Within the walls, the mood was heavy with dread, though discipline still kept order. The defenders moved through narrow streets beneath banners faded from sun and smoke, their boots ringing hollowly on stone.
Every man knew the enemy had grown stronger, that fresh columns had joined the siege. Whispers travelled quicker than commands, and rumours clung to every corner—about the battle lost in the countryside, about allies who would never arrive.
On the ramparts, sentries gazed out across the fields. Where once they had seen a single enemy camp, now the horizon bristled with new fires. The glow of countless torches spread like a ring tightening around them, cutting them off from the world beyond. From time to time, the thunder of cannons rolled across the air, shaking dust loose from old mortar. Each echo drove home the reality that the walls would not stand forever.
Children clung to mothers as they watched soldiers march grimly to their posts, muskets slung and bayonets fixed as though a final fight might erupt at any moment. They were outnumbered and outgunned; surrounded on all fronts.
The addition of Victor's army had completely smashed all hopes of victory for the defenders. Count Falcone and the Red Visconte Army were meant to be their reinforcements and help free them from this siege. But their defeat now left them stranded; there were no allied forces they could call upon, and the Green Viscontes knew it.
There was no need to rush the siege; with no help coming, they could starve the city and hope for a casualty-free outcome. Victor was a big supporter of this idea; his forces were still recovering from their previous battle. It would be cruel to force them into another battle so soon. As such, the attacking army remained camped outside the city for over a month.
Resources inside the city dwindled. Rations grew thinner by the day. Bread was stale, water brackish, and wine watered down to stretch it further. Civilians pressed against soldiers in the markets, pleading for provisions, their voices rising in desperate tones. The city was beginning to starve, but the cries of the civilians could not move the soldiers.
Still, a kind of stubborn pride clung to the defenders. Faces were pale with exhaustion, but eyes still narrowed with defiance. They spoke in low voices of holding until the last, of bleeding the enemy before surrender. Veterans walked the walls, their coats tattered but their steps steady, recalling past wars where cities had endured sieges longer than this one.
But when night fell, and the roar of cannon ceased, the silence brought little comfort. The fires of the besieging host burned on every side, pinpricks of light in the blackness, a reminder that the enemy was awake, watching, waiting. From the shadows of the battlements, men peered out at those fires and felt a tightening in their chests—caught between courage and despair, honor and fear.
Each morning, the same thought returned: the walls still stood, but for how much longer?
The lord of the city, Count Demarco, was an elderly man with grey hair and dim blue eyes. He had seen too many winters, and each year he felt more burdened by his painful existence. His back was hunched, and he could not walk without the assistance of a cane. Many of his senses were dwindling; his sight and hearing were less than competent.
At this point, death would be a mercy, but he had no family to succeed him. His sons and even grandsons had died during multiple battles throughout this civil war. It was regrettable that his bloodline would end with him; he had a big family, but in the end, he outlasted all of them.
If he were to die, the city would be leaderless. Even more chaos would come about in the wake of his death. Because of this, he persisted to live, remaining a stoic bastion that would defend the people of Lodi.
Due to his duty as lord, he was faced with a dilemma. He knew that his city would fall if the besiegers decided to assault the city, but at least he would remain loyal to the Red Viscontes. If he wanted to put his people first and forsake his honour and loyalty, he would march through his own gate with a white flag and surrender.
With no family left, Count Demarco contemplated his existence. What was left for him? Honour? Loyalty? Duty? Ultimately, it mattered not. His death was looming; he would either die defending the city or die securing its safety. When he considered the two options of his impending demise, it was clear to him what he should do.
It had just passed the one-month point of the siege, and the defenders knew that the time for a battle was near. The limited but consistent bombardment had left the walls near their breaking point. It would not be long until they crumbled and became gateways for soldiers to charge through.
Count Demarco understood this, and as a result, he walked out the front gate, hobbling with a white flag. Surrender was the only option at this point. He would not condemn his people to death and more suffering. This would be his final act as a noble, for he would soon end his own life. Releasing him from his torment and joining his family in the afterlife.
Prince Alphonse and Victor were gladdened to see the city surrender. It spared their men from dying needlessly. If they wanted to truly conquer the south of Zandar, they would need all the men they could spare.
With Lodi conquered and the main Red Visconte Army defeated, the civil war that had lasted two decades now had a clear favourite. The stalemate that had resulted from cautiousness and indecision was now erased thanks to the efforts of the Luxenberg Army which had acted like the catalyst for this drastic change.
Now that Lodi was under their control, the south of Zandar.