The palace felt smaller than it once had.
Not in stone or space, but in weight. Each report, each messenger, each sealed letter seemed to press the walls inward, tightening the air within the throne room until even silence carried strain.
Crown Prince Omar did not hide his frustration.
"They fall one after another," he said, pacing before the throne. "General Amir Kahn is dead. General Basim Quaraz is crippled and forced to retreat. Lisan is lost. And now we are told that Victor has taken Hurmuz and stands only three weeks from our gates. There is no settlement standing in his way between us."
His voice rose, sharp and unrestrained.
"Three weeks."
Across the chamber, Mahmud Pasha stood with lowered gaze, saying nothing. He had heard these words already in different forms, in quieter tones, but never with this edge.
On the throne, Sultan Mehmet remained still. His composure had not changed. "The war advances; it would seem that Emperor Luxenberg is nearly within our grasp," he said calmly.
Omar stopped, turning toward him.
"It collapses," he replied. "We are losing the east. The south is open. Most of our experienced generals are either dead or broken. And still we wait."
There was no hesitation in his tone now. "We should have struck sooner. We should have met them in the field before they reached this point. Now we must stake all our hopes on this upcoming assault."
Sultan Mehmet regarded him without anger. "And if we had met him in the field sooner?" he asked, "what would you have done differently than General Kahn?"
Omar's jaw tightened. "I would not have died in the sand."
Mahmud Pasha shifted slightly, but said nothing.
Sultan Mehmet rose. The movement was quiet, but it carried authority enough to still the room. "You speak with urgency," the Sultan said. "With anger."
He stepped down from the dais, closing the distance between them. "Good. Both have their place."
Omar held his gaze. "Then use them," he said.
Sultan Mehmet studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "Very well."
The room seemed to still further.
"You will have your command."
Omar did not move.
"The Janissaries will march under you," the Sultan continued. "You will represent our family in this soon to be grand battle. You are our final defence. Do not falter."
A flicker of something crossed Omar's expression. Not hesitation. Not quite satisfaction.
Responsibility.
"Yes, father. Do I command them alone?" he asked.
Sultan Mehmet shook his head.
"No."
He turned slightly.
From the edge of the chamber, a familiar figure stepped forward, clad in black, composed as ever.
Harrison Fontaine.
"You will share command," the Sultan said. "With him."
Omar's expression hardened immediately. "A mercenary," he said. "You would place him beside me in this moment."
Fontaine met his gaze evenly. "I have commanded in worse," he said.
"This is not some distant campaign," Omar snapped.
"No," Fontaine replied. "It is the one that matters."
Silence fell again.
Mahmud Pasha watched closely now, his concern tempered by curiosity.
Sultan Mehmet spoke before Omar could answer. "This is not a matter of pride," he said. "It is a matter of victory."
He stepped between them, his voice steady, unyielding.
"You will have the loyalty of the Janissaries. He will bring experience of a different kind. Together, you will hold what remains."
Omar said nothing for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"If this is the battle that decides everything," he said, "then I will not fail it."
Fontaine inclined his head slightly. "Nor will I."
Sultan Mehmet returned to his throne. "This will be the final contest," he said. "Victor will come. And when he does, we will be ready."
The weight in the room did not lift. But it settled.
Then the Sultan's gaze shifted once more, this time resting on Fontaine alone.
"You have seen more battlefields than most men in this room," he said. "You understand ground as much as you understand men. Tell me, what do you see before us?"
Fontaine stepped forward, his posture unchanged.
"A narrowing of choices," he said. "And a single opportunity."
Sultan Mehmet gestured for him to continue.
"There is good ground two days' ride from the capital," Fontaine said. "Dry, broken by low sand hills. Not high enough to be called ridges, but enough to conceal movement. An army can be seen there, but not all of it at once."
Omar listened now, his earlier anger quieted, replaced by focus.
"You would hide men in the dunes," he said.
Fontaine nodded slightly. "Small battalions. Positioned carefully. They would not be seen until they move."
Mahmud Pasha spoke softly. "And the infidel would advance into it."
"Yes," Fontaine said. "He will believe he faces a single line. He will commit to breaking it."
Sultan Mehmet's eyes narrowed slightly. "And then."
Fontaine met his gaze. "Then he is struck from more than one direction."
Omar stepped closer. "Three sides."
Fontaine did not smile, but there was a quiet certainty in his voice.
"If it is done correctly."
The Sultan considered this. "The terrain favours us," he said.
"It gives us a chance, especially when we are outnumbered slightly", Fontaine replied. "If we can make use of my mercenaries to flank Emperor Luxenberg, then we can encircle his army. When we encircle him, we can decimate his army, kill his sons and then finally kill him."
Silence returned once more, but it was different now. Not heavy with uncertainty, but sharpened by intent.
Sultan Mehmet gave a single nod. "Then that is where we will meet him. You will have command of the army, while Omar commands my Jannisaries. Victory will be ours, or else it will be our doom. I did not sacrifice so much to squander this chance."
Some plans were not meant to be spoken in full within walls that could still carry echoes.
Beyond the palace, beyond the city, the ground was already waiting.
And so was the battle that would decide everything.