The rolling drum of Russian cannon fire echoed across the snow covered valley. They had been pounding the retreating French army constantly. Nobody even flinched at each barrage anymore. Nobody had any energy left.


    The wind gnawed at the men’s exposed faces, blowing shards of ice that scratched at the skin like tiny daggers. The road ahead was buried under drifts of powdery snow, the footprints of those who had passed before them already swallowed by the blizzard. Behind them, out of sight now, the Berezina River stretched like a scar across the white landscape. In front, endless fields of snow, and dense evergreen forests.


    Sublieutenant Louis Fournier pulled his greatcoat tighter around his cuirass as he rode in silence behind the rest of his company. His horse, once proud and strong, now plodded weakly through the snow, each step a labor of survival. The sound of its labored breathing mingled with the muffled shuffle of boots and hooves. The company had not spoken much since leaving the main column that morning, but the silence was heavy with unspoken thoughts. How many more days could they last like this?


    At the front of their group, Captain Valère Laurent – commander of the 2nd company, of the 4th regiment of the cuirassiers, 3rd Heavy Cavalry Division, III corps of cavalry – rode with his back straight and his hand resting on the hilt of his sabre, as if trying to hold on to the image of an officer in control. His polished cuirass, once a shining beacon of French pride, was scratched and dented from weeks of battle and retreat. His breath escaped in small puffs as he stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched against the cold.


    Beside the captain, Lieutenant Antoine Chalon shifted in the saddle, his teeth chattering audibly despite his efforts to appear composed. His gloved hands tightened around the reins, and his gaze darted toward the trees lining the path, as if he expected the Cossacks to spring from the shadows at any moment. Louis could recognise the grief on Lieutenant Chalon’s face more clearly than on Captain Valère’s. Chalon attempted to hide the twitches of pain when he had scanned the company hours earlier, but Louis had seen it.


    Next to Louis, Trooper Bellamy rubbed his hands together and cursed under his breath. “The cold will kill us before the Cossacks do,” he muttered loudly enough for Louis to hear.


    Louis didn’t respond. He adjusted his scarf, pulling it over his nose, and tried to ignore the burning ache in his fingers. Bellamy wasn’t wrong. The cold had taken more lives than the enemy in the past week. Men had simply collapsed in the snow, too tired or too frozen to get back up. Others had thrown away their muskets and sat down on the side of the road, whispering about warmth that wasn’t there. Louis had seen men simply stop mid-stride, dying from overexposure.


    They lumbered over a ridge on the road, passing abandoned carts and cannons. Dead horses and men lay dashed upon the ground in chaotic clumps. A particularly dishevelled group of infantrymen huddled around a small campfire. They barely looked like Frenchmen or soldiers anymore. Many had picked up Russian clothing from empty villages or inside Moscow. Their beards were decorated with icicles. One of the group, on the edge of the huddle, crouched over a horse carcass and was slicing chunks from its flesh. An increasingly common picture as supplies had run out.


    Ahead, the sound of a distant drumbeat cut through the wind. The faint outline of a camp came into view, tents sagging under the weight of snow. Smoke curled upward from a few scattered fires, but the smell of burning wood was mixed with something darker—the acrid stench of gunpowder and rotting flesh.


    “We’re here,” Valère said as they reached the edge of the camp, pulling his horse to a stop.


    Another group of infantrymen shuffled past them, faces gaunt and eyes hollow. Their uniforms were tattered, and their boots left bloody tracks in the snow. One man, missing the fingers on his left hand, clutched a loaf of bread like it was a holy relic. Louis couldn’t even identify which corps they belonged to. He supposed it didn’t matter anymore, very few units had stayed together.


    “Christ,” Bellamy whispered, “I hope we don’t look like that.”


    “Give it time,” Trooper Lefevre replied, his voice bitter.


    Captain Valère led them through the muddled camp. The well organised, strict lines of the camps from the start of the campaign had been completely forgotten. This was no longer truly an army.


    Louis kept his hand close to his sabre, watching as men eyed their horses hungrily. He could see the rest of the company doing the same, hands resting on weapons even among their own compatriots.


    Eventually, after winding through the madness, a large officers tent emerged in front of them. A tall figure shouldered his way out, after the company lined up in front. He was incredibly well put-together, compared to the rest of the camp. The stripes of a colonel were still visible on his greatcloak. His face was pale and haggard, a thick scarf wrapped around his neck, but his eyes still burned with an intensity that suggested he had not yet surrendered to the cold. Colonel Delacroix was a man who had earned his reputation for discipline long before the Russian campaign, and he was one of the few officers seemingly still in control.


    “Captain Valère,” Delacroix greeted, his breath fogging in the frigid air. “You’ve come with all your men?”


    “Yes Colonel,” Valère nodded.


    Delacroix’s gaze swept over the company, lingering for a moment on Trooper Renard, who coughed violently into his glove.


    “It’s as I thought,” the colonel muttered, as if speaking to himself. “But you’ve done well to keep them mounted.”


    “We’ve lost a few horses,” Valère admitted, “but we’ve kept the rest alive.”


    “Excellent work Captain,” Delacroix said. He turned toward the camp, motioning for them to follow. “Come. You can hear this while warming yourselves by a fire.”


    The officers dismounted and headed inside. Valère, Chalon and Louis himself. The troopers led their horses over to some nearby campfires, where other cavalrymen attempted to relax.


    Entering the tent was like an embrace from a loved one. Louis could barely remember how it felt to hold somebody in his arms. He thought in Moscow he would be able to find some company, paid for or otherwise. But that hadn’t been the case, the city had been an empty shell, and then it had been burnt by its own citizens.


    Colonel Delacroix unrolled a map on his makeshift table. His fingers, wrapped in thick gloves, traced a line along the River Berezina. The river that had claimed so many lives.


    “The main column is heading west,” he said, “but they’re moving slower than expected. Stragglers everywhere, and the enemy is circling like vultures.”


    Louis looked at the map. The situation was still dire. Even after somehow managing to get a chunk of the army across the Berezina, there were still great leagues to cover before they reached anywhere remotely safe. Vilna was the current objective, Louis knew.


    “We need food, Captain,” Delacroix continued, “The men are dying faster than we can bury them. If we don’t find something soon, I’ll lose the whole regiment. General Doumerc has left me… important orders.”


    Louis noticed the colonel''s grimace. He was clearly conflicted between the importance of following orders, while also questioning them. General Doumerc had proved himself competent during the campaign so far, however. He had led the charge on the west bank of the Berezina himself.


    “What are our orders, sir?” Valère straightened.


    Delacroix leaned over the map, his eyes narrowing.


    “There’s a cluster of farms just north of here. Abandoned, most likely, but they could still have supplies hidden in the barns or cellars. We don’t have the manpower to search them ourselves, and honestly, I don’t think any infantry regiments would survive out there. So, since you still have enough mounts, you’ll have to do. Take your company and scout the area. If you find food or livestock, send word back immediately.”


    Valère nodded, but Chalon shifted uneasily beside him. Louis felt similarly uneasy at these orders.


    “Colonel,” the lieutenant said, “we’ve heard reports of Cossack raiders in the area. If we run into them with only our twelve men–”


    “Then you do what cuirassiers do best,” Delacroix interrupted. “You fight.”


    There was a pause, the weight of the colonel’s words sinking in. It was a remark that Louis expected, but it still caused him to frown.


    “The emperor expects us to reach Vilnius,” Delacroix added, his voice softer now, almost weary. “If we don’t, none of this will matter. We’ll die here, frozen like the men outside. Do you understand me, Captain?”


    A strong gust of wind caused the tent to slightly, and the door flapped angrily.


    “Yes, sir,” Valère said, confidently.


    “Lieutenant Chalon?” Delacroix turned to the anxious lieutenant.


    “We will get it done, sir. The second company has endured so far,” Chalon straightened his back and saluted the colonel.


    “Good. One last thing,” he said as he stepped back from the table, his gaze still lingering on the map. Be wary of the woods. The locals believe in all sorts of nonsense – forest spirits, curses, old pagan things. We all know it’s just superstition, but that kind of talk has driven men mad before. Keep your soldiers focused on the task. The Russians won’t destroy us. We survived the Berezina, we will survive this cold too. Dismissed.”


    The three men of the second company of the 4th regiment of the cuirassiers saluted and turned toward the exit. Louis followed Valère and Chalon out, but not before catching the colonel’s final words, spoken softly as if to himself:


    “May God have mercy on you.”


    The wind hit them like a wall as they stepped back into the cold. Louis adjusted his scarf and glanced at Valère, whose expression was set in stone. The troopers slowly ambled into position, leading the horses.


    “We ride north,” Valère said, mounting his horse. “We find those supplies.”


    “Or die trying,” Lefevre muttered, climbing into his saddle.


    Along their small line, the rest of the troopers, and officers mounted.


    Louis said nothing. The trees at the edge of the camp swayed gently in the wind, their branches bowing like mourners. As the company rode out, the shadows stretched long across the snow, and the road ahead seemed endless.


    Off the main road, the countryside was even more desolate. An empty landscape. All day the horses had pushed onward determinedly, but their exhaustion was becoming increasingly obvious.


    The company had followed a small countryside trail, just visible beneath the snow. It was flanked by two small stone walls. Beyond them, great white oceans of snow in all directions. Lines of trees and bushed divided fields, and further out Louis could see thick forests. He shuddered looking at these, the dark blots of trees.


    For now, they were taking a brief pause by the roadside. They’d even managed to get a fire lit. It was a pitiful thing, barely more than a flicker of warmth against the icy winds that sliced through the stone wall, but the men crowded round it with more joy than they’d shown in days. Louis appreciated these moments, Captain Valère was generous enough with his men, and he understood the importance of morale.


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    Louis sat with his back to the wall, a trooper or either side squeezed against him. Trooper Bellamy to his right, and Trooper Gauthier to his left. They were both in somewhat high spirits, enjoying this moment of respite the captain had allowed them.


    “Say what you want about Russia,” Bellamy said, “but at least it forces us to appreciate the little things. Like not being dead yet.”


    The others chuckled, the sound muffled by scarves and frostbitten lips. Gauthier tossed a bundle of twigs onto the fire, watching as the flames sputtered and hissed before roaring back to life.


    “Not being dead,” Gauthier repeated, shaking his head. “That’s your toast?”


    Bellamy shrugged. “When’s the last time we had something to toast with? You give me a bottle of wine, and I’ll come up with something better.”


    “Give him wine, and he’ll sing us a song,” Corporal Danton added from where he sat, leaning back against his pack. “Remember at Smolensk? You serenaded that poor Russian woman like you were trying to win her heart.”


    “Her heart?” Gauthier snorted. “I think he was aiming a little lower than that.”


    Bellamy grinned, his cheeks flushing red, not from the cold, but from the memory. “She liked it.”


    “She threw a potato at your head,” Louis reminded him, smiling for what felt like the first time in days. “And her husband chased you with a rake.”


    “Still counts as affection,” Bellamy said, and the group burst into laughter.


    Even Valère, who had been standing near the horses, allowed himself a small smile. He walked over, hands clasped behind his back, and nodded toward the fire. “You have until the wood burns out,” he said. “Then we move.”


    “Aye, Captain,” Trooper Vautrin said, tossing another stick onto the flames. “Plenty of time to reminisce about our glorious campaign.”


    The tone shifted slightly, the humor dimming. Louis noticed it first in the way Renard adjusted his scarf and looked away, as if avoiding the conversation entirely.


    Trooper Lefevre cleared his throat. “Glorious campaign, huh?” he said softly. “I can’t wait to tell my family how we burned Moscow to the ground and marched back with nothing but frostbite to show for it.”


    “You’ll live long enough to tell them,” Valère said, his voice sharp. “We’ve survived worse.”


    “Have we?” Lefevre replied, his tone daring.


    Louis shifted uncomfortably, casting a glance at Chalon. The lieutenant opened his mouth, perhaps to defuse the tension, but it was Sergeant Morel who spoke first.


    “The captain’s right,” Morel said, his voice like gravel. “I was at Marengo in 1800. We fought half-starved, half-dressed, and surrounded by Austrians. Everyone thought we were finished, but we weren’t.”


    There was a pause before Gauthier asked, “What did you do when you thought you wouldn’t make it?”


    Morel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze was distant, as if he were seeing a battlefield far from this frozen wasteland.


    “I didn’t think,” he said finally. “That’s how you get through it. You keep moving. You focus on the man in front of you, and you don’t stop until he’s dead or you are.


    “All of us here have seen worse than this. It might be the first campaign for some of you,” Lieutenant Chalon chimed in, supporting the Sergeant, “But, we all crossed the Berezina and charged into that forest thick with Russian cavalry and infantry. We survived the shelling at Borodino, and the fires of Moscow. There is no choice here, we will live.”


    The group fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire. Louis stared at the flames, the heat warming his face but not reaching the chill in his bones. He wondered how much longer they could keep moving before one of them didn’t get back up.


    Bellamy broke the silence with a forced laugh. “Well, now that you’ve cheered us up, Sergeant, maybe we should all just lie down and wait for death.”


    “I’m serious,” Morel said, but there was a faint smile on his lips. “You joke now, Bellamy, but you’ll remember my words when the time comes.”


    “I’d rather remember the woman from Smolensk,” Bellamy muttered, and the group chuckled again, the tension easing slightly.


    Valère checked the sky, where the sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon. “Enough resting. Mount up. We’ll make camp near the next ridge.”


    The men groaned but obeyed, stamping out the fire and gathering their gear. Louis adjusted his saddle and swung into the saddle, his muscles aching from the cold. As they set off, the wind picked up again, and he pulled his scarf higher over his nose.


    For a while they traced the countryside road, before the walls gave way to a natural barrier. The forest closed around them, leafless branches reaching over them like twisted arms.


    The path wound through the trees, the ancient looking trees creaking around them. Louis let his mind wander, replaying the conversation around the fire. The laughter, the stories, even Morel’s grim wisdom – all of it seemed precious now, as if it belonged to a time when survival wasn’t measured by the number of steps you could take before collapsing.


    “Louis,”


    He turned to see Lieutenant Chalon riding beside him, his breath misting in the cold. His cuirassier helmet had lost its usual shine, and the tattered plume was frozen at the back.


    “You’ve been quiet.”


    Louis shrugged. “Just thinking.”


    Chalon studied him for a moment before nodding. “Stay close to me when we stop again. I have a feeling this march is about to get worse.”


    “Worse than this?” Louis asked, though he already knew the answer.


    Chalon didn’t reply.


    Ahead of them, the trees seemed to grow darker, their shadows stretching long across the snow-covered path. The laughter from the fire felt like a distant memory, fading as quickly as the footprints they left behind.


    And somewhere, hidden among the swaying branches, a faint whistle carried on the wind.


    The snow was thin, crusted over from the night’s frost, but the wind dragged it into shifting streams across the open field. Louis pulled his greatcoat tighter over his cuirass, fingers stiff around the reins as his horse shifted beneath him. Breath clouded the air in thick, rhythmic puffs as the second company rode slowly up the dirt path, the trees hemming them in on both sides.


    They’d ridden for another few hours, and were just planning on finding a good spot to set up their bivouac, when they stumbled upon something.


    Captain Valère Laurent raised a hand, signaling them to halt. The column stopped, hooves crunching into the brittle earth. Valère turned in his saddle, scanning the area. His breath came steady, his face calm beneath the shadow of his steel-plumed helmet.


    “We’ve gone far enough,” he said. “Dismount and search the wagons. Quickly.”


    The wagons lay abandoned by the side of the path, their wheels half-buried in the frost. One was tilted awkwardly, its axle cracked, and a broken crate had spilled a rotten heap of potatoes into the snow. There was no sign of the men who had driven the wagons. No footprints, or even bodies. Only the whispering of the wind and the shifting creak of the forest.


    Louis stayed mounted, as troopers'' boots crunched into the frozen ground. The privilege of being an officer allowed him to stay in his saddle at moments like this. He adjusted the sabre at his hip and glanced at Trooper Vautrin, who had already started tugging at a crate’s icy lid.


    “More mold, probably,” Vautrin muttered, his breath clouding the air.


    “Check it all anyway,” Chalon ordered nearby. His voice was firm, though beneath it there was a tension Louis was also feeling.


    “Find anything we can eat, or anything the horses can eat,” Louis added.


    Trooper Gauthier kicked a barrel, testing its weight, before prying the lid off with his bayonet. “Empty. Why am I not surprised? Looks like we’ll just be eating snow.”


    “Check everything,” Sergeant Morel added, his voice low and gravelly, as if he’d been born with the frost in his throat. His own hand was deep in a canvas bag, rummaging for anything.


    Trooper Beaulieu crouched next to a crate, trying to pry it open with stiff fingers. He beckoned for Trooper Renard to come and help. Stiff from the cold, the other man awkwardly made his way over, and helped him pull on the lid. The wood cracked, revealing the blackened husks of spoiled bread. They grimaced and tossed them aside. Bellamy cursed, struggling with a stubborn leather strap on another crate, while Aubin muttered prayers under his breath.


    The air was too still.


    Louis lifted his head, scanning the treeline. The branches swayed slightly in the wind, heavy with snow, their shadows stretching long across the ground. He could hear the horses stamping, the rustle of fabric as the men dug through supplies, but beyond that, the silence was suffocating.


    A crack echoed from the trees.


    Louis froze, his breath catching in his throat.


    Just a branch, he told himself. Just a branch breaking under the weight of snow. Louis tried to push back his paranoia, yet glancing at Chalon he could see the same unease on the other officers face. But then he heard it again, closer this time. There was something out there. His eyes darted this way and that, searching the dark trees. The sharp snap of wood, followed by another sound cut through the silence.


    A whistle.


    “Cossacks!” Chalon shouted.


    The forest exploded into chaos.


    From the treeline, a wave of Cossack riders burst into the clearing, their fur-lined coats flapping like wings. They came fast, spears and sabres raised, shouting wild battle cries that pierced the stillness. Harsh, dirty men, with grim smiles plastered on their faces. They opened the skirmish with a wild volley of mounted musket fire, without any successful hits.


    “Mount up!” Valère’s voice thundered over the noise.


    Louis’s fingers trembled as he gripped the reins, seeing Vautrin haul himself into his saddle just as a Cossack spear buried itself in the ground where he’d stood moments before. His horse reared, nearly throwing him, but he held on, kicking its sides and drawing his sabre in one motion.


    “Form up! Hold the line!” Valère shouted.


    The company scrambled into formation, their warhorses stomping and snorting, steam rising from their flared nostrils. The Cossacks hit them head-on, the clash of steel and screams of dying horses filling the clearing.


    Louis met the first Cossack head-on, parrying a downward strike with his sabre. If he could still use his nose, he knew he’d be disgusted by the smell of the man. A useless momentary thought.


    The force of another parry jarred his arm, but he leaned into it, twisting his wrist and slashing upward. His blade caught the rider across the shoulder, sending him tumbling backward off his horse. Blood sprayed across the snow. The Cossacks horse scrambled away desperately.


    To his right, Bellamy let out a battle cry as he slashed at another rider, cutting through the man’s fur coat and opening a gash across his chest. The Cossack wheezed, clutching his wound, before Bellamy drove his blade into the man’s throat.


    “Fournier, on your left!”


    Louis turned just as a spear lunged toward him. He yanked the reins, his well-trained warhorse sidestepping the attack, and brought his sabre down on the spear’s shaft, splintering it in half. The Cossack snarled, reaching for a flintlock pistol, but Louis drove his blade into the man’s chest before he could draw it. A disappointed, and surprised expression appeared on the man''s face, before he tumbled into the snow.


    Behind him, Gauthier let out a triumphant laugh, slashing a rider’s leg and sending him crashing to the ground. “Come on, you bastards!”


    A musket shot cracked through the chaos. Gauthier jerked, his body going rigid as the shot punched through his side. He slumped in the saddle, blood seeping through his coat as his horse whinnied and stumbled.


    “Gauthier!” Louis shouted, but there was no response.


    A Cossack rider came barreling toward Bellamy, who swung wildly, barely managing to deflect the incoming spear. It scraped against his breastplate, but bounced away harmlessly. However, the two horses collided, and Bellamy was thrown from his saddle, landing hard in the snow. The Cossack dismounted, drawing his sabre as he advanced on the fallen trooper.


    “Bellamy!” Louis charged, his sabre raised. He slashed at the Cossack’s back, cutting deep, and the man crumpled to the ground. Bellamy groaned, clutching his ribs, but before Louis could reach him, another musket fired.


    Louis’s breath came in ragged gasps. His vision blurred, and the noise around him faded into a dull roar. Another whistle cut through the air, fainter this time, retreating into the trees. The Cossacks were pulling back, their wounded dragging behind them. Only a few had survived the engagement. They left dead scattered across the clearing.


    “Hold!” Valère shouted, riding into the center of the clearing. “Hold your fire!”


    The men regrouped, panting, their breath mixing with the steam rising from their horses. Faces sweating even in the harsh cold. Blood splattered in the snow all around them, even on some of the men’s faces.


    Louis saw that Trooper Lefevre was still shaking with battle-excitement, his eyes wide like an animal. He watched the man, wary of the effects of this wildness, but Lefevre settled quickly, sheathing his sabre.


    Captain Valère surveyed the bodies scattered across the field, his jaw set. He seemed unmarked by the battle.


    “Sound off!” he barked.


    One by one, the survivors called their names. The silence between each voice stretched longer and longer. Troopers Bellamy and Aubin were dead. Renard and Gauthier were both badly injured.


    Louis dismounted, boots crunching through the snow as he approached Bellamy’s body. His friend’s eyes stared up at the gray sky, unblinking. Gauthier lay slumped against the wagon wheel, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.


    A group of them were gathered around him, assessing his injuries. Another group was doing the same to Renard a few paces away. Corporal Danton was crouched over Gauthier, trying to unlatch his breastplate to look at the wound.


    “I told you,” Gauthier whispered, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “We’ll be eating snow.”


    He didn’t take another breath.


    Louis stared at the blood soaking the snow around his boots. His fingers felt numb, though whether from the cold or the shock, he couldn’t tell. Nobody moved for a small while. Nothing could be heard except the choking coughs of the wounded Renard, and the hurried wrapping of the man’s injury by Trooper Beaulieu.


    “Mount up,” Valère said quietly eventually. “The Cossacks will be back.”


    Luckily, they still had enough horses. Renard was strapped to his own horse and led by Vautrin.


    As Louis climbed back into the saddle, he cast a final glance at the edge of the forest. The trees swayed in the wind, their branches stretching like fingers over the path ahead. Just beyond them, in the shadow of the woods, something moved.


    The wind whistled through the trees, and Louis urged his horse forward.