The first shot did not echo alone. It tore the stillness open and was immediately answered.
A single Luxenberg cannon spoke, its report rolling across the plain toward the walls of Turkistan. For the briefest moment after, there was a gap, as though the world itself had paused to register the beginning. Then the line erupted.
Fifteen hundred guns did not fire as one voice. They layered. They overlapped. They surged into a continuous thunder that swallowed distance and thought alike. The air itself seemed to thicken under the force of it, every discharge adding to a growing weight that pressed against the city.
Turkistan answered.
From the walls, from towers and bastions carefully prepared for this moment, the defenders' cannons returned fire. Five hundred guns spoke in reply, fewer in number but not silent, their reports sharp and defiant against the greater storm bearing down upon them.
Stone walls trembled under impact. Dust rose in thick clouds where shot struck and shattered against the outer defences. Some rounds found their mark more cleanly, biting into weakened sections, sending fragments outward in violent sprays.
Selim Furuq stood along the central wall, his presence a fixed point amid the chaos.
"Keep them firing," he called, his voice cutting through the noise as best it could. "Do not answer every shot. Aim. Fire with purpose."
Around him, artillery crews struggled to maintain rhythm. Powder was brought forward in hurried steps. Wounded men were pulled back, replaced by others less certain, less steady.
"They are too many," one gunner muttered, flinching as another Luxenberg round struck nearby, the impact shaking the platform beneath him.
Selim stepped closer. "They are guns," he said. "Not fate. You answer them the same way you answer any gun."
The man nodded, though his hands still trembled as he reached for the next charge.
Beyond the walls, Victor watched the effect of his artillery unfold.
"Maintain intervals," he ordered. "Do not waste fire."
Officers relayed the command, ensuring that the barrage did not descend into chaos. Even at this scale, discipline mattered. Guns were rotated, crews kept to a rhythm that sustained pressure without exhausting their supply too quickly.
Anton stood beside him, eyes fixed on the city. "They are firing back harder than I expected," he said.
Victor gave a small nod. "They have no choice but to," he replied.
Henri shielded his eyes briefly, watching as another section of wall was struck. "It will not matter," he said.
"No," Victor said. "But it will cost us time."
The exchange intensified.
Luxenberg guns found their range with increasing precision. Sections of the wall that had initially held firm began to show signs of strain. Chips became cracks. Cracks widened under repeated impact. Dust no longer rose in small bursts but in rolling clouds as the structure absorbed blow after blow.
Inside the city, the effect was felt everywhere.
Buildings near the walls shuddered with each strike. Civilians who had not fled crowded into whatever shelter they could find, the noise of the bombardment turning the air into something oppressive and inescapable.
Selim moved along the line, refusing to remain in one place for long. "Rotate the crews," he ordered at one battery. "No one stays on a gun too long."
At another, he seized a linstock from a shaken soldier and fired the cannon himself, the recoil driving the point home more effectively than any words.
"They are not invincible," he said, handing it back. "You see. They bleed as we do."
The soldier nodded, steadier now.
But the disparity could not be ignored.
For every shot the defenders fired, three came in return.
Luxenberg artillery stretched across multiple fronts, encircling the city in a tightening arc of fire. There was no single direction of attack. No safe wall. No quiet sector where men could gather themselves and breathe.
"They strike everywhere," Mahmud Pasha said, observing from a position slightly behind the line.
Selim did not look at him. "That is the point," he replied.
Another impact struck nearby, sending a tremor through the ground beneath their feet.
Mahmud steadied himself. "How long can this hold?"
Selim paused, just briefly. "Long enough," he said.
Mahmud did not press him further.
On the Luxenberg side, the artillery crews settled into their work.
The initial violence of the opening barrage gave way to sustained, controlled destruction. Guns fired, recoiled, were swabbed, reloaded, and fired again in practised sequence. Officers moved among them, correcting aim, adjusting elevation, ensuring that every shot contributed to the broader objective.
General Bertrand, overseeing the siege, observed the pattern with a critical eye.
"Shift fire slightly to the east," he said to an aide. "They reinforce the western wall more heavily. Test the weaker sections."
The order passed quickly.
Moments later, the focus of several batteries shifted, their fire converging on a new stretch of wall. The effect was immediate. Where before the defenders had distributed their efforts, now they were forced to react, to move men and resources under fire.
Selim saw the change.
"They adjust," he said.
He turned to an officer nearby.
"Reinforce the eastern section. Move two batteries if you can."
"If we move them, the west…"
"The west will hold," Selim said firmly. "The east will not if we leave it."
The officer hesitated only a moment before nodding and moving to carry out the order. Fear crept in despite every effort to contain it.
Militiamen flinched at each impact, their inexperience laid bare under the relentless bombardment. Some hesitated before loading. Others rushed, making mistakes that had to be corrected by veterans standing beside them.
Selim saw it all. He did not rebuke them harshly.
"Look at me," he said to a group of young soldiers crouched behind a parapet.
They did, reluctantly.
"You are still here," he said. "The wall still stands. The gun still fires. That is all that matters now."
One of them swallowed hard. "They will break through."
"Yes," Selim said.
The honesty struck harder than any reassurance.
"But not before we make them pay for every stone."
The young man nodded, something steadier returning to his expression.
The hours stretched. The bombardment did not relent.
Smoke gathered over the battlefield, blurring the line between the armies, turning the world into a shifting haze of noise and motion. The sun climbed, then began to fall, its light filtered through the dust and powder that filled the air.
Sections of the wall now showed clear damage. Stones dislodged. Outer layers fractured. Not yet breached, but weakened.
Victor saw it.
"They begin to give," Anton said.
"Yes," Victor replied. He did not sound satisfied. Only attentive.
As the light began to fade, the tempo of the artillery did not slow. If anything, it sharpened.
Orders passed down the line, subtle but deliberate. Preparation for the next phase. Selim sensed it as well.
"They are changing something," Mahmud said.
"Yes," Selim replied.
He looked out across the field, through the haze, toward the distant line of enemy artillery.
"They have not yet used everything."
On the Luxenberg line, crews moved toward a different set of weapons.
Frames were adjusted. Angles fixed. The long-awaited moment approached.
Victor watched in silence. Then he gave a single nod.
Along the line, thirty-five rocket frames were readied. Fuses set. Angles aligned. The men assigned to them stood back, awaiting the signal.
The cannons continued their thunder, but now something else was prepared to join it.
Something unfamiliar. Something meant not just to destroy, but to unsettle.
The order came. And the first rockets ignited.