The order did not come with drums. It came with movement.
One moment, the Luxenberg line stood fixed beneath the haze of powder smoke, guns still speaking in measured rhythm. The next, it shifted forward as if the entire army had taken a single breath and decided to spend it all at once.
Boots pressed into churned sand. Lines leaned into motion. Standards dipped, then steadied as the advance began without spectacle, without hesitation.
From afar, it looked almost inevitable. From within, it felt like stepping into fire.
At the centre, Field Marshal Wellesley watched the first ranks move ahead of him, their silhouettes wavering through smoke and drifting dust.
"Keep them closed," he said quietly, more to the moment than to any single man. "No gaps. No rushing."
An aide repeated the command, though the men already knew it. They had marched too far, fought too often, to mistake this for anything but the beginning of something decisive.
The artillery did not stop. It lifted.
Shells screamed overhead now, passing just above the advancing line, striking deeper into the enemy's position. The effect was unnerving even for seasoned troops, the sense that death now travelled both directions through the same air.
Still, they advanced.
On the right, Marshal Davout did not wait to see if the centre would set the pace.
"Forward," he said, already in motion.
His corps moved with harder intent, their step sharper, their formation tightening as they crossed the scarred ground left by the bombardment. Where others advanced with control, Davout's men advanced with pressure, their presence alone pushing at the edge of the battlefield.
"They're already wavering," a colonel said, pointing toward the distant line.
Davout did not look. "They are waiting," he replied.
To the left, Field Marshal Kutusov rode at a slower pace, letting the line form around him rather than forcing it ahead.
"Do not chase the ground," he told his officers. "Let it come to us."
His gaze drifted, not to the centre, but outward. Toward the dunes.
From his position above it all, Victor saw the shape of the advance take hold.
Ten corps, no longer marching, now pressing.
The field between the armies shrank with every step.
"They expected us to come this far," Henri said.
Victor shook his head slightly. "They expected us to do exactly this," he replied.
Anton studied the line ahead. "And we give it to them anyway."
Victor's expression did not change. "Yes," he said. "Because they cannot stop it."
Across the field, the Sultanate's front line braced.
What remained of their artillery fired as best it could, their volleys fewer now, their accuracy suffering under the weight of the bombardment. Infantry stood behind the shattered ground, their ranks thinner, but still present.
They did not advance. They waited.
Behind them, out of sight of Victor's advancing lines, Crown Prince Omar sat mounted among the Janissaries.
They were still. Silent.
Perfectly ordered, their red uniforms unbroken by movement, their presence a coiled force held in reserve. Around them, banners stirred faintly in the wind, but the men themselves did not shift.
Omar watched the distant advance, his expression hard.
"They come exactly as expected," one of his officers said.
Omar nodded. "Let them," he replied.
Further along the flanks, hidden behind the low, rolling dunes, another force prepared.
Harrison Fontaine stood among his twenty thousand mercenaries, his black uniform stark against the pale sand. Around him, officers moved quietly, relaying final instructions, ensuring that each battalion understood its role.
"They are committed," one of them said, peering over the crest of a dune. "The centre advances fully."
Fontaine stepped up beside him, glancing toward the approaching Luxenberg line.
"They believe the fight is already decided," he said.
"And it is not?"
Fontaine's gaze remained steady. "It has not yet begun."
He turned slightly. "Prepare the rockets."
The Luxenberg advance continued.
Wellesley's centre closed the distance steadily, their volleys beginning to reach effective range. Davout's right pressed harder, his pace increasing as he sought to exploit what appeared to be weakness in the opposing line.
"They cannot hold much longer," one of Victor's aides said.
Victor did not respond.
The first rockets launched without warning.
A sudden scream cut through the air, sharp and unnatural, rising above the fading thunder of cannon. Then another. And another.
From both flanks, ten small Congreve rockets arced upward, their trails of smoke marking paths that seemed erratic, unpredictable.
For a moment, the advancing soldiers hesitated.
"What is that?" a voice called from the front ranks.
Then the rockets fell.
They struck among the leading formations with violent bursts of fire and noise, exploding in flashes that shattered the careful alignment of the advancing troops. The effect was immediate. Men flinched, some breaking formation instinctively as the unfamiliar weapons screamed and detonated around them.
"Hold the line!" officers shouted. "Hold!"
But the disruption had begun.
From behind the dunes, Fontaine gave the next order. "Forward."
The mercenaries rose.
Where there had been only sand moments before, now lines of soldiers appeared, emerging in disciplined formation along both flanks. Twenty thousand men, split and concealed, now advancing inward toward the exposed sides of Victor's army.
"They flank us!" an officer near the front shouted.
The realisation spread quickly.
Victor saw it at once. "There," he said sharply, pointing toward the dunes as the hidden forces revealed themselves.
Anton's eyes widened. "They were concealed… Since when did our enemy possess the same rocket technology as us?"
"That is not important right now, concentrate on the fact that hidden enemy units have appeared," Victor said.
His expression did not change, but his voice sharpened. "Signal the cavalry."
The response came swiftly.
From behind the advancing infantry, the cavalry surged forward, riders accelerating into a charge aimed at intercepting the flanking force before it could fully close. Among them, General Lasalle's horsemen led the movement, their speed unmatched, their intent clear.
"Drive them back!" Lasalle shouted, sabre raised.
They thundered across the sand toward the newly revealed enemy.
Fontaine watched them come.
"Cavalry," one of his officers said.
"Yes," Fontaine replied.
He did not move to counter immediately.
"Hold," he said.
Before the Luxenberg cavalry could strike the flanking infantry, another force appeared.
From beyond the dunes, riding hard and fast, came the Sultan's cavalry.
They met Lasalle's riders in full motion.
The collision was violent.
Horses slammed into one another, riders thrown into immediate close combat as sabres flashed in the harsh light. The charge dissolved into a swirling melee, momentum lost in an instant as both sides fought for control.
Lasalle cut through the first line, striking down one rider, then another, but the enemy did not break. They pressed in, surrounding, forcing the engagement into a dense, chaotic struggle.
"They are pinned," Henri said, watching the clash unfold.
Victor nodded once.
"Yes."
At the front, the infantry advance faltered.
The rockets had broken the initial cohesion. The sudden appearance of enemy forces on both flanks forced commanders to reconsider their movement. Orders were shouted, units attempting to realign, to face the new threat without abandoning the advance entirely.
"Maintain the centre!" Wellesley called. "Do not turn the line!"
But it was no longer a simple advance. The battlefield had shifted.
On the right, Davout reacted immediately.
"Refuse the flank," he ordered.
His units pivoted, adjusting their formation to face the approaching mercenaries, their discipline allowing them to respond faster than most. Muskets came up, volleys fired into the advancing flank, slowing but not stopping the encroachment.
"They are more numerous than expected," one of his officers said.
"They are enough," Davout replied.
On the left, Kutusov had already begun to reposition.
"I told you," he said quietly to his aide. "They were waiting."
His corps shifted with controlled movement, turning to meet the threat without losing cohesion. Reserves moved forward, filling gaps, reinforcing the line where needed.
"Do not rush," Kutusov warned. "Let them come into our fire."
At the centre, Wellesley held his ground.
"Continue the advance," he ordered.
"But the flanks…"
"The centre does not stop," Wellesley said firmly. "If we halt, we lose everything."
His men pushed forward again, though now under far greater strain, their attention divided, their formation under constant threat.
Victor watched the unfolding chaos.
"They have drawn us in," Anton said quietly.
"Yes," Victor replied.
Henri looked between the flanks and the centre, the scale of the engagement becoming clear.
"They strike from three sides."
Victor did not deny it. "No," he said. "They attempt to."
Across the field, the plan had revealed itself.
The Sultan's line had held just long enough. The hidden forces had struck at the precise moment of advance. The cavalry had engaged to fix the response.
The battle, which had seemed to tilt decisively toward Luxenberg, now stood balanced once more.
And the opening movements were not yet finished.