Date: 21-6-1561 WC
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The third morning of the siege broke gray and bitterly cold. Mist hung low across the plain, turning tents and cannon wheels into shadowy shapes. Beyond the ridges, the walls of Northern Mountain City stood cracked and smoke-stained, their proud silhouette marred by jagged holes.
Prince Kaen stood with his officers near the forward batteries, cloak tight across his shoulders. He looked rested, almost serene. For three days his cannons had spoken without pause, day and night. Now, the results were plain: towers collapsed, battlements shattered, whole streets inside the city burning.
His soldiers, far from weary, were in high spirits. They had lost no more than a handful of men, most from accidents with powder or stray fragments. Against them, the defenders had already lost hundreds. In his line, men joked while they hauled powder crates; gunners wiped soot from their faces and smiled when they heard another tower tumble.
