The Aragonese fleet arrived under cover of darkness.
By the time the sun broke the horizon, casting a pale orange hue over the calm waters of the Gulf of Lion, the dreadnoughts were already in position. Santo Dominio and Resolución held formation twenty-five kilometers from shore, silent titans of steel against the early light.
On their decks, crewmen moved like clockwork, each gun loaded, each mechanism tested, each officer silent in anticipation.
Regent Lancelot stood on the bridge of Resolución, eyes fixed on the distant silhouettes of Marseille's shoreline. A smudge of old-world stone and sea walls rose from the coast—Fort Saint-Nicolas and Fort Saint-Jean—vestiges of another age.
Admiral Tormes, beside him, lifted his telescope. "Targets confirmed. Wind minimal. Range calculated."
Below deck, the shells were ready—high-explosive, delayed-fuse monsters, each weighing over 400 kilograms. Designed to crack reinforced bunkers and sink ships in a single blow.
