Adam’s room was plunged into darkness, but thanks to the faint bluish glow entering through the small window opposite the little bed he was lying in, it was entirely possible to make out the furnishings.

There weren’t many, really. In addition to the bed, there was a small oak wardrobe, a small desk, a chair, and a storage chest.

Adam suddenly opened his eyes and realized it was still night. He couldn’t determine the time, but there were certainly a few hours left before dawn.

His head was deeply buried in his feather pillow, and his arms were folded over his stomach above the blanket.

He was warm, he was comfortably settled, he was safe. He felt good.

Ah... I hate waking up like this. Well, given the dreams I was having, it’s probably for the best.

It wasn’t really surprising, given his day. From morning until mid-afternoon, he had fought the British, then he had attended to his company.

He had lost four men in the battle, including Soldier Petit. He wasn’t dead—not yet, at least—but he had lost an eye, which was a considerable handicap.

He wouldn’t be able to fight for a long while.

Indeed, such an injury didn’t allow a soldier to return home. He could still carry out ordinary tasks, load his weapon, fire, and make a bayonet charge.

This was perhaps even truer in New France than on the Old Continent, for here, they were always short of fighters. His Majesty couldn’t afford to give up one of his soldiers so easily just because he had lost an eye.

He would be honored as a hero and respected by his comrades, but beyond that, nothing would fundamentally change.

Of course, that was if he survived, as everything could still take a turn for the worse. If the wound became infected, he could succumb to a fever after days of agony.

Adam had unfortunately witnessed such things many times, whether here in America or in Europe.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. More than once, he had thought, hearing their cries of pain, that a quick death on the battlefield was preferable.

The best care from a surgeon, even a very experienced one, couldn’t guarantee the patient’s survival.

He closed his eyes and then heard a small noise, like a creak.

Adam reopened his eyes and saw the door to his room opening slowly, very slowly. He immediately tried to grab his pistol, which was beside him, within arm’s reach.

To his horror, he realized he couldn’t move—not even a finger! His head, his entire body, nothing was responding!

It was as if he were tied to his bed!

His eyes opened wider, fixed on the door.

He saw a shadow slip into the room. The floorboards creaked.

Fuck! There’s someone! Someone is in the room! My weapon!

His pistol was within reach, but his arm refused to move! It remained desperately on his stomach!

He’s coming closer! Quickly! Move! My God, w-why can’t I move?!

Without moving an inch, not even a twitch, Adam watched in terror as the figure approached his bed. He couldn’t make out its features, not even its clothing. It was like a black shape in the night.

Help! Someone! Anyone! Please! There-there’s someone! Oh, my God, help me!

The figure stopped at the foot of his bed, its silhouette standing out perfectly against the rest of the room despite the dim light.

Then he heard breathing. It was faint and wheezing, like someone being strangled.

Adam couldn’t tear his eyes away from the figure. His entire body screamed danger.

He was frozen, drenched in cold sweat. But he couldn’t move a muscle. In fact, it was as if he had none.

He was just there, simply there, a witness to a scene of horror over which he had no control. It was worse than a nightmare, because even in a nightmare, he could react. It might end badly, but it was better than this!

D-don’t come any closer! Whoever you are, stay back!

The figure seemed to lean slightly forward, as if trying to see him better in the darkness.

Then he saw long hands crawling out from under the bed, black and clawed like the bare branches of trees in the dead of winter.

They gripped his sheets and blanket, creeping closer and closer to his immobile body. They grew more numerous, coming from everywhere.

W-what’s happening?! L-leave me alone! Please! I-I didn’t do anything wrong!

As he silently proclaimed his innocence, he remembered all the lives he had taken since he had transmigrated: in Hanover, at Rossbach, Häuslingen, Louisbourg, Fort Carillon, Fort Edward, and Halifax.

He trembled harder, suspecting that this shadow had come to punish him.

His bed was covered in skeletal hands, gripping his sheets as if trying to tear them apart.

The tall figure let out a long, grotesque, menacing sigh. This immediately drew Adam’s attention, terrified like the child he still was deep inside this adult body.

“We… found… you…”

Adam’s eyes, wide open to the point where they seemed ready to fall out, remained fixed on the figure, even when he felt a hand grab his left arm.

Don’t hurt me! Please!

"You… Cannot… Escape… Us…"

Help! I need help!

"We’ve… Got… You…"

Other hands appeared, crawling over Adam’s bed like snakes, gripping him and tearing away entire chunks of skin. The black figure—he wasn’t sure—seemed to smile at the sight and began climbing onto the bed.

It moved over his feet, then his legs, ignoring the countless hands in its path. Finally, it was just a few inches from his face.

Its breathing was even more wheezy than before, as if it were anticipating a delicious meal.

Though it was right in front of him, Adam still couldn’t make out its face. Yet, he thought he saw two empty eyes. Slowly, a long row of teeth, sharper than those of a tiger or a bear, appeared. He saw an enormous mouth open and a long, slimy tongue unroll.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

H-Hurgh! P-please!

The tongue slid across his cheek, like a child licking a shiny, colorful lollipop.

The figure suddenly tilted to the side and sank its teeth violently into Adam’s shoulder. A searing pain instantly gripped the young man, still unable to move.

He couldn’t see his wound because of the towering black figure hunched over him like a predator. But he could feel his blood draining, his muscles tearing, and his bones breaking.

The shadow seemed to be in a frenzy as it devoured him alive, its breathing growing chaotic.

I-it hurts! M-my God, it hurts so much! Rhaaaaa! Aaaaah! Help!

The pain was unbearable. He had never felt such agony. It clouded his mind and drove him mad.

As if to protect himself, he shut his eyes.

When he reopened them, the room was incredibly quiet. Most importantly, it was empty.

The hands and the giant shadow were gone.

He was alone in his bed.

Immediately, he sat up and grabbed his pistol from beside him. Holding it with both hands, he aimed it at the door to his room, which was still shut.

His gun trembled in his grip. His body was shaking, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded so furiously in his chest it felt like it would explode.

Feverishly, while keeping an eye on the door, he lit a small candle. Instantly, a faint but comforting yellow glow illuminated the small room.

Sitting in his bed, his legs still under the blanket that now seemed to weigh heavily on them, Adam leaned forward and peered under the bed with the modest candlelight. But he saw nothing.

"Ah… Ahah… Ahahaha! I-it was just a damn nightmare."

He had never experienced anything like it before. Yet he was certain he’d been awake when he saw that shadow enter and those hands emerge.

Never in this life—or the next—had he heard of something like sleep paralysis.

After such an experience, Adam couldn’t close his eyes for the rest of the night—or what was left of it. He stayed awake for hours, his candle burning, too afraid to try sleeping again, lest he fall back into that waking nightmare.

Finally, around half-past four, he got up and read—or rather, re-read—a lengthy manual for officers.

In reality, it was more of a treatise on politics and war, written by a French nobleman who had lived through the War of the Polish Succession and the War of the Austrian Succession.

It included stories of campaigns, strategies employed, advice on troop deployment, discipline, exercises, and many other topics.

The author of this work had some intriguing insights, though they often seemed quite anecdotal to Adam.

For example, the author wondered if the weaponry of infantry officers and non-commissioned officers should be changed. He argued, quite reasonably, that halberds and spontoons no longer belonged in modern armies and should be replaced with muskets.

To Adam, this made perfect sense—but not here, not for everyone, anyway. He had discussed it with his fellow officers, who explained it was an old debate they probably wouldn’t see the end of.

Many officers were fiercely attached to tradition.

To them, partisans, halberds, and spontoons were symbols of authority. They made leaders visible and allowed them to maintain order in the ranks.

Most importantly, they kept the officers’ attention focused on their men rather than the enemy. This enabled quick action if soldiers failed to obey orders—or worse, tried to flee the battlefield.

The author of this text, it seemed, was in favor of muskets for everyone. Of course, he asserted that even junior officers—like an ordinary captain, lieutenant, or ensign—should have muskets of better quality than those issued to common soldiers.

More than once, Adam caught himself glancing at the door to his room, his bed, and the darkest corners of the space. He even forced himself not to reposition the desk, so he could keep an eye on the entire room at a glance.

Of course, nothing happened.

Somewhat inspired by the text, he pulled out some paper and ink. Hesitant at first, Adam began drafting an argument to Colonel de Bréhant. Even if his words went unheard, he hoped to contribute to the debate, which he found fascinating.

He also included a few thoughts about war, shaped by what he knew from films and video games.

His paragraphs became increasingly dense and passionate, covering numerous topics. He defended the use of muskets for officers, arguing that an officer could fire alongside his men while leading them, and that he could more easily defend himself and the flag of His Majesty by being armed in this way.

He proposed the use of trousers and boots instead of shoes, breeches, and gaiters; recommended using less visible colors than white or any other bright hue for guerrilla warfare; and suggested giving each soldier a protective device to cover their abdomen, like a half-breastplate.

Of course, in the latter case, he was thinking of a bulletproof vest, but he could not use that term here, as it had not yet been invented. He even went so far as to suggest replacing tricorn hats with helmets.

Finally, he asserted that for hand-to-hand combat, generally avoided in this era, it would be useful to give every soldier a short sword, more manageable than a musket equipped with a bayonet.

When he had finished, he noticed through the small window that the sun was beginning to rise.

In front of him, three pages had been filled with his fine handwriting.

He gathered them and blew out the flame of his candle, now much smaller.

At once, a pleasant smell filled the room, a scent he associated—and would always associate—with birthday cakes.

He then lay down on his bed and closed his eyes, exhausted.

Alas, he couldn’t stay like that for long, as the dawn heralded a new day. Since the enemy had been defeated the day before, this day promised to be eventful, as the old Marshal de Richelieu was going to march them toward Boston.

Even though they would have to skirt the bay’s treacherous waters, one day would be enough for this army to position itself at the city’s entrance. However, they would need to set out early and march quickly, which meant leaving the artillery behind—a true burden when mobility was required.

Outside, despite the terribly early hour, the camp was beginning to stir. Soldiers were waking and gradually getting to work packing everything up. Soon, there would be nothing left in Lyn. It would become a ghost town.

Adam searched for his colonel and found him very busy, talking with his major and lieutenant colonel. He decided to hand over his little booklet later and instead went to find his company.

“Captain.”

“Lieutenant Marais. Where is Lieutenant Laroche?”

“He’s gathering the men, sir.”

“Good. We’ll need to pick up the pace. I don’t want it said that my company takes the longest to get ready.”

“That won’t be the case, sir.”

The lieutenant had many things to discuss with his officer, but he remained silent, sensing that Adam was not in a good mood. Fortunately, these matters weren’t urgent.

“I’m going to visit Private Petit. You’ll find me there if needed.”

“U-understood.”

Adam turned his back on his lieutenant and walked away, his head bowed as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. The burden of his position was indeed heavy.

He quickly arrived at the place where the wounded had been gathered. Some wouldn’t make it, and he fervently hoped that Private Petit would not be among them.

He found him lying on a fresh straw mattress, his left eye concealed beneath a thick, clean bandage. A powerful odor lingered, as aggressive as the smell of burnt gunpowder, though radically different.

The soldier’s right eye moved and settled on Adam.

“Captain.”

“Good morning, soldier. How are you?”

“I’m well, sir. They’ve taken good care of me.”

Adam nodded slightly and spotted, thirty or forty meters away, an exhausted surgeon. It was none other than the man who had treated him at Hastenbeck.

“I can see that,” he replied after a short pause. “I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet very soon. Your comrades are eager to have you back.”

“How many men did we lose?”

“The company? Three. Privates Prigent, Chanteloup, and Aubert.”

“Aubert? Maurice Aubert? I see…”

“Did you know him well?”

“He was my neighbor. We often played together as children. We enlisted together.”

“I’m sorry.”

Private Petit grimaced, then shook his head.

“It is what it is; nothing can be done,” he said in a hoarse voice before pausing for a long moment. “It’s funny… You think it only happens to others, that you’re somehow protected. You don’t realize how quickly everything can end.”

“That’s true.”

“And the rest of the army? How many did we lose yesterday?”

“A little over eight hundred men, from what I’ve heard.”

“Eight hundred,” Petit murmured. “Was it worth it?”

“… ”

“My apologies, Captain. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“It’s all right,” Adam sighed, folding his arms, understanding. “We… we’ll do everything we can to ensure it wasn’t in vain. And for Privates Prigent, Chanteloup, and Aubert, I’ll… I’ll help their families however I can.”

Adam had almost said “compensate the families,” but nothing could compensate for such a loss. No sum of money could make up for the loss of a son.

“I’ll let you rest now. Take care of yourself. Perhaps you’ll be with us when Boston falls.”

Marshal Richelieu’s French army left shortly after and marched straight toward Boston.

While the soldiers were surprised to see their ships already in the harbor, the senior officers were not, as they had been informed of the situation’s development.

Although access to the port had been secured by force, the city remained under British control. Its docks were in ruins, as were its batteries, and many buildings had been razed. All the boats had been destroyed.

Chelsea fell without a fight in the afternoon, followed shortly by Charlestown and Cambridge. By evening, Richelieu’s troops set up camp practically opposite the ruined walls meant to guard access to the city.

The headquarters, meanwhile, was established in the nearby village of Roxbury, completely abandoned by its inhabitants.

Boston was thus besieged, with a staggering number of refugees inside, including a significant number of militiamen who had survived the Battle of Lyn.