At the moment, the peasants and the local population of Calais were huddled inside their small stone and wood houses.

Of course, they were afraid... mothers held their crying children close, praying to whatever gods would listen as the very earth beneath their feet trembled.

Yet, life inside the besieged fortress had to continue.

They were trying to do their jobs, which was clearly all centered down in the bustling port.

The Iron Kingdom’s war machine required constant feeding... sweating dockworkers hauled wooden crates of salt, tea, and black gun oil from the deep cargo ships to the inner stone vaults, ignoring the occasional stray iron ball that whistled over the walls and splashed into the harbor waters behind them.

Honestly, for them, it was a strange feeling... seeing that wars had suddenly become massive exchanges of explosive fire with cannons and such things was hard to process.

For countless generations, war meant a slow, marching army of men with steel swords and wooden shields, setting up tents, and trying to starve a city out over the course of many long, boring months.

But now? Fire and iron screamed through the gray sky like angry dragons.

Despite that, they began to see the grim reality of it all.

They were the very first commoners in the history of the world to witness this absolute mechanical hell, and so they must think... obviously, this isn’t going to drag on for months and years.

Stone walls simply couldn’t withstand this kind of concentrated explosive punishment forever.

The unforgiving math of gunpowder meant this siege would end in a matter of days... it was a new era, and they were trapped right in the center of it.

Thus, the exchanging of fire raged on without a single moment of peace.

Days had passed... the once-green fields outside the walls of Calais were now a cratered wasteland of black mud, splintered wood, and dead horses.

The Frankish vanguard, backed by their hundreds of shiny bronze cannons, pounded the southern and eastern walls.

In return, Bjorn’s master engineer, Leif, rained explosive hollow shells onto their rear supply lines, blowing up powder kegs and ruining Marshal Hugh’s logistics.

Up on the battered upper battlements, Hakon sat on an overturned wooden ammunition crate, wiping his soot-stained face with a filthy rag.

"..."

"Are they ever going to run out of iron? It feels like they have the entire wealth of Paris just stacked in those fields."

"They have a massive empire supporting them," Bjorn muttered, his arms crossed over his mail armor.

He was leaning against the parapet, watching the distant flashes of orange fire with his naked eyes.

He had successfully given his precious brass spyglass to a sharp-eyed Breton boy named Elouan, who was currently perched safely on the highest watchtower, focused on the enemy.

"Incoming! Two shots, flat trajectory, aiming directly for the eastern tower!" Elouan screamed from his perch.

"Brace for impact!" Bjorn roared.

The stone shuddered beneath their boots as the Frankish iron balls slammed into the lower base of the eastern tower.

Bits of rock rained down into the courtyard, but the wall held firm...

"I am sick of this," Hakon sighed, rubbing his ears. "We shoot them, they shoot us. My merchant ships are stuck in the harbor, and I haven’t had a proper hot meal in four days."

"Keep focused, Hakon," Bjorn warned.

Even so, no man could stand in that hellish noise forever... the sheer fatigue of warfare was draining.

Bjorn eventually had to pull himself away from the front lines, leaving General Gurvand in charge of the Breton musket men, to retreat into the inner keep of Calais to manage their dwindling logistics.

Inside the keep, the noise of the cannons was thankfully muffled into a dull thumping.

The table in the center of the room was covered with maps, brass compasses, and half-eaten loaves of bread.

Bjorn took a long sip of water from a flask, suddenly, the doors of the chamber swung open.

Odo, the young Frankish assistant, burst into the room panting heavily.

Behind him stood Captain Torstein, drenched in sea spray and smelling strongly of the ocean.

"Torstein!" Hakon cheered, standing up from his chair. "You made it back! Tell me you didn’t sail all the way from City Titan with empty hands!"

"I brought the black powder and the fresh iron shells you asked for, Lord Hakon," Torstein grinned, "The cargo ships are unloading at the docks right now."

"What about the Frankish fleet?" Bjorn asked quickly, stepping away from the table. "My spotters saw enemy sails in the channel."

"We saw them too, Commander," Torstein nodded, "We had to row like madmen in the dead of night to slip past their patrols. They have dozens of heavy galleys blockading the western sea routes. It is getting too dangerous for our unarmed merchant ships to make the crossing alone."

After hearing such words, Bjorn let out a heavy sigh.

The noose was slowly tightening around Calais... the Franks were adapting to the naval game as well.

"The supplies are vital, Torstein." Bjorn said quietly, "But did King Ragnar send a reply to my letter? Does he finally know what is happening with this massive coalition?"

"Yes, Lord Bjorn." Odo nodded frantically, stepping entirely forward.

The young scholar quickly fumbled with the straps of his satchel and pulled out a small piece of tightly rolled parchment.

"The fast-clipper captain handed this to me the second they docked, my Lord," Odo explained, holding it out. "He said King Ragnar wrote it himself."

Bjorn snatched the message from the boy’s hands. He cracked the black wax seal with his thumb, his heart hammering.

Hakon, Torstein, and Odo crowded around him in silence, waiting for the words of their mad king.

If Ragnar told them to hold the line until the bitter end, they would gladly die on these battered walls.

If he told them to pack the ships and retreat, they would load the men tonight.

Bjorn’s ice-blue eyes quickly scanned the messy handwriting.

However, as he read the words, his face went pale... the veteran Viking commander, a man who had stared down a falling granite mountain just a few days ago without even blinking, actually let out a shaky breath.

"Bjorn?" Hakon whispered.

Bjorn slowly lowered the parchment.

He looked at the giant merchant, his expression completely baffled, as if he were reading a joke.

"He wants us to abandon the main gates tonight, and let the Frankish army inside the city."