Drummers ceased their urgent rolls, now striking softer beats to summon order. Officers barked commands, their voices hoarse yet unyielding, pulling the regiments back into line. Muskets were stacked in pyramids, bayonets wiped clean of the day's work. Soldiers sank to their knees, heads bowed, sweat and powder mingling on their faces, though discipline held them firm.
Surgeons hurried into the open ground, their attendants carrying stretchers. Groans grew louder as the wounded were gathered—friends and foe alike lifted from the blood-soaked earth. Makeshift stations sprang up near the guns, where water was brought in buckets and linen strips were torn from shirts. The air filled with the sharp scent of spirits and the pained cries of men under the knife.
Many Luxenberg soldiers were killed in the battle, with many more wounded. 35,000 infantrymen, 5,000 cavalrymen and 100 gun crews had perished in the fighting. The tally was pretty much equivalent to the size of one corps. Although their victory was absolute, it was still a hefty price to pay. Dying on foreign soil made it nearly impossible for the families of the fallen to retrieve their loved ones' remains.
As dusk fell, campfires flickered across the clearing, their glow reflecting on faces weary but proud. Bread was broken, flasks passed from hand to hand, while sentries paced the shadows beyond. Above it all, the victorious banners fluttered in the cooling breeze, their colours unsoiled, a stark contrast to the earth below, now scarred and darkened by the day's fury.
The field was theirs—not just won in blood and fire, but held in discipline, patience, and unity. The victors had not only shattered their enemy; they had continued to prove themselves unparalleled.
Victor spent the evening surrounded by his commanders, discussing what needed to be done before departing for Lodi. Their soldiers had earned the right to some decent rest, wounded soldiers needed to be cared for, and prisoners needed to be escorted back to Napo.
In the end, General Picton's 13th Corps and General Kamensky's 8th Corps were to stay behind to guard the prisoners and care for the wounded. The remainder of the army would advance to Lodi within two days. With the logistics sorted, Victor strolled around the camp, conversing with soldiers and inspecting the wounded.
Victor cared deeply for his soldiers; he had grown close to them through many campaigns, dating all the way back to his first ever war against the Cryuff Dukedom. He had a lot of admiration for the stalwart men in his service; they fought for him without complaint or question.
Before dawn the following day, the camp was already alive with movement. The watchfires had burned low, their embers glowing faintly as soldiers rose stiff from the earth, brushing ash and dew from their coats. Orders rang through the dim morning, steady and uncompromising. The army, though weary from battle, carried itself with the confidence of victors.
Drums beat out a measured cadence, echoed by the tramp of boots as lines straightened and ranks closed. Muskets gleamed dully in the weak light, fixed once more to shoulders. Ammunition wagons creaked forward, guarded on every side, while cannons were heaved into position, their wheels biting deep into the soil as horses strained at the traces.
Cavalrymen rode ahead and along the flanks, scouts already fanning out toward the horizon. Their task was not just to watch for an enemy's return, but to keep the road clear and find the quickest path to their destination. Beyond the rolling hills lay the city of Lodi—a fortress of stone and smoke, where their allies, the Green Visconte Army, had begun the siege. Each step brought them closer to the thunder of yet another battle.
The countryside itself bore the marks of strain. Villages along the road emptied quickly at the army's approach, shutters drawn and livestock herded away. Dust rose thick behind the columns, clinging to uniforms and faces, turning the marching men into a haze of indistinguishable figures. Yet discipline kept the rhythm strong—ten abreast, step by step, hour by hour.
As they drew nearer, signs of the siege became clear. Refugees streamed past in ragged groups, carrying only what they could hold. In the far distance, faint plumes of smoke rose where artillery had already scarred the city walls. The sound of distant cannon fire echoed faintly, a reminder of the struggle ahead.
When the sun began to sink once more, the victorious host crested a ridge and beheld their destination: a proud city girded with bastions, its gates sealed tight, its walls bristling with defenders. Around it sprawled the allied encampments—rows of tents, gun emplacements, and the restless glow of fires.
The marching army slowed, columns breaking apart as commanders guided their regiments toward the allied lines. Standards lifted high above the dust, the colours of victory displayed for all to see. Drums beat louder, announcing their arrival, while cheers rose from the allied camps at the sight of fresh strength.
Prince Alphonse and Luca Sozzini were ecstatic to see Victor at the head of his triumphant army. "Welcome, King Victor! Congratulations on your victory," Luca warmly greeted. Victor smiled and nodded before dismounting his horse.
"I trust I have not missed much? I would have been disappointed if you had taken the city without me," Victor joked before turning his attention to the city. Lodi was a lot like the city of Archenshien. It had tall and unscaleable walls that discouraged any attacking army.
"Now that you have arrived, we can use our combined strength to bombard the walls and march into Lodi," Prince Alphonse confidently stated. The arrival of Victor and his cannons would be crucial to the siege efforts. With their combined strength, the towering walls of Lodi would crumble, and the city would be ripe for the taking.
Victor's army that had triumphed in the clearing now stood ready to lend its steel to the greater struggle—to starve the city, batter its walls, and force its gates wide open, ultimately conquering the city.