Twenty days.

It had been exactly twenty blood-soaked days since the eastern wall of Calais had initially collapsed, allowing the Frankish vanguard to flood into the outer courtyard like a swarm of angry ants.

But Bjorn’s layered defense of heavy pikes and Breton muskets had turned that breach into a meat grinder.

Marshal Hugh’s men couldn’t push a single inch further into the city... it was a complete stalemate.

As such, the exchanging of fire began every single morning right at dawn.

Inside the chamber, Bjorn sat on a stool at the grand command table.

Across from him, Hakon was slumped on a nearby crate, groaning as he wrapped a fresh linen bandage around a nasty cut on his thick forearm.

"Read the rest of the parchment, Odo," Bjorn grunted, rubbing his eyes.

Odo, the young Frankish scholar, pushed his cracked round spectacles up his nose.

He had grown a lot tougher over the last twenty days, losing his nervous stutter entirely.

He unrolled the stack of reports delivered by the latest fast-clipper from City Titan.

"The news of the siege are everywhere now, Lord Bjorn," Odo read clearly, "And I mean everywhere. The whole continent knows that twenty thousand Franks and hundreds of bronze cannons have been halted by our walls for twenty days."

Hakon let out a dry laugh. "Good. Let them know."

"The news of a siege being held for twenty days against overwhelming odds... the news go to Navarre, to the great emirs in Cordoba, and even north to Denmark. The courts are locking down their borders. The neutral lords are terrified of what happens next... no one knows how to fight an enemy that can arm nations with muskets in a matter of weeks." Odo read aloud.

Bjorn rubbed his chin. The world was finally waking up to the terrifying reality of the Iron Kingdom’s power.

"What about our own borders, Odo?" Bjorn demanded, his tone serious. "What about the Frankish fleet that sailed north? If they land on the shores of Norway while our best warriors are stuck down here, they will burn the farms and slaughter the defenseless."

Odo pulled out another sealed parchment, "King Ragnar has already answered that threat, Lord Bjorn, there is news of King Erik coming from Iceland."

"Erik?"

"Ragnar actually called him?"

"Yes," Odo confirmed, looking at the letter. "By Ragnar’s direct orders, King Erik is mobilizing his fleet. He is sailing straight to help Norway with a new army forged by the Iron Kingdom. They are bringing much like 10,000 elite rifles, and they are composed of very strong men from the frozen shores."

"Ten thousand repeating rifles..." Bjorn muttered, shaking his head. "Erik and his Icelandic berserkers are going to butcher that Frankish fleet the second they try to step foot on Norwegian soil."

All this was spreading across the world like an uncontrollable flame... the traditional kings and emperors were scrambling, unsure of how to fight a war against a global superpower that could casually deploy ten thousand riflemen to a secondary front while simultaneously holding a siege in the south.

"We just have to hold out a little longer," Bjorn said quietly, feeling a fresh surge of hope in his bones. "...If Erik secures the north, and we continue to bleed Marshal Hugh dry right here in the mud of Calais, the Emperor’s grand coalition will collapse under its own weight."

"As long as Torstein keeps bringing us black powder from City Titan, I will fight until my damn legs give out." Hakon grunted, standing up and stretching his back.

However, Odo wasn’t finished... the young scholar swallowed hard as he picked up the very last piece of wrinkled parchment from the bottom of his leather satchel.

It wasn’t an official military report from the King... it was a hastily scribbled note from one of Hakon’s top spies operating deep in the southern Mediterranean ports.

"There is... one more thing, my Lords," Odo whispered.

"What is it?" Bjorn frowned.

Odo shook his head slowly, refusing to look up from the paper. "The spreading flame of this war... apparently, that’s just a small thing in a lake."

"A small thing?" Hakon crossed his arms, "How is any of that a small thing?"

Odo flattened the parchment against the table. "The spy managed to intercept a highly secure messenger pigeon flying from Paris down to the southern coast. It was carrying a royal seal from Emperor Louis himself."

"A message to who?" Bjorn asked, narrowing his eyes.

"To the lords of Naples," Odo answered, "And to the highest bishops in Italy."

Upon hearing this, Bjorn frowned deeply.

Naples was far to the south, a wealthy and heavily populated region that had mostly stayed out of this northern war.

They had their own problems with Mediterranean pirates and political infighting.

"Why is the Emperor writing to Naples?" Hakon asked.

"He is buying an alliance. The spy reports that Emperor Louis is giving them the blueprints." Odo explained.

"...the blueprints?" Torstein muttered.

"The iron tubes," Odo confirmed, nodding slowly. "Emperor Louis sent them the casting molds for the primitive muskets, the black powder recipes, and the schematics for the bronze cannons."

"...?"

Bjorn closed his eyes, rubbing his temples.

Emperor Louis had done something an arrogant emperor rarely did... he had shared his best weapons.

Of course, handing over firearms to Naples wasn’t merely about gaining a few thousand extra soldiers.

"It’s about the Pope..."

"If Naples and the Italian States ally with Emperor Louis, they will secure the backing of the Church."

And just like that, the grim reality of the war was finally laid bare...

The Iron Kingdom’s greatest advantage had already begun to fade months ago, but now, it was slipping through their fingers as fast as grains of sand.

They had forced the world to wake up, and now, that very same world was arming itself with iron and fire to destroy the men who had awakened it.

Bjorn hadn’t anticipated this... arming your allies was one thing, but you don’t just hand out that kind of power to anyone!