The first shot did not come from the Sultan's lines. It came from Victor's.
A single cannon roared from the centre, its report echoing across the open sands like a signal more than an attack. For a brief moment after, there was silence, as if both armies acknowledged the beginning of something that could not be undone.
Then the world broke apart.
Across the Luxenberg line, over a thousand guns answered at once. The ground trembled beneath the sheer weight of their firepower, the air filling instantly with smoke and thunder as 1,300 cannons unleashed their opening volleys. Shot screamed across the distance, tearing into the Sultan's forward positions, striking sand, men, and artillery alike.
On the opposing line, the response came quickly.
700 cannons roared in return.
Their fire was fierce, disciplined, and well placed, but the difference in scale was undeniable. Where the Sultan's guns spoke in powerful bursts, the Luxenberg artillery rolled forward in an unbroken wave of destruction.
Victor did not move as the first volleys landed. "Begin the ranging," he said calmly.
At the centre, Field Marshal Wellesley oversaw the opening exchange with quiet focus.
"Adjust elevation," he ordered. "They sit lower than expected."
His artillery officers relayed the command, crews working with practised efficiency as they recalibrated and fired again. The second wave struck with greater accuracy, smashing into the Sultan's forward batteries, splintering gun carriages and scattering crews.
"Better," Wellesley murmured.
On the right, Marshal Davout watched the effect of the opening barrage with a cold eye.
"Maintain cadence," he said. "No waste. Every shot must count."
His guns fired in steady rhythm, not as a single overwhelming blast, but as a relentless, controlled hammering that kept constant pressure on the enemy line. Each volley walked forward, probing, testing, breaking apart any attempt at stability.
"They answer well," one of his officers noted.
"They answer," Davout replied. "But they cannot match us."
To the left, Field Marshal Kutusov observed in silence for a time before speaking.
"They aim for the guns first," he said.
His aide nodded. "As expected."
Kutusov gave a faint, thoughtful look toward the distant dunes. "As expected," he repeated.
"Shift some batteries back," he ordered. "Do not give them all they want."
At the centre of the Luxenberg line, the artillery reached its full fury.
Volley after volley crashed forward, the sound becoming continuous, the distinction between individual shots lost in the rolling thunder. Smoke thickened, drifting low across the field, partially obscuring the enemy lines even as the destruction continued.
Victor watched through it all.
"They are holding," Henri said, his voice raised slightly over the noise.
"For now," Victor replied.
Anton narrowed his eyes, studying the distant impacts. "They place their guns well," he said. "They are not breaking as quickly as the others did."
Victor gave a small nod. "No," he said. "This is where they intend to stand."
Another wave of fire rolled outward.
The effect was visible even through the haze. Sections of the Sultan's line faltered, artillery positions collapsing under repeated strikes, crews forced to abandon guns that could no longer be served.
"They lose ground," Henri said.
"Yes," Victor answered.
But his gaze did not shift.
Across the field, the Sultan's guns fought back with determination.
Their fire, though outmatched in number, was not without effect. Luxenberg batteries took hits, guns overturned, and crews cut down where they stood. The open terrain offered little protection, and even the superiority in numbers could not eliminate the cost.
Near the centre, a cannon exploded under direct impact, sending fragments and men into the air. The crew of the next gun over hesitated for only a moment before continuing their work.
"Keep firing!" an officer shouted. "Do not stop!"
They did not.
Minutes blurred into something longer, marked only by the rhythm of fire and the growing destruction between the lines. The ground itself began to change, churned by impact, littered with debris, bodies, and broken equipment.
Still, the balance remained clear. The Luxenberg guns were winning.
"They cannot sustain this," Anton said, his confidence growing.
"No," Victor replied again. "They cannot."
Henri shifted slightly in his saddle. "Then why do they remain?" he asked.
Victor did not answer immediately. His eyes moved, not across the main line, but beyond it. To the dunes.
There was nothing obvious there.
Just the same broken terrain, the same low rises of sand that stretched along the flanks. No movement. No banners. No sign of anything beyond the natural shape of the land.
And yet…
"They are too composed," Victor said quietly.
Anton glanced at him. "Father?"
Victor gestured slightly toward the enemy line. "They stand under this fire," he said. "They lose guns, men, ground, and yet they do not shift. They do not withdraw. They do not attempt to close the distance."
Henri frowned. "They have no choice," he said.
"Everyone has a choice," Victor replied.
Another volley roared. The Sultan's line shuddered again, sections visibly breaking apart under the relentless bombardment.
"They are losing," Anton said.
"Yes," Victor said. His gaze remained fixed. "But they are not reacting."
On the right flank, Davout's artillery began to push its advantage further.
"Advance the batteries," he ordered.
Guns were moved forward incrementally, brought closer to increase their effectiveness. It was a calculated risk, exposing them to greater counterfire, but one that promised decisive results.
"They will break soon," one of his officers said.
Davout did not respond. He was watching something else. The dunes.
On the left, Kutusov had already seen it. "Hold the line," he said quietly to his aide. "Do not pursue too quickly."
The aide looked puzzled. "They are weakening."
"Yes," Kutusov replied. "Which is when men become dangerous."
At the centre, Wellesley remained focused on the immediate task.
"Keep the fire steady," he said. "Do not let them recover."
His guns continued their work, precise, methodical, devastating.
Victor lowered his glass. "There is something more here," he said.
Anton frowned. "You think they are hiding reserves?"
"I think they are waiting," Victor said.
Henri looked again toward the dunes, his expression uncertain. "There is nothing there."
Victor said nothing.
The bombardment reached its height.
The Luxenberg army unleashed its full strength, every available gun brought to bear, the sheer volume of fire overwhelming in its scale. The Sultan's artillery began to falter, fewer guns answering, their rhythm breaking under the sustained assault.
"They collapse," Anton said.
Victor watched.
"Yes," he said.
But his voice held no satisfaction.
Across the sands, beyond the shattered front line, behind the low, rolling dunes on either flank, twenty thousand mercenary soldiers remained unseen, with a special trick to take the Luxenberg Army by surprise.
They waited in silence.
And the guns continued to roar.