The troops erupted as the first stones fell.
Cheers tore through the ranks, raw and triumphant, swelling louder than any horn. After weeks of drills, boredom, and hauling timber under the blistering sun, it felt like being let loose from a cage.
"
How do you like that, you rats!
" someone bellowed from the frontline, arms raised high in exultation as a roars of fears curled upward from the city.
"
You like the view up there?! Wait till the next oneâs in your bedroom!
" another shouted, laughter cracking out around him like thunder.
The men lined the edges of the forward positionsâinfantry, archers, even some of the mounted unitsâwatching the arcs of the stones with wide eyes and open mouths, as if they were spectators at an amphitheater. Except this show didnât need actors or costumes.
Some clapped when a stone vanished behind the outer rooftops, only to be followed by the booming crash of its landingâlike some great beast smashing through a forest of buildings.
"
Thatâs for two years ago!
" a decurio barked from behind a row of footman, pumping his fist.
"
Got plenty more for you bastards!
" another added with a sneer, his voice half-lost in the roar of a fresh volley.
From behind the lines, one of the artillery engineersâhis face blackened with soot âthrew his arms wide and shouted like a carnival barker, "
Come one, come all, next show in two minutes! Get your front row seats!
"
Even the princeâs standard fluttered higher on its pole, caught by a fresh gust of wind, as though it too fed on the frenzy.
For the soldiers, it wasnât just bombardment. It was
justice
,
payback
, and
entertainment
wrapped into one. The sight of massive stones flying through the skyâthose impossible arcs, graceful and slowâheld a strange beauty. It made their hearts beat faster. Gave them something to cheer for.
As the fire began to riseâthin at first, like wisps of smoke escaping a dying hearth, then thicker, fuller, leaping into the sky with wild abandonâthe men on the field waited in a tense silence, eyes fixed on the city walls. The stones wrapped in oil-soaked linen and set alight had done their job.
The city was burning.
It didnât take long for the reaction to ripple across the ramparts. Panic.
Figures scrambled along the battlements, some rushing toward the inner streets, others frozen in disbelief. The defendersâ silhouettes danced against the flickering orange that now painted the sky. From this distance, they were no longer soldiersâjust ants scurrying on a sinking ship.
The laughter that broke from the ranks of the besiegers wasnât cruel. It was
triumphant
, like a collective exhale of months of frustration and anticipation, finally bursting free into the open air.
War was no longer a waiting game. It had become spectacle. And victoryâtangible.
"
Well ainât that a beauty,
" rumbled a voice like gravel rolling in a barrel.
The speaker was a mountain of a man, his massive frame encased in plate.
Egil, standing beside Jarza, gave a low whistle, the corner of his mouth curling in appreciation as he put a hand on Jarzaâs shoulder.
"
Shit,
" he said, letting the word hang in the air like incense, "
that made all the waiting worth it.
" He leaned forward on his saddle, eyes flicking over the battlements where defenders scrambled like headless birds.
He turned to Shahabâold, solemn Shahab Filastin, wrapped in his embroidered cloak , seated stiffly on a horse behind the lines. His eyes hadnât moved from the scene before him.
"
Oi, old man,
" Egil called, raising an arm to wave him over. "
Ainât got nothing to say? Come on, you telling me that ainât a beauty for the eyes? Look at âem scatter!
"
Shahab said nothing. He did not even blink. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon where smoke now curled and thickened above Herculia, the city once thought impregnable. The golden jewel of the Herculeiansânow coughing black clouds into the sky.
Slowly, Shahab turned his headânot toward Egil, but to look behind him, where his grandson in law stood tall, his black armor shining like obsidian in the light of the inferno.
He still couldnât believe it. Not entirely. That after all the planning, the endless bickering over rations and labor, the months of backbreaking construction and strict discipline, they were now at the doorstep of the impossibleâ
a true shot at bringing down Herculia.
He didnât need to say it. They all knew. If Herculia fell, the road to swallowing the entire princedom would open like a ripe fruit under a cleaver.
And none was more pleased than Alpheo himself.
The prince-consort stood with his arms crossed, a faint but satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes scanned the burning skyline with the calmness of a man watching a storm he had summoned unfold exactly as heâd intended.
He turned, glancing at the engineers manning the catapults behind him. One of themâa wiry young man with soot on his cheek and singed eyebrows, one of Pontuâs disciple âlet out a jubilant whoop as his shot found its mark.
Alpheo allowed himself a short chuckle.
Perhaps the engineers do deserve a reward,
he thought.
Iâve worked them like mules... but damn if they didnât drag the sun itself down on Herculia.
Then another cheer rose from the ranksâanother volley launched.
And with every stone that soared into the sky, blazing like miniature suns, Alpheoâs grin widened.
This wasnât just the start of a siege.
This was the curtain rising on the final act.
They had fifteen catapults in totalâmonstrous machines of wood and rope, groaning and thundering as they hurled devastation into the sky. Each shot was a scream of destruction, each landing stone a Chapter written in fire. Alpheo had spent months before this siege securing enough stone to make the bombardment not just possible, but
sustainable
.
For two full weeks, he could unleash ten volleys a day. Ten hammers from heaven, every day, for fourteen days. That was his opening argument.
And he intended to spend
every single shot
now.
He wanted the fires to catch. He wanted the flames to eat through the markets and homes and temples, to send black smoke curling into the hearts of every man, woman, and child sheltering inside those walls. Let them know that no god would save them. That resistance meant immolation.
He didnât care if the entire city turned to ash.
As long as he could
rule
over whatever remained.
From beside him, Asag approached. He was less boisterous than Egil, more grounded, but also prone to second-guessing. He scratched the back of his head, glancing up at the latest fireball arcing into the cityâs skyline.
"Hey, Alph..." he called, voice low, almost cautious. "Shouldnât we be aiming at the walls instead? I mean, not that I give a ratâs ass if a few thousand townsfolk are roasted alive, but wouldnât breaching the wall give us a
clearer
path to victory?"
Alpheo turned slowly, hands folded behind his back as if contemplating a painting rather than a warzone. His eyes didnât meet Asagâs right away. Instead, he let his gaze linger on the inferno building in the cityâs heart, where orange tongues of flame licked at the rooftops, and a new plume of smoke began to rise.
"Thereâs no reason to breach the wall," Alpheo said coolly, finally turning. "The entire purpose of everything weâve builtâthe walls, the towers, the defenses, the disciplineâwas to
avoid
charging headlong into a fight we canât win. This is a siege of attrition, not a glorious cavalry charge into open gates."
Asag frowned, unconvinced. "Still... theyâre just
walls
. A few well-placed shots, maybe a sapped section or twoâwe could open a path, storm it with shock troops, take the city before the relief army even shows up."
Alpheoâs eyes narrowed slightly. He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to command full attention.
"Think, Asag," he said. "Even if we brought down a section of the wallâwhich is not guaranteed, given the thickness and strength of their fortificationsâweâd only be past one wall. Theyâve got two. That alone turns the breach into a death trap."
"And what do you think waits for us after that first breach?" Alpheo continued, now pacing. "A courtyard full of roses? No. A second line of walls, better defended, with archers raining death from above while our men are trapped in a bottleneck of rubble. All while the defenders rally behind fresh lines."
He paused and pointed toward the distant battlements where the defenders were now visibly reactingâfire buckets, screams, smoke-covered silhouettes moving with rising urgency.
"We have 2,500 troops," Alpheo said. "Of those, about 1,900 are fit and ready for the frontline siege combat. The rest are riders. We
donât know
exactly how many defenders they have, but itâs safe to say over a thousandâand theyâll be fighting from strongholds we canât match."
Asag looked away, eyes tracking another flaming projectile soaring through the sky.
"If we throw ourselves at the walls," Alpheo said, his voice now razor-sharp, "and we
fail to capture both walls
âwe wonât get a second chance. And what about the relief army which is surely soon to come? Did you consider that?
Then wonât just be overextended, weâll be trapped between an anvil and a hammer. A pincer attack from within and out. Theyâll drive us back or bury us in the mud."
He leaned in, eyes locked on Asag.
"We donât need to win through force. We need to make them
stop believing they can win.
And nothing kills hope faster than fire."
Asag sighed, finally nodding. "Alright... alright, you make your point. Still, Iâd like to crack open at least
one
part of that damn wall. Just for the satisfaction."
Alpheo gave a rare grin. "Youâll get your crack. But for now, letâs watch the smoke and screams. Thatâs the sound of a state crumbling."
And behind them, the catapults roared again, like drums announcing the doom of times.