Marcus slowly lowered the bronze spyglass. A deep crease sat between his brows. In the distance, the outline of Three-Tax Gate shimmered in the heat haze rising from the enemy campfires, like a mirage.
"Three-Tax Gate—along with every Myr and Tyroshi spice merchant and sellsword inside it—is completely surrounded," he said, voice low and without a trace of triumph. "Not even a pigeon can fly out now."
And it was true. Not a single bird could escape.
From above, the entire fortress had become one vast construction site. Trenches, low walls, and watchtowers sprouted everywhere, a hideous brown python coiled tight around Three-Tax Gate.
Inside the Volantene camps, even proud camp commanders and decorated company captains were out chopping trees, digging ditches, and building cheval-de-frise and temporary earthworks.
"The Fourth Legion is still too slow!" Marcus frowned, pointing at the single raised causeway linking their main camp to the first encirclement ring. "It's been days. The Myr and Tyroshi haven't dared stick their noses out once. They could've built the whole damn road without interference. Why only one?"
"My lord, please understand—the bulk of the Fourth Legion is still tied down at Watchfort carrying out your encirclement orders," the commander of the First Legion, the Six-Winged Heavenly Host, bowed slightly, tone respectful but practical in defense of his colleague.
"With respect, the Fourth isn't a dedicated siege legion. They've done everything humanly possible. Watchfort's outer works are entirely in our hands. We've ringed it with triple ditches, earth walls, and sharpened stakes—tighter than a drum. Honestly, not even a rat could slip through now. They're just hunkered down in the inner citadel, fighting like cornered beasts."
"As for Three-Tax Gate… please be patient. They simply don't have enough men here."
Yes—Watchfort was still holding. The proud Lysene fortress still stood tall on the plain, refusing to bow to Volantene supremacy.
Of course, the entire perimeter was now crawling with Volantenes. Triple-layered siege lines meant no news could leak out. And because the main Volantene force had pulled south to Three-Tax Gate, everyone assumed Watchfort had already fallen.
But that wasn't true. When Marcus first learned the original besiegers at Three-Tax Gate had themselves been surrounded by the Myr-Tyroshi relief force, he'd panicked like an ant on a hot pan. He'd abandoned the still-unconquered Watchfort and rushed south with the main army to break the new encirclement.
Before leaving, he'd given strict orders to the Fourth Legion commander: Make it look convincing! They don't have the strength to counter-attack anyway. Just keep the whole city sealed tight—and make sure no one realizes Watchfort hasn't actually fallen yet…
The Iron Totem legion commander (or chief contractor, take your pick) had been stumped until he hit on a brilliant idea: start repairing the outer Watchfort outposts.
So, to Lysene scouts, the outer works suddenly appeared to be under Volantene repair…
What did that mean? It meant Watchfort had already fallen! Otherwise why would the Volantenes bother fixing outer buildings?
The defenders inside Watchfort knew the main Volantene force had marched south, but they had no way to get word out. Meanwhile, the Three Daughters believed Watchfort was lost and that the real crisis was the siege at Three-Tax Gate.
"If I remember correctly…" Marcus descended the watchtower steps. "It took us ten days to clear Watchfort's outer outposts. Another ten to encircle the fortress and take the outer city. Ten more to destroy their river-crossing forts. How many days have we been hammering the inner citadel now? Haven't they run out of food yet?"
"Why are they still casting a shadow over our banners and our victory? Is the Fourth Legion carving sculptures with their shovels? Thirty-eight catapults pounding day and night—how have they not opened a single decent breach?"
"My lord, Watchfort is the pride of Lys. They call it unbreakable…"
"Bullshit!" Marcus rarely swore, but this time he did. "Commander, after all these years of war, don't you understand? The truly unbreakable defense is always a mobile field army and endless supplies! Destroying an enemy legion is worth ten times more than taking their city!"
"This only proves one thing: our legions have sunk to a level that's hard to imagine! Remember—Volantis's strength lies in swords and shields, picks and shovels, not…" He flicked his whip contemptuously toward the distant camp of the Third Legion, the Crownless Princes.
"…so-called bloodlines and nobility. Hah. What use is that? Unless one day they can ride dragons with their precious blood."
The First Legion commander swallowed whatever he'd been about to say.
The soldiers of the Crownless Princes refused to send their own slave warriors and auxiliaries to dig trenches, build causeways, or construct camps. Instead they bypassed Marcus and directly ordered auxiliaries from the Fourth and other legions to build their personal tents and tournament grounds.
Marcus hated that kind of "special treatment" and overreach.
In his eyes, a good legion was uniform, disciplined, and never stepped out of line—not like the Crownless Princes, a "star legion" equally famous for causing trouble and for military skill.
"My lord, letting the men watch the young lords' tournaments and lance charges isn't a bad thing," the Six-Winged commander offered. "Siege work is dull… everyone gets bored."
"Dull?" Marcus gave a cold snort. "See? You've caught that same flashy, un-Volantene habit! This earthwork building…" He gazed down at the perfectly laid-out siege lines exactly as drawn on his own blueprints.
"…is a beautiful thing!"
[My lord, only someone who started as an architect would think digging ditches is beautiful,] the First Legion commander thought, but of course kept his mouth shut. In Volantis, criticizing a superior was considered stepping out of bounds.
---
Jules Mord crushed the gold-edged parchment into a tight ball. The muscles in his face tightened with rage. Without looking, he hurled it into the fireplace. The flames swallowed the Lysene Governor's Council's elegant but absurd orders with a soft crackle, as if mocking their arrogance.
"Active offensive?! Reclaim every crossing and outpost on the west bank, then rush east to relieve the allied legions?!" Jules's voice rumbled like contained thunder inside the low stone room. His tanned face flushed crimson. "Who the hell do those Lysene lords sitting on their gilded chamber pots think I am?! The avatar of the Lord of Light? One of the Seven fucking Warriors come down from heaven?! We win one lucky skirmish and suddenly they forget their own names?!"
He spun around and slammed a callused palm on the rough wooden table so hard the map markers jumped. "Open your damn eyes! What did we actually kill? A nobleman's private retinue! Shrimp and crabs! And now?" He spread his fingers, then clenched them into a fist.
"I can barely scrape together five thousand men fit to fight! Tiberius's Lightning Company—three hundred-odd—are now proper troops. My own White Company? One hundred twenty core heavy cavalry as the foundation, three hundred Westerosi knights and hedge knights as the backbone, two thousand five hundred veteran sellswords, and another eighteen hundred auxiliaries we just managed to fill out. That's our entire fucking household! Take this handful against Volantis? Might as well smash eggs against rocks!"
The angrier he got, the more he pointed toward the door as if he could see the men issuing orders from distant Lys. "And them? That pig Mitridas already fed tens of thousands into the grinder. Now they're pushing us to do the same! To die! To relieve the siege! To play fucking firefighters! These governors and that Myr bastard Mitridas are exactly the same—burn through one batch, then demand the next! To them soldiers are just numbers! They never learned the value of living strength! Gold, land, and luxury goods can't buy you a ready-to-fight legion when you need one!"
In Jules's eyes, after the earlier catastrophic losses and before new mercenary hires arrived in force, the only sane strategy for the next six months was to defend the Flank Corridor, avoid decisive battle, and preserve manpower—not throw eggs at rocks.
Relieving Three-Tax Gate wasn't impossible, but the Three Daughters would need to commit at least ten thousand men—and even then only by completely abandoning the fortress and focusing solely on extracting the trapped ten-thousand-strong relief force.
Lysandro Rogare stood nearby, looking uncomfortable. As the governor's son he instinctively wanted to defend Lys, but the words died in his throat.
He cleared his throat, voice low. "Cough… Uncle Jules… they're just anxious. The losses have been too heavy… they can't afford to lose face…"
Tiberius gave a cold laugh from the side. He stepped to the map and tapped the western Rhaesh region, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Our 'hundred-battles-hundred-defeats' Myr friend Mitridas didn't sit idle after gambling away the kingdom's reserves on the east bank!"
"These past few days he launched another 'heroic' attempt to relieve Three-Tax Gate…" Tiberius shrugged. "…and our old friend Marcus simply surrounded him too. Now the entire Three Daughters is desperately trying to drag those ten thousand men out of that cursed cage."
His finger slid across the map to the Lysene colonial zones in the Disputed Lands. A strange expression crossed his face—half wanting to laugh, half forcing it down. "The real reason Lys is panicking right now—besides face—is this: our dear allies Myr and Tyrosh want us to implement a 'scorched-earth policy,' 'defensive counter-attack,' and 'interior-line operations.'"
"In plain speech: voluntarily abandon hard-to-defend areas, pull back forces, and consolidate the core lines. Purely from a military standpoint, it's actually brilliant. It would slow Volantis's advance dramatically."
"But here's the problem…" Tiberius finally let the sneer break through. "…in this 'grand' blueprint, the territories our allies plan to sacrifice include more than seventy percent of Lys's colonies and estates in the Disputed Lands! Lys proper is overseas, which suddenly becomes… an 'advantage'?" His tone turned mocking. "After all, the other lords and governors of Tyrosh and Myr can righteously declare: 'It hasn't burned our homes! For final victory, Lys should make this great sacrifice!' 'Glory to Lys!'"
"But Lys can't abandon them…" Lysandro ground his teeth, eyes blazing with disbelief and fury at their "allies."
"If we lose those colonies, what is Lys? Our spice fleets need that timber. Our plantations, mines, workshops, and colonies! Without them we can't even maintain a second-rate navy!"
"And…" He glanced at the map, then at the Tyroshi and Myr city-states. "…if we really abandon the colonies, we won't just be facing Volantis anymore. We'll be facing our 'allies'' warm hospitality too!"