The sentries alerted the commanders of the Red Visconte Army of the alarming sighting they had seen. These commanders were quick to relay this information to the Army's leader, Count Syrio Falcone.
Count Falcone was a middle-aged man with long brown hair and blue eyes. A thin scar traced from his cheekbone toward his jaw—a memento from earlier campaigns—adding a subtle hardness to his otherwise refined appearance. His eyes, keen and calculating, swept over his men and the terrain alike, weighing distances, formations, and possibilities with a measured precision.
He carried himself with the effortless poise of one born to command, his presence a blend of cultivated elegance and martial discipline. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his uniform with the same care he might give to court attire—dark, tailored coat trimmed in gold braid, epaulettes gleaming in the sun, and a sash of deep crimson tied perfectly at his waist.
"So, the Greens think they can sneak past us and begin an incursion into our territory. I will slaughter those who deny Prince Lorenzo as the true king. Soldiers! Prepare to move out, we will put down those green dogs, and then we will attack their lands!" Count Falcone commanded.
His orders were relayed throughout the camp. Officers strode between the rows, voices sharp as they relayed orders. Drummers beat a brisk, rallying rhythm, their sound cutting through the organised chaos. Soldiers moved quickly to form ranks, checking flints, powder, and bayonets, the metallic click of muskets locking into place rippling through the lines. Boots stamped on the earth as the formations tightened, dust beginning to rise around them.
The artillery crews worked with methodical haste, lashing down barrels, hitching horses to their gun carriages, and hauling crates of ammunition onto wagons. Cavalrymen mounted swiftly, adjusting saddles and tugging at reins, their mounts snorting and pawing at the ground as if sensing the chase ahead. Scouts already rode out in pairs, disappearing over low rises to track the retreating enemy.
Around the edges of the camp, supply wagons groaned under their loads, drivers snapping reins to bring them into position. The last embers of campfires hissed out under boot or bucket, leaving only faint curls of smoke.
Scouts constantly surveyed the Luxenberg Army's location; they were about 6 hours away from their army.
It became difficult for the scouts to keep tabs on the Luxenberg Army as they entered a nearby forest road. They wanted to sneak closer to observe the army, but it was too risky for them, so they remained at a cautious distance.
Victor was conscious of the scouts' peering eyes, but paid them no mind. His men had a task at hand that was too important to worry about a few prying scouts. While in the forest, Victor ordered two brigades of skirmishers to hide themselves on either side of the road leading through it.
His original plan was to use them as assassins and have them eliminate high-ranking officers, but that plan was risky and could result in the enemy escaping. Instead, they were to wait until the entire Red Visconte Army had made it into the clearing beyond the forest.
When the battle started, they would wait until the right moment to strike from behind. The dark blue uniforms made it easy for them to blend in and hide in the forest, allowing the enemy to walk past them without much notice. All they had to do was be patient.
The plain stretched wide and unbroken beneath a sky streaked with pale clouds, a vast stage upon which the clash would soon unfold. In the centre of the field, the army moved with a restless urgency, every man and officer aware that the hours to come would decide their fate. Hence, the Luxenberg Army was quick to get its preparations done.
The infantry, first to be arranged, gathered into long, disciplined lines, muskets stacked temporarily as sergeants barked instructions. Men adjusted straps, tightened belts, and checked cartridge boxes with hurried hands, while officers paced along the ranks, voices sharp but edged with unease. The crack of bayonets fixing to muzzles echoed in quick succession, a grim sound of readiness.
Artillery batteries arrived at a lumbering pace, dragged across the uneven ground by teams of straining horses. Crews leapt to their work, unlimbering guns and setting them into firing positions. Wheels sank into the soil, ropes strained, and shouted commands mingled with the metallic groan of iron. Powder crates were hauled open, shot stacked in neat pyramids, and fuses cut to length with quick, steady hands.
Cavalry squadrons assembled on the flanks, plumes and sabres catching the light as horses tossed their heads, stamping the ground in anticipation. Riders leaned from their saddles to tighten girths and adjust pistols, their expressions caught between eagerness and the weight of what was to come.
The defensive position was split into three sections, each with a primary commander who reported to Field Marshal Wellesley. General Rapp held the right flank while General Bertrand held the left. These were Victor's most senior commanders; they were obvious choices to hold the flanks, while Marshal Lefebvre held the centre. Lefebvre was a gritty fighter and could hold the middle while Rapp and Bertrand enveloped from the flanks.
Behind them was a makeshift camp a few kilometres away from the front lines. Supply wagons were being emptied, and water barrels rolled forward. Surgeons readied their instruments in makeshift tents, and a few officers began setting up a command tent.
Within six hours, the army would transform from a swarm of motion into a wall of steel and fire, standing shoulder to shoulder, awaiting the enemy. The knowledge of the approaching clash hung heavy over all, each man aware that the sun now climbing above the horizon would also light the smoke, blood, and thunder of battle before it set.
Victor remained vigilant and frequently peered through his spyglass to spot the Red Visconte Army. After a few hours, with the sun setting, the sight of red banners dancing in the breeze became noticeable. Small dots were now taking shape and forming a massive cluster of men.
The Red Visconte Army had arrived.