen had perished, many of them due to poor discipline. They would charge headfirst into the fray seeking glory and reward, but instead they were met with traps and devastating volleys of musketfire.
Victor's troops had suffered their fair share of casualties: 12,000 infantrymen had perished in the fighting. Most of those deaths were due to the Luxenberg soldiers trying to save the Green Visconte soldiers when they were caught in traps or pushed up to far.
In the end, it was Florenzia's garrison that suffered the most. Out of the 50,000 infantrymen they had, only 8,000 of them survived. The slaughter in the streets was brutal. They fought valiantly to defend their city, but realistically, it would be impossible for them to succeed. It was not just members of the garrison that had died.
The body of Nero Florent had been laid respectfully at the foot of the grand staircase, his sword crossed over his chest. Even in death, he retained the dignified sternness of a man who refused to yield. Victor allowed no jeers, no disrespect; the fallen lord had fought with courage worthy of any king.
Alphonse lowered his head. "I did not wish for this. But once the breach opened…" He trailed off, unable to voice the rest.
Victor's tone softened slightly. "War does not sculpt itself to our wishes. It obeys only force and consequence."
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the city pressing down upon them. Victor studied the distant plumes of smoke spiralling above the rooftops.
"Florenzia must be pacified swiftly," he continued. "Food brought in. Fires contained. Civic leaders gathered for negotiation. If we allow fear to breed, rebellion will follow—and this day will be but prologue to worse."
Alphonse nodded slowly. "Yes, I shall see to it."
"No, you won't," Victor quickly said, looking directly at him, "Have some of your officers see to this. I'll leave Marshal Lefebvre, General Hill and General Bertrand to assist them. You will accompany me and my Royal Guard to the palace. There is still Tomasso and Maria Florent to be dealt with."
While Victor, Marshal Bessières and Alphonse made their way to the palace, the sun climbed higher, casting gold over the ruined piazza, and the sounds of violence faded into the rhythm of rebuilding. Soldiers formed water lines, engineers assessed damaged structures, and medics moved between makeshift infirmaries.
The siege had ended.
But its shadows would linger—etched in stone, in memory, in the unspoken grief of victors and vanquished alike.
However, there were still two people worthy to be vanquished. Maria and Tomasso Florent. Given their age, they could not mount a hasty escape from the city, nor could Tomasso join his son in battle. Instead, they remained as idle spectators watching Florenzia fall into chaos.
When news of Nero's death came, Tomasso had lost his will to fight. Nero was his only child, the most important gift left to him by his wife. When his wife died a few years ago, it was Nero who kept the old and unpredictable Tomasso motivated to see this war resolved.
But with Nero dead, there was no point in stubborn defiance. If this was meant to be the end, then so be it. Maria urged her brother to help them escape, or at the very least hide them so they could have a chance of making it to Madena, but Tomasso shook his head, his thinning blue hair falling to cover his face.
"Maria, look outside. How do you expect us to escape? Our only hope was defending this city." His blue eyes met hers. "We knew that this was a possibility, sister. Lorenzo is captured, his supporters have turned against us, and the current leader of our faction is a boy younger than the age of 16. Face it, Maria, we have lost."
Maria could not put together the words to express her anger or defeat. Especially when the sound of organised footsteps could be heard approaching the palace.