The Pendralis forces had secured the beach, and within thirty minutes, over five thousand troops had landed, bringing with them artillery, supplies, and siege equipment. Their organization was flawless—each soldier knew his role, each officer had studied the fortress blueprints, and every street, gate, and defensive chokepoint had been mapped long before they even set foot on Aragonese soil. There would be no chaos, no disorderly charges—this battle had already been won in planning. Now, all that remained was execution.
Inside the crumbling fortress, Alfonso Martinez, the highest-ranking noble still alive, took command of the remnants of the Aragonese defenders. The walls had been shattered, the cavalry annihilated, and morale was collapsing like the stone around them. Smoke still rose from the ruined battlements, carrying the scent of blood, gunpowder, and death.
