The thunder of artillery gradually faded from an all-night roar to scattered, intermittent thuds.
Dawn had broken, but thick smoke and dust filtered the light into a filthy orange.
The air reeked of lingering scorch, blood, and Ozone.
The enemy offensive ebbed like a retreating tide, slowly and suspiciously.
After a night of bitter fighting, the ring of defenses around Norman Cathedral was riddled with holes, like a rag chewed to tatters, but it had not been torn apart.
The Colchis 48th Army and the remnants of other units that had gradually gathered there clung to the ruins like nails driven into stone.
A trace of grim exhilaration ran through the tension in headquarters. Dark shadows hung beneath Lieutenant General Sturmerman's eyes, but his back remained straight.
Dozens of officers stood before him, their uniforms torn, their faces smeared with soot and blood, their eyes like blades tempered in fire.
"The enemy has halted its assault. Perhaps they're regrouping, perhaps there's another reason." Sturmerman's voice was hoarse, but every word struck with a metallic ring.
"But we can't wait. All waiting will bring us is another, harder assault."
He walked to the crude tactical map and jabbed a finger at an arc marked in red—the outermost positions they had lost the night before.
"The first assault group will coordinate with whatever armored units can still move and retake this Defense Line. Drive those nails back in and give the following units room to reorganize."
His gaze swept across the crowd and settled on its tallest figure. "Doram."
"Sir!" Doram stepped forward. The fresh graze on his face had formed a dark red scab.
"Your regiment will lead the assault. Tear open a breach."
"Understood, sir!"
Sturmerman drew a deep breath, his gaze passing over every face in turn.
"Communications have