The night smelled of blood and smoke.
All across the Romanus lines, the legions had pulled back to camp.
The exhausted wounded were dragged to makeshift infirmaries, priests murmured blessings over the dying, and the majority of men collapsed into sleep on bloodstained cloaks.
Only a handful remained behind—the garrisons left to hold the captured stretches of the inner wall.
They were not many.
A few centuries here, a cohort there, scattered in lonely pockets atop the parapets, surrounded on either side by Francian-held towers.
Their orders were simple: hold until dawn.
The soldiers obeyed, but the darkness gnawed at them.
Every creak of the timber bridges, every rattle of loose stone, every owl's cry in the ruined quarter below set nerves on edge.
Men gripped their shields tighter.
They peered over the battlements, straining their eyes against the void.
