The sun still hung over the leaden sky when the first banners of Aurelia tore across the horizon. They came from the north, winding along the road with the methodical slowness of those who are in no hurry, but know they will win. The Aurelian pennants, embroidered with golden thread, fluttered like omens of death over the dust.
The battlefield stretched out before the Ventorans like an old tapestry stained with blood and dust, divided into four distinct parts – each with its own song, each ready to swallow soldiers and promises in its cold belly.
The city of Porto Dourado, with its back to the sea, was the anchor of the entire disposition. The houses offered little protection, but the labyrinth of its streets could confuse an invading force, should it dare to cross gates that never existed.
The left flank of the Ventoran army, protected by a stretch of low trees and a treacherous swamp, was damp, suffocating and treacherous as a coiled snake. Boots sank into the dark mud, and the soldiers posted there – people with wary eyes – knew that, if they fell there, there would be no glory. Only silence and oblivion.
The centre was the exposed nerve. The fields and fences led directly to the city. Whoever controlled the centre could control the fate of Porto Dourado. But the centre would not be where the soldiers died first.
The right flank, at last, rose on a rocky, dry hill beaten by the wind. This was where the Ventorans expected the Aurelian army to focus most of their attack, which is why the majority of Valeria's artillery waited here, silent for now, like predators watching their prey.
Valeria Ventoforte watched the valley from the rocky heights of the right flank, mounted on her white horse. There, among stones and thorns, she deployed her forces with an iron hand and the calm gaze of one who had lost more battles in her mind than on the field.
Under her direct command were four divisions. Isabella Mareluz, the coldest and most calculating of the Ventoran generals, commanded four thousand soldiers, hardened by campaigns in deserts and mountains. Fausto Campodouro, robust, charismatic and thirsty for glory, led three thousand eight hundred – well-armed, loyal troops aware that their commander's name was heavier than their steel. Severino Fontesol, a man of fiery words and unbreakable faith, brought with him three thousand followers, many of them peasants turned soldiers by the promise of redemption on the battlefield. Catarina Ventomar, the youngest among the commanders, moved her three thousand soldiers with the lightness of a sea breeze, trusting in the speed and precision of their muskets.
It was a formidable flank – thirteen thousand souls arranged in formation along the heights – but Valeria knew, deep in her chest, that neither numbers, nor steel, nor prayers guaranteed victory.
In the centre stood Silvano Rocaviva and Gaspar Salinaterra, each with three thousand troops. Rocaviva was a man of few words and firm commands, his face worn by years and loss. His army was solid, rooted like the stones on the road to Porto Dourado. Salinaterra, by contrast, was all subtlety and smiles – a strategist, a lover of manoeuvres and illusion. His soldiers knew how to move like shadows and fire when well ordered. Together, they held the centre like two columns raised in anticipation of a storm.
Further west, on the left flank, where the land grew wet and the trees hid the treacherous edges of the swamp, were Matthias von Kessel and Sir Hagen Ombradaga. Kessel, a foreign veteran, led his two thousand Iron Ghosts, the mercenary division Valeria had hired for her army, disciplined and with the experience of an elite corps, known for terrifying their enemies with their funeral horns, which marked the start of their relentless and orderly advance that had never faltered. Sir Hagen commanded the five thousand sworn volunteers from Leonespada, who would be tested for the first time in the coming battle.
Inside the city, among the dusty alleys and abandoned docks, Baltasar Douramar commanded his ten thousand Aurelian soldiers. He had the most thankless task that day: to hold the city long enough for the last civilians to escape. They would have to resist like an old door resists the axe, knowing the clash was inevitable, but still trying to delay it. The divisions under his command occupied squares, barricaded streets, dug trenches between orchards and churches. On every corner, a group of fusiliers waited silently.
Every order Baltasar gave was a minute gained and a life saved. Every glance directed at the civilians still filling the streets – mothers with children, old men pushed in carts, young women with bags on their shoulders – reminded him that there was no innocence here in times of war.
Far from the urban chaos, on the right flank, the Cavalry of the Winds, Queen Valeria's elite corps, assumed reserve duties in that battle. The terrain, dry but uneven, rocky and surrounded by infantry formations, was unsuitable for cavalry. And the left flank, more mud than firm ground, was a certain grave for any horse attempting to cross it.
Valeria remained motionless on her horse, the monocle firm between her gloved fingers. The glass was scratched from previous campaigns but was still to see through – and what she saw now was not pleasing. On the other side of the valley, the troops of Aurelia had already reached the outskirts of the city and were bleeding for every step.
Smoke rose in slow spirals, like black fingers emerging from the streets. The Aurelian columns, so disciplined in its march, had broken into small groups fighting among alleys, corners and closed doors. Baltasar Douramar had forced them to fight for every street and every house, as he had said he would – and so he did. His divisions, entrenched in Porto Dourado, resisted with a ferocity bordering on despair. It was a war of short rifles and bayonets, of silences broken by sudden screams. The Aurelians were not conquering the city, they were burying it.
Valeria lowered the monocle with a brief sigh. She knew she could not count on Baltasar forever. No man could hold a burning city without his spirit burning with it.
In the command tent, the campaign table was covered with maps and dust. A forgotten wine was starting to sour in the pewter cup. Lucia Ventoforte was already present, straight as a lance, her eyes fixed on a parchment before her. To her left, Isabella Mareluz remained silent, fingers crossed. Fausto Campodouro muttered quietly to his assistant, while Severino Fontesol, arms crossed, stared at the sky through the tent opening as if seeking a divine will there. Catarina Ventomar had just arrived, still with dust on her shoulders and a faint smell of gunpowder in her hair.
Valeria entered and did not need to raise her voice.
– Do not count on Baltasar after sunset – the room fell into a cutting silence at her words.
– But he promised to hold the city – Fausto expressed.
– Promises break with gunpowder and fire – Valeria replied. – He fights like a lion trapped in a cage, but there are no walls in Porto Dourado, only wood and blood. Tomorrow the Aurelians will have the city… or what remains of it.
Lucia nodded slowly, unsurprised.
– So tomorrow they will come for us.
– They will. With everything they have – said Valeria, placing her hand on the map. – Therefore, the defences on the hills must be complete by dawn.
There were murmurs, exchanges of looks among the generals. Isabella spoke little, but her eyes said everything. Severino prayed and said something about the poor souls of the city. Catarina requested more ammunition for the sharpshooters. Fausto wanted more soldiers.
Valeria listened to all with the patience of a rock. When, at last, everyone fell silent, she placed her fingers on the map and ordered messengers with swift horses to be prepared – two for the left flank and two for the centre. They would carry clear orders: the fortifications must be completed by the next dawn. There was no room for hesitation. The dry ground of the hills had to be dug, the cannons mounted, the retreat routes sealed. If the city fell – and Valeria already felt that moment approaching – only the defences in the fields could save the Ventoran army from annihilation.
The messengers left before the bell for the lower hour. An uneasy silence settled, as if even the wind hesitated.
After some time observing – always with her eyes fixed on the invisible wall of smoke and dust – Valeria turned to one of her officers.
– Send a messenger to Baltasar – she said dryly. – I want to know how much longer he can hold the city. You must tell him every moment counts, but that he must not sacrifice his soldiers out of pride.
The messenger rode off at a gallop.
For nearly an hour, Valeria remained still, motionless like a statue carved in stone. Around her, the generals murmured, the carpenters hammered nails, soldiers moved hurriedly with fear in their eyes. But she did not move. She watched the city as if she could decipher its screams through the smoke.
When the messenger finally returned, the horse was covered in sweat, its flanks trembling, eyes rolling. The man dismounted with difficulty, his boots covered in soot.
– Baltasar says that… – he gasped, his face covered in ash and dust, – he will be able to hold the city for, at most, one more hour. He said the losses are heavy, whole streets are taken, and, if no new order is given, he himself will initiate a strategic withdrawal to the hills.
Valeria was silent for a few seconds. An hour, perhaps less.
She lifted her gaze to the horizon, to the fire rising from the heart of Porto Dourado. Baltasar Douramar had kept his word. More than most would have done. But the dead do not reinforce trenches or defend hills.
– When he retreats – she said at last, – let him bring what he can. Soldiers, ammunition, artillery. The rest will be given to the flames.
The messenger gave a brief bow, mounted a fresh horse and returned to Baltasar with Valeria's new message.
– Do you know who is commanding the Aurelian army? – Valeria asked her daughter without looking away from the city.
– We don't have confirmation yet – Lucia said hesitantly. – No command banner has been seen clearly.
Valeria made a slight sound – half smile, half disdain.
– You don't need confirmation when you know the enemy's scent – she said. – That slow march, that positioning of pieces, the way they take the city with surgical precision… – she paused – It is Sir Galvano da Torre.
Lucia shook her head.
– He is dangerous. Cautious. He cares for every detail.
– Yes – replied Valeria, – and there lies our advantage.
Lucia raised her eyes, perplexed.
– Galvano is a master while his plans go as he wishes. But when the pieces move out of rhythm… he starts to lose control. He grows impatient. Pressures too soon. Demands too much. I read the reports of what he did in Acquaguarda and Boscoluna. When the tide does not turn in his favour, he tries to force it with his hands and cuts his own fingers.
– And what do we do? – asked Lucia.
– We wait. Tomorrow we will see what he does. If he tries to force the centre before the right time, or launches a rushed attack through the forest without understanding the terrain. All we have to do tonight is hold our positions and let him think he is leading the dance.
Lucia nodded, but her eyes already burned with questions.
– Do not confuse prudence with weakness, my daughter – murmured Valeria. – Galvano is no fool. But he is a man of pride. And pride, as you know, is a difficult horse to tame when it begins to gallop out of control.