The battle did not unfold cleanly.
What had begun as a measured advance dissolved into motion, noise, and sudden violence spreading across the field in uneven bursts. Smoke hung low, broken by flashes of musket fire and the sharper glare of artillery still firing where it could. Lines that had been straight now bent, adjusted, and reformed under pressure from every direction.
At the forefront of the chaos rode General Lasalle.
Where others hesitated at the shifting nature of the fight, Lasalle leaned into it.
"Forward!" he shouted, his sabre raised as his cavalry surged again into motion.
The earlier clash had not broken them. It had hardened them. His riders reformed with remarkable speed, pulling out of the swirling melee just long enough to gather momentum before plunging back into it. They did not charge blindly now. They struck with intent.
Ahead, the Sultan's cavalry attempted to maintain cohesion, forming defensive knots to absorb the repeated attacks. Lasalle saw it immediately. "They bunch!" he called. "Break them apart!"
He wheeled his horse sharply, leading a wedge directly into the edge of one such formation. The impact shattered its outer ranks, sending riders spilling outward into the open where they became vulnerable.
"Now!" he roared.
His men followed through, cutting into the disordered mass with precision, sabres rising and falling in quick succession. The enemy cavalry resisted fiercely, but the initiative had shifted. What had been a stalemate became a series of local victories, each one small, each one building.
From the rise, Victor watched closely.
"He's turning them," Anton said, unable to hide a note of admiration.
"Yes," Victor replied. "Lasalle understands movement."
Henri leaned forward. "If he breaks their cavalry, the flank opens."
Victor's gaze remained fixed.
"If," he said.
The pressure on the flanks did not ease.
From behind the dunes, Harrison Fontaine's mercenaries continued their advance, disciplined and steady despite the chaos unfolding around them. Their initial strike had done its work. Now they pressed inward, seeking to tighten the grip, to complete the encirclement that had been so carefully prepared.
"Keep the spacing," Fontaine ordered. "Do not rush them."
His officers relayed the command. The mercenaries moved like a tightening line rather than a charging force, their muskets firing in controlled volleys, their advance measured.
"They are adjusting faster than expected," one officer said, watching the Luxenberg response.
"They always do," Fontaine replied.
He glanced toward the centre, where the main engagement thickened.
"Which is why timing matters."
At the heart of the field, Field Marshal Wellesley felt the weight of that timing.
The advance had not broken the Sultan's line as quickly as anticipated. Instead, it had drawn his corps into a grinding engagement, one that now required reinforcement.
"Bring up the reserves," he said.
Units from supporting corps began to move forward, filling gaps, strengthening the line where the pressure had intensified. Among them came elements of 1st Corps under General Rapp, their arrival steadying the centre.
Rapp rode at their head, his presence immediate and direct.
"Into line!" he called as his men deployed. "Support the advance!"
They moved without hesitation, forming alongside Wellesley's troops and adding fresh strength to the engagement. Their volleys came sharp and disciplined, striking into the Sultan's forward positions and pushing them back step by step.
Wellesley nodded slightly as he saw them arrive. "Good timing," he said.
Rapp inclined his head briefly. "We are not done yet."
To the left, Field Marshal Kutusov held firm.
His earlier caution now proved its worth. Where the battle had grown chaotic elsewhere, his line remained intact, its depth and structure absorbing the pressure of Fontaine's advancing flank.
"They test us," an aide said.
Kutusov watched as mercenary units edged closer, probing for weakness.
"They look for movement," he replied. "We give them none."
His men fired in controlled volleys, their discipline preventing the kind of disorder that had begun to affect other parts of the line. Where necessary, reserves stepped forward, reinforcing without disrupting the formation.
"Hold here," Kutusov said. "Let them come further."
There was no urgency in his tone. Only patience.
On the right, Davout's line remained as rigid as ever.
"Maintain pressure," he ordered, his corps continuing to push forward even as the battle shifted around them.
They did not yield ground. They did not overextend. They advanced with relentless consistency, forcing the opposing line to give way inch by inch.
"They are faltering here," an officer reported.
Davout nodded. "Then we continue."
Amid all of it, the battle reached a fevered intensity.
Musket fire cracked in near constant succession. Cavalry clashed and broke apart, only to reform and collide again. Artillery, though less dominant now, still found targets where it could, adding its voice to the chaos.
It was within this moment that the balance began to shift.
Behind the Sultan's main line, Crown Prince Omar watched the engagement unfold.
He saw the pressure building. He saw the Luxenberg centre reinforced. He saw Lasalle's cavalry gaining ground.
"They push harder than expected," one of his officers said.
Omar's jaw tightened. "They will break through," he said.
"Not yet," the officer replied. "Fontaine's forces are still closing. We must wait."
Omar did not respond immediately. His gaze fixed on the centre, where Wellesley and Rapp now pressed forward with renewed strength.
"They will not wait," he said.
The officer hesitated. "The plan…"
"The plan fails if they break us first," Omar snapped.
He turned sharply. "Janissaries forward."
The order spread quickly.
Behind the line, the silent, disciplined ranks of the Janissaries stirred for the first time.
They had been held in reserve, positioned to strike at the decisive moment, to complete the encirclement once Fontaine's forces had fully closed the trap.
That moment had not yet come. But now they moved.
Fontaine saw it immediately.
From his position along the flank, he caught the shift behind the Sultan's line, the sudden movement of troops that had not yet been committed.
"What is he doing?" one of his officers said, alarmed.
Fontaine's expression hardened.
"It seems the crown prince is too eager. He moves too early," he said.
The Janissaries advanced in force, their disciplined ranks pushing forward into the central engagement, adding fresh strength where it was not yet needed.
"They were meant to hold," the officer said.
"Yes," Fontaine replied.
He watched as their movement disrupted the careful timing of the battlefield.
"They were meant to finish it."
At the centre, the effect was immediate but flawed.
The arrival of the Janissaries stiffened the Sultan's line, halting the forward momentum of Wellesley and Rapp for a moment. Their disciplined volleys and steady advance pushed back against the Luxenberg troops, forcing a temporary pause.
"They commit reserves," Anton said.
Victor nodded. "Too soon."
Henri frowned. "It strengthens them."
"For now," Victor replied.
Fontaine turned sharply to his officers.
"Adjust," he said.
But even as he spoke it, he knew.
The moment had passed.
The encirclement required precision, required the Luxenberg army to be fully engaged, fully extended, before the final strike closed from all sides.
Omar's advance had broken that timing.
Instead of tightening unseen, the trap revealed itself too early.
"They will see it now," one officer said.
"They already do," Fontaine replied.
Victor lowered his glass.
"There," he said quietly.
Anton followed his gaze.
"The reserve."
Henri's eyes widened slightly. "They commit it now?"
"Yes," Victor said.
He turned to his staff.
"Signal the guard."
Across the field, the battle shifted once more.
What had been a carefully prepared trap became a contested struggle.
The Janissaries fought with discipline and strength, their presence undeniable, but their early commitment allowed the Luxenberg army to respond before the encirclement could fully close.
Lasalle's cavalry, still engaged, found renewed purpose as gaps began to appear.
Rapp's infantry pressed harder.
Wellesley regained momentum.
And on the flanks, Fontaine's forces, though still dangerous, no longer held the element of complete surprise.
The web had been spun.
But it had been touched too soon.
And now, it began to unravel.