The defeat at Yevpatoria did not break the Allies' resolve; it hardened it.
By mid-September, British and French admirals had agreed that another attempt must be made, but this time far from the well-prepared defenses of the northern coast.
The south offered safer harbors, and more importantly, proximity to Sevastopol—the beating heart of Russian resistance.
The British chose Balaclava as their entry point, while the French prepared to seize Kamiesch.
It was a bold gamble, meant to split Russian attention and drive wedges into the peninsula.
But the Iron Hand, though diminished from their triumph at Yevpatoria, was once more sent forward to meet the enemy.
The regiment was ordered to divide, making their small contingent feel even smaller as just over a thousand riflemen marched to each location.
Half marched westward to Balaclava, tasked with confronting the British marines and Highland regiments rumored to be among them.
The other half moved eastward toward Kamiesch, where the French Zouaves and line infantry would disembark.
It was a dangerous dispersal, yet Elias deemed it nessessary, to allow either landings would be tragic, so rather than prevent one while allowing the other, he'd allow both but delay them as much as possible by making both bleed for every inch.
The Iron Hand had earned a reputation: their presence on any beach meant resistance would be stiff, even if hopeless.
When the British fleet appeared off Balaclava, its black hulls and soaring masts struck awe and dread alike into those who watched from the cliffs.
The defenders had prepared hasty redoubts, dragging what artillery they could muster into place and digging shallow trenches.
Yet they knew full well that the British, with their superior naval gunnery, would scour such works from the earth the moment the attack began.
And so it was.
Before dawn, a cannonade thundered across the bay, and Russian fortifications splintered under the weight of broadsides.
Earth and men alike were torn apart as the air filled with a choking haze.
Still, when the landing craft pushed forward, the Iron Hand rose from the smoke.
Musket fire cracked along the shore, dropping the first rows of British marines as they leapt out of the surf.
The clash was brutal, chaotic.
Russian bayonets met British cutlasses in the shallows, where water and blood mixed into froth.
But the British pressed relentlessly, their discipline unshaken, their numbers overwhelming.
Slowly, yard by yard, they clawed their way up the beach.
At Kamiesch, the story was much the same.
The French bombardment was merciless, tearing through any semblance of Russian earthworks.
The Iron Hand's eastern detachment fought with the same grim determination, pouring volley after volley into the ranks of Zouaves as they struggled ashore.
For a time, it seemed the beach might be held—the French dead lay thick, and officers shouted themselves hoarse to keep their men advancing.
But as more boats landed, the balance tipped.
By sheer force of numbers, the tricolor was planted on the sand, and French troops began to surge inland, just enough to outpace the surf, and begin entrenching themselves to secure places for further landers to join them.
By the close of September, both Balaclava and Kamiesch had fallen to the Allies.
The Iron Hand had made them bleed dearly in the fighting, but even still they had suffered losses of their own, with bodies vanishing into nothingness after being 'buried' by their allies.
They had slowed the enemy landings, inflicted grievous losses, but could not stop them outright.
The Allies had their ports, and with them, the means to supply entire armies.
October brought a grim transformation.
Where once had been rocky coasts and fishing villages, now rose sprawling camps of canvas and timber.
British redoubts and French entrenchments began to snake outward, the sound of picks and shovels filling the air as much as drums and bugles.
Hundreds of artillery pieces were dragged ashore, their iron mouths soon to be turned upon Sevastopol.
Wagon trains of powder and shot creaked inland, guarded by long columns of soldiers whose bright uniforms were dulled by dust.
And yet, for all their success, the Allies stumbled at the threshold of their greatest objective.
Cooperation between the British and French proved elusive.
Each sought to secure their own landing zones, their own supply lines, their own glory.
Plans for a combined offensive against Sevastopol faltered in endless councils of war.
Days stretched into weeks, and the guns that might have been pounding Russian fortifications instead sat idle, waiting for commanders to settle their rivalries.
This hesitation was a gift to the defenders.
From Sevastopol, Russian engineers worked night and day, strengthening bastions, digging deeper lines, and mounting new batteries.
Every delay granted them another chance to harden the city against the storm that was surely coming.
And while the Allies hesitated, the Iron Hand harassed them.
Operating in small bands, the regiment struck at wagon trains, ambushed scouting parties, and cut down sentries in the dead of night.
Their reputation grew with each raid, until nervous whispers spread through Allied camps of the "ghost regiment" that prowled beyond the lines.
Even when not striking, their presence was felt; every patrol set out with nerves stretched taut, every convoy feared the crack of muskets from unseen heights.
For the Iron Hand, these raids were more than tactics—they were strategy.
Elias's goal was to elevate the numbers, cause the war to escalate, lowering the participating empires overall power by bleeding them dry, while his own powerbase in Montengro was growing, all the looted spoils from Romania had returned, and with them Elias had expanded his mining operations, while further expanding upon both of his bases.
By late October, the stalemate was set.
The Allies controlled their ports and could funnel men and supplies ashore at will.
But Sevastopol had not fallen, and the price of taking it was growing steeper with every passing day.
The siege was inevitable now, both sides knew it.
The question was not if, but when the storm would break.
And so the Iron Hand, scarred and diminished but unbroken, prepared once more.
Their role was no longer to hurl invaders back into the sea, but to bleed them on land—to make every step toward Sevastopol cost so dearly that even victory might taste of ash.