The wearied skyline told the story of resilience against the relentless siege. Four months had passed, and Milan stood as a testament to endurance in the face of a war of attrition, a prolonged struggle that unfolded without the thunderous assault that often marked medieval conflicts.
The city's once-vibrant streets now bore the scars of the siege—cobblestones worn by the incessant tread of defenders, buildings marked by the impact of arrows and the battering rams of the besieging forces, that tried their luck with an assault at the first weeks of the siege. Smoke lingered in the air, a testament to the fires set in desperate attempts to repel the encroaching enemy.
The siege had become a protracted contest of wills, a waiting game that tested the resolve of both defenders and assailants. The surrounding fields, once fertile, now lay barren, trampled by the constant movement of troops and the scorched earth tactics employed to deny the enemy resources.
