The march south began under a pale sun that turned the valley to bronze. Vineyards climbed the hills in patient rows, their leaves trembling in the dust wake of the columns. Stone farmhouses watched from afar—shutters half-closed, as though unwilling to witness the passing of war again.
The Luxenberg Army moved like a single machine: boots struck in rhythm, cannon wheels creaked with measured grace, and the blue-and-gold banners kept perfect interval across the ridgelines. Officers murmured in low voices; even the horses seemed to understand the gravity of their mission.
Behind them, the Green Visconte came like a riot. Their standards drooped unevenly; their ranks swayed and broke over every hill. Songs drifted through the ranks—some patriotic, others merely bawdy—and their laughter rolled down the valleys where Luxenberg's silence had hung like prayer.
Yet, for all their disorder, there was courage in their noise, a kind of defiance that no drill could forge.
The road narrowed through cypress and marble ruins. Ruins of some forgotten empire stood guard as the armies wound toward Roma, whose domes now shimmered faintly in the southern haze. The air tasted of iron and olives. By dusk, both hosts shared the same horizon, and for the first time, the city seemed almost close enough to admire.
Roma sat upon its seven hills like a crown of marble and smoke. The river wound through her heart—slow, silver, and ancient—catching the last of the day's light in its folds. Her domes gleamed like coins scattered by the sun, and her towers rose from the haze of evening bells.
Statues stared down from balustrades and rooftops, saints and emperors alike, their faces worn smooth by the centuries but still proud, as though they too waited for what was coming. In the southern part of the city was the glistening Cathedral of Christ, a monument to the Christian faith. The nearby area was owned by the church, while in the heart of the city, atop the highest hill, was the palace.
From the palace balcony, Lorenzo Visconte watched the horizon bruise with motion. Beyond the far fields and olive groves, faint as dust, the banners of Luxenberg shimmered—orderly, relentless. The allied green of his half-brother's army fluttered somewhere behind them, a colour he had despised for two decades. Now the sight of enemy banners was right in front of his city.
Roma's streets below were restless—vendors shuttering stalls, soldiers rushing through arches, priests whispering Zandarian blessings over crates of musket shot. The scent of oil, smoke, and citrus filled the air. From the north gate came the grind of chains as the last defences closed.
Lorenzo's hand tightened on the balcony rail. He could feel the tremor of his city—alive, defiant, terrified. Somewhere, a bell began to toll, not for prayer, but for war.
"You have really come so far, brother; it is a shame you have ventured so far south just to die beneath the walls of a city you wish to steal from me," Lorenzo grumbled as his blue hair waved in the wind, his silver eyes shining with a sinister gleam.
For Alphonse, the sight of Roma had almost brought him to tears. This was a place he had called home for most of his childhood. It was meant to be a city that he inherited from his father, a place for him to improve upon, and grow the renown of.
But those aspirations and hopes were stolen by his younger half-brother. For two decades, he had dreamed of reclaiming the city and ushering in a wave of peace to this land that had been engulfed in a long civil war. Now he was on the cusp of that dream, and with the help of Victor Luxenberg, it was doable.
By the time the sun had drowned itself behind the western hills, the plains before Roma flickered with the light of ten thousand fires. The Luxenberg engineers were first to the task—staking lines, measuring arcs of fire, and driving sharpened posts into the soft earth.
Their siege camp rose with geometric precision: trenches dug in straight, unforgiving lines; cannon emplacements mapped to the compass; tents aligned like chess pieces awaiting the first move.
Behind them sprawled the Green Visconte, a looser tide of men who pitched their shelters wherever the ground seemed kindest. Their laughter drifted over the fields, mingling with the measured hammering of Luxenberg's carpenters. Wine casks rolled open, songs erupted, and quarrels flared before being drowned again in drink. For such a tense moment, they felt joy and excitement. The war was reaching its climax.
Officers from Luxenberg watched in silence, their discipline a brittle mask against frustration. They had spent much time with the Zandarian soldiers, and yet they could not understand a word they were saying or why they remained undisciplined and cheerful.
Carts creaked in through the dark, bearing powder, cannon shot, and bundles of fascines for the siegeworks. The smell of wet soil and horse sweat clung to everything.
From his walls, Lorenzo Visconte could see it all—a living constellation of fire encircling his capital. Each spark marked a soldier, a cannon, a promise of destruction. And as the night deepened, the stars above seemed to fade before the stars below.
It took an additional two weeks for everything to be fully prepared. The city's northern, eastern and western fronts were targeted by the combined forces of the Luxenberg and Green Visconte Army.
Victor's army had 210,000 infantrymen, 30,000 cavalrymen, and 1,000 cannons. Alphonse's army consisted of 180,000 infantrymen, 28,000 cavalrymen and 800 cannons. In total, it was 390,000 infantrymen, 58,000 cavalrymen and 1,800 cannons.
The defenders only had 150,000 soldiers and 400 cannons manning the garrison. Cavalry was not needed for the garrison since they were more crucial to Count Falcone's army.
Lorenzo was aware of the clear difference in army sizes, but he had to remain optimistic. Faltering now would mean that the last two decades had been wasted. He had lived comfortably from within the Visconte Palace while his forces had pushed north and fought against the enemy.
If he tucked his tail and ran, it would prove that he was not a legitimate successor of his father and prove all the malicious claims about him being a usurper and unworthy. He knew that he would have to defend this city and repel the attackers to be truly recognised as the rightful king.
If he could succeed, then maybe many of the Green Visconte lords would see reason and switch allegiances and join his faction. Although this was wishful thinking, he had to first defend the city before worrying about that.