What had been a tense balance, stretched between pressure and counterstroke, started to give way under the weight of one decision made too soon. The early advance of the Janissaries had steadied the Sultan's centre, but it had also revealed it, fixing it in place at the very moment it needed to remain fluid.
Victor saw it clearly.
"There," he said, his voice low but certain.
Anton followed his gaze. "They've committed everything to the centre."
Henri leaned forward. "And the flanks?"
"They are no longer hidden," Victor replied. "They are no longer decisive."
He turned.
"Commit the Guard."
Behind the Luxenberg line, where discipline had been held in reserve rather than spent, the Royal Guard Cavalry under Marshal Bessières began to move.
They did not rush.
They gathered.
Ranks aligned with immaculate precision, sabres catching what light cut through the smoke, horses stamping in controlled impatience. Then, at a single command, they advanced, their formation tightening as they built momentum.
Bessières rode at their head, calm and composed.
"Forward," he said.
The Guard surged.
At the centre, Field Marshal Wellesley felt the shift before he saw it.
The Janissaries had driven forward with strength, their volleys disciplined, their presence forcing his line to slow, to absorb rather than advance. But now, behind him, he heard something different.
A deeper rhythm.
He did not turn.
He simply nodded once.
"Hold them," he said. "Just a moment longer."
Beside him, General Rapp wiped powder from his sleeve and gave a sharp command.
"Advance by line! Press them!"
His infantry surged again, meeting the Janissaries head-on, locking them into a close, brutal engagement. Muskets fired at near point-blank range. Bayonets drove forward. The air filled with shouted orders and the clash of steel.
The Janissaries did not break. But they could not disengage.
And then the Guard struck.
They did not hit the centre directly.
They pierced it.
Bessières led them through a seam that had opened between units forced too tightly together by the premature advance. The Guard cavalry drove forward with devastating force, their charge cutting deep into the formation before the defenders could properly react.
"Into them!" Bessières called.
The impact shattered cohesion.
Janissary formations that had been steady moments before were forced to turn, to respond, to divide their attention between the infantry pressing from the front and the cavalry now tearing into their depth.
"They are breaking!" Henri shouted, unable to contain himself.
Victor did not answer immediately. He watched. "They are bending," he said. "Now we break them."
"Commit reserves," he ordered.
Across the field, fresh Luxenberg units moved forward, reinforcing success wherever it appeared. The weight of numbers, long held back, now poured into the fight.
On the right, Marshal Davout advanced with renewed force, his corps pressing harder as the enemy centre began to falter.
"They give way," one of his officers said.
"Then we do not stop," Davout replied.
On the left, Field Marshal Kutusov saw the same shift. "The moment has come," he said quietly.
He ordered a measured advance, his previously defensive line now moving forward, adding pressure where Fontaine's mercenaries had hoped to hold.
"They cannot complete it now," his aide said.
"No," Kutusov replied. "Now they must survive."
At the heart of it all, the Janissaries fought with unwavering discipline.
Crown Prince Omar rode among them, his presence driving them forward even as the situation deteriorated. He saw the Guard cavalry break through. He saw the lines around him begin to fragment.
"Hold!" he shouted. "Hold the line!"
The Janissaries responded, forming tighter ranks, attempting to contain the breach, to restore order in the face of sudden collapse.
But the pressure was too great.
From the front, Wellesley and Rapp pressed harder. From within, the Guard carved through their formations. And from the flanks, the wider Luxenberg advance began to close in.
"They are everywhere," one of Omar's officers said.
Omar's expression hardened. "Then we stand everywhere," he replied.
It was not enough.
The first break came not as a retreat, but as a failure to hold alignment. A unit shifted too far. Another failed to fill the gap. The cohesion that had defined the Janissaries began to unravel under the strain.
Bessières saw it. "Drive them!" he commanded.
The Guard cavalry surged again, exploiting the widening gaps, turning disruption into collapse.
Omar tried to rally them. "Forward!" he shouted, turning his mount toward the thickest fighting.
His presence drew men to him, the Janissaries forming around their prince even as the line faltered elsewhere.
For a moment, it seemed they might hold. Then the Luxenberg infantry reached them.
Rapp's soldiers, advancing relentlessly, closed the distance and crashed into the Janissary formation. Bayonets met resistance, then pushed through.
Omar fought to maintain control, shouting orders, urging his men to stand.
But the tide had already turned.
It happened quickly. Too quickly.
In the crush of men, where formations had dissolved into close combat, Omar's mount reared as the line buckled around him. Soldiers pressed in from all sides, the chaos of battle swallowing distinction.
"Protect the Prince!" someone shouted.
The Janissaries closed around him, forming a desperate ring, their discipline holding even as everything else gave way.
But the pressure was overwhelming.
Luxenberg soldiers surged forward, their momentum unstoppable now. Bayonets thrust through the gaps, finding targets in the tightly packed formation.
Omar felt the first strike as a shock more than pain.
Then another.
And another.
He tried to steady himself, to remain upright in the saddle, but his grip weakened as blood began to spread across his uniform.
"Back," one of his guards urged. "We must pull back!"
Omar nodded, barely.
They turned his mount, forcing a path through the chaos, the remaining Janissaries fighting fiercely to keep the enemy at bay.
They managed it. For a moment.
They broke free of the immediate crush, retreating from the collapsing centre, carrying their prince with them.
But it was too late.
Omar swayed in the saddle, his strength fading rapidly.
"We are clear," one of his guards said, though the battle still raged behind them.
Omar did not respond. His grip loosened.
Then he slipped from the saddle.
They caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him carefully, desperately.
"Your Highness," one of them said.
Omar's eyes were unfocused now, his breath shallow.
The noise of battle seemed distant. For a brief moment, he looked back toward the field.
Then he said nothing more.
The Janissaries fought on.
But without their prince, without the cohesion that had defined them, their resistance became fragmented. Units held where they could, but the larger structure was gone.
They began to fall back.
On the flanks, Harrison Fontaine saw the centre collapse.
His mercenaries had advanced well, had executed their role with precision up to the moment it mattered most. But now the battlefield had shifted beyond recovery.
"The centre is breaking," one of his officers said.
Fontaine nodded.
"We are too late."
Luxenberg reinforcements were already moving to meet them, fresh troops entering the fight with momentum and numbers that could not be matched.
"Withdraw in order," Fontaine said. "We cannot hold this."
They tried.
His mercenaries began to pull back, maintaining discipline as long as possible, but the pressure grew rapidly. Kutusov's advance pressed from one side. Additional Luxenberg units closed from the centre.
"They are cutting us off," another officer warned.
Fontaine looked once more toward the field. The plan had been sound. The execution had been precise. But the timing… He did not finish the thought.
"Fall back," he repeated.
It became a rout. Not immediate. Not chaotic at first. But inevitable.
The mercenaries, pressed from multiple directions, began to lose cohesion as retreat turned into survival. Units broke apart. Officers struggled to maintain order as the Luxenberg forces closed in.
Fontaine remained at the rear, directing what he could. Then the line gave way completely. He was taken as the remnants collapsed.
Surrounded, his remaining guard cut down or scattered, Fontaine found himself facing advancing soldiers with no path left open.
He did not resist. He lowered his weapon.
The battle had ended for him.
Across the field, the Sultan's army broke.
The centre had collapsed. The flanks could not hold. What had been a carefully constructed trap became a battlefield of retreat.
Victor watched it unfold.
"It is done," Anton said.
Victor nodded slowly. "Yes," he said.
Henri looked out across the field, the scale of the victory settling in. "They are finished."
Victor did not answer immediately. His gaze moved across the shattered lines, the broken formations, the cost written across the ground. Then he spoke.
"The battle is finished," he said. "The war is not yet."