The air was unbreathable.

An oppressive heat had settled over Fort Bourbon, and there was no escaping it. It had been like this for three days, with no sign that it would change in the days to come.

July was the hottest month of the year in this region.

The men could only work efficiently early in the morning and very late in the evening. The rest of the time, it was pure torture.

By nine in the morning, the temperature had already reached thirty degrees, climbing to forty-six degrees in the full sun! At that point, going outside became dangerous.

The night offered some relief to both men and beasts, as temperatures dropped to around twenty degrees. As a result, like owls, the soldiers had started living at night.

Adam, drenched in sweat as if he had plunged fully clothed into the river, was sweating profusely.

He had abandoned his powdered wig and was even considering shaving his head to cool down. His clothes stuck to his body, and a strong odor followed him everywhere.

Like his men, he went to the river every day to cool off and wash. He also drank several liters of water a day, giving him the impression of being a leaky bucket or a bottomless well. He was never satisfied.

Flies, seemingly made frantic by the unbearable heat, buzzed and bumped against the walls of his darkened room. There must have been four or five of them.

Their incessant noise was driving the young officer and his lieutenants crazy, the latter having become sluggish after a simple morning exercise session.

That morning, rather than having his men run in circles, he had allowed them to play rugby. For a brief moment, they forgot about the war, the British, the rangers, the fatigue, the repetitive food, the meager pay, the heat, and all their other problems.

They didn’t thank their officer with words, but their gazes spoke volumes.

In his room, with the curtains drawn in a vain attempt to keep the heat at bay, Adam was writing his novel, Beauty and the Beast. His progress had been steady over the past few days, in part because there wasn’t much else he could do during the daytime.

He estimated that in a few weeks, he would be finished. More than half of the work was done, and he was eager to share it with his friends.

He was already thinking about his next project and wondering whether he should publish them together or separately. If he chose the first option, he would logically have to pick another animated film—most likely a Disney.

Fortunately, there were plenty of great successes to choose from, but he also felt tempted to put into writing a great movie like Gladiator, Titanic, The Godfather, or The Lord of the Rings.

Once again, the choices were abundant.

He had even made a list of the greatest titles based on his own criteria. He wanted to bring to life, through words, the epic opening scene with the brave General Maximus, to make his readers weep as he recounted the impossible love between Rose and Jack, to introduce the charismatic Vito Corleone, and to narrate the heroic charge of the Rohirrim at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

He was anticipating all of this so much that he had to force himself not to rush things, lest he ruin the story he was currently working on. Wanting to go too fast could ruin everything.

He had already read stories where the author, too eager to finish, had botched the ending in just a few chapters. Fortunately, such cases were rare, but that didn’t make them any less unpleasant.

Hmm… How can I describe this? Romance is really not easy. I feel like I’m overdoing it, but at the same time, not doing enough. Good thing I have an animated movie as a guide! Otherwise, I would have given up long ago!

For the thousandth time, he let out a long, deep sigh, which made his two lieutenants roll their eyes.

They had built a chessboard and were in the middle of a game.

The board was relatively simple, but the pieces were well-crafted, patiently and meticulously carved by hand.

Lieutenant Marais had an advantage over his opponent, as unlike Lieutenant Laroche, he still had his queen. The latter, leaning slightly forward, was lost in deep thought, desperately searching for a way to get rid of that troublesome piece.

He finally moved a knight, which was immediately captured by a pawn, clearing the way for a rook that swiftly took Marais’ queen in turn.

"Par Sangbleu! I didn’t see that coming! I suppose there’s no going back, huh?"

"Haha, if that were possible, I would have done it at least two or three times. Damn, you’re really good at this game."

"Let’s just say I have experience," Marais said with a faint smile. "My turn…"

Adam didn’t even hear them, so absorbed was he in his writing.

Belle, dressed in a stunning golden gown carefully crafted by the enchanted objects of the castle, appeared at the top of a grand double staircase, softly illuminated by massive chandeliers. Her steps, muffled by the red and gold carpet beneath her feet, were barely audible in the vast hall, large enough to easily house her father’s entire home.

A delicate hand, wrapped in a long glove of… hmm… silk? Let’s say it’s silk. A long golden silk glove, slid like a caress along a complex banister following the curve of the staircase. A timid smile formed on her lips as she lifted her eyes toward the other side of the staircase.

The Beast was there, standing tall and dignified like a gentleman. He seemed nervous, yet at the same time, very happy. His eyes widened as he discovered his guest, so radiant and so beautiful. He discreetly turned toward Lumière, who smiled warmly at him before making a small encouraging gesture toward his master.

Slowly, he began descending the few steps that separated him from Belle.

Hey, this isn’t bad! I’m sure this will make more than a few people smile! Especially the women!

Just then, a sharp knock sounded at the door, startling Adam, who nearly spilled ink on his manuscript. His two lieutenants straightened at the same time and turned toward the door.

Lieutenant Marais stood up nimbly and lowered the cold metal handle, revealing a man in uniform with a narrow, stern face.

“Gentlemen, good morning. Is your captain present?”

“I’m here,” Adam said, standing up slowly. “What is it?”

“Forgive me, Captain Boucher. I didn’t see you. Monseigneur, the Marquis de Montcalm, is gathering all officers in his office. Only captains and above are admitted for an emergency meeting.”

“A-An emergency meeting? Did something happen?” he immediately asked in a nervous tone, only realizing too late how foolish his question was.

Monsieur de Montcalm wouldn’t call his officers together so abruptly if nothing had happened. Adam immediately assumed it had to do with the English, who were expected to arrive in New France.

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Or perhaps it was to inform them that a peace treaty had been signed and all operations had to cease. That seemed rather unlikely, though, because from what he understood, the British still had the strength to fight and good reasons to do so.

After all, they had yet to avenge Boston and reclaim Nova Scotia.

If peace were signed now, the British Crown would lose an enormous amount of money and territory.

Adam followed the officer in silence as he was led to the main fort. Along the way, he felt like he was melting under the aggressive sun. If he had a pan, he could have fried an egg without lighting a fire.

Even the birds seemed to prefer staying in their nests. If it weren’t so hot, he might have smiled at the thought of them taking flight, only to roast mid-air and fall around him as ready-to-eat meals.

Montcalm’s office was packed, and a dreadful odor filled the air as officers, their foreheads glistening with sweat, stood together.

Adam wiped his face before droplets could form and sting his eyes. He quickly spotted Albert Fontaine, still with his arm in a sling, along with the others.

After some effort, he made his way over to them.

“Hey,” he whispered, giving a small nod.

“Morning, François. How are you?” Albert asked, panting as if he had run a marathon.

“Hot, but fine. Hey, do you know what’s going on?”

“No, apparently no one does. Ah, here comes the commander.”

Sure enough, Montcalm arrived, visibly suffering from the heat just as much as his subordinates, accompanied by a man Adam didn’t recognize. His uniform was covered in dust, and his face bore the marks of exhaustion.

All eyes turned to him, filled with unspoken questions.

The marquis’s face was grim, making it clear he had terrible news to deliver.

“Gentlemen, thank you for responding so quickly to my call,” he began in a low, almost mournful tone. “I have just received terrible news.”

The already heavy atmosphere became unbearable for the younger officers, including Adam, who was now expecting the worst. He braced himself to hear that the King had died or that another nation had entered the war against them.

“Four days ago, a group of enemies, two hundred strong, infiltrated deep into our territory and struck several of our villages with great force. There have been heavy casualties, both French and Indian. The villages attacked are mainly along the Richelieu River, between Lake Champlain and Montreal. They are as follows: Saint-Louis, Saint-Joseph, La Prairie, and Saint-Lambert. Fort Chambly was also set ablaze, and its garrison massacred.”

A dreadful silence fell over the room as everyone absorbed the shock. All these locations were practically next to one of New France’s largest cities! It was no different from saying that the English had slipped into the heart of their kingdom and massacred people at the gates of Paris!

“The ones responsible for this… are Robert Rogers’ rangers, led by their commander himself. There are reportedly several hundred dead.”

Adam clenched his teeth and fists. Despite the suffocating heat, he felt his body go cold—frozen, even.

His comrades reacted no differently. Their eyes burned with a thirst for vengeance.

“Gentlemen, this man is a scourge! He must be eliminated! I order an expeditionary force to be sent, and not a single one of them is to escape justice!”

At once, the commander’s office was swept up in a wave of approval.

Unfortunately, Montcalm couldn’t send all his men while the English threat still loomed.

If Albany were to learn that the garrison of Fort Bourbon had abandoned its position to hunt down the rangers, the British military authorities would have no choice but to dance with joy and seize the fort. Naturally, Montcalm would become the laughingstock of the world, just like Monckton the coward, the one who had handed over Nova Scotia on a silver platter.

It was therefore decided to send four hundred men, twice the number of rangers, to ensure that no enemy would escape. Adam’s company was among those selected to track down and eliminate this threat.

Even though well-trodden dirt paths naturally formed north of Fort Bourbon and along the shores of Lake George and Lake Champlain, the infernal heat considerably slowed down the troops under the command of the Marquis de Bréhant.

With every step they took, the soldiers stirred up irritating clouds of dust that clung to their damp skin and sturdy uniforms. Due to a weak, almost nonexistent wind, they had no choice but to breathe in this dust. Adam felt as if he were licking the rocky ground.

The four hundred men following the colonel had to take regular breaks to recover their strength and quench their thirst. Fortunately, with so many rivers in the region, finding fresh, pure water was not difficult. All they had to do was bend down, fill their flasks, and ease—if only for a moment—the relentless dryness gnawing at them all.

After eleven exhausting days of marching, they finally reached Fort Chambly—or rather, what remained of it. The strong smell of burning reached them before the ruins even came into view.

When they emerged from the forest, the sight froze them in place.

Where once stood a modest but crucial fort meant to guard the Richelieu River and serve as a relay point for forts further south—particularly Fort Carillon, which had become the most important supply hub for Fort Edward—only ashes remained.

The ground, blackened by the terrible fire and still smoking in a few places, seemed cursed, devoid of the slightest trace of life. Here, nothing seemed like it could ever grow again. Ever. How could soil burned to this extent recover and once again sprout green grass and healthy trees?

Because of the heat, everything had burned. It had happened so fast that even with modern means, the damage could only have been contained. Here, the flames had easily spread to the immediate surroundings.

The grass, yellowed from lack of water, had burned all the way to the river, transforming the landscape into a scene of utter desolation. Even the Richelieu River, which should have sparkled like a diamond, seemed tainted by the tragedy.

Everything here had turned black.

Adam, silent as the grave, cautiously stepped through the debris. He passed by a body he first mistook for a charred log. But upon closer inspection, he saw what had once been a man.

His twisted limbs looked like broken branches. His gaping jaw, revealing white, decayed teeth, gave the impression that he had been petrified while screaming in agony.

But there was only silence.

Among the ashes, a few blackened buttons glimmered faintly. Along with a belt buckle, they were all that remained of his uniform. Everything else had vanished, devoured by the flames.

"My God…" murmured Lieutenant Marais, stunned by the horror.

Lieutenant Laroche, his face drawn tight, made the sign of the cross for the repose of all these souls.

Inside what had once been a building, amid shattered beams, they discovered dozens of bodies in the same miserable state. Where an entrance had once stood, there was now an overturned cart.

Adam had no trouble imagining brave Frenchmen trying to defend the place before being trapped inside. No doubt those damned rangers had set fire to the building after blocking the only exit.

The fury among the French was immense, seeming to pierce the sky itself.

They would have liked to bury them all properly, to give them decent graves, but time was pressing. The enemy had a significant lead on them.

They found a similar scene at Saint-Louis and Saint-Joseph.

These two peaceful villages, located a little further north of the fort and believing themselves safe from danger, had been annihilated. Like Fort Chambly, everything was silent.

The only sounds were the gentle murmur of the nearby river and a summer breeze carrying tiny ash particles like fragile snowflakes.

The overwhelming, acrid smell of burning was there as well.

Of the wooden houses, nothing remained. Bodies lay scattered on the ground, some spared from the fire. Just like in the ruined fort, it was easy to imagine the horrifying scene that had unfolded.

Adam, breathing heavily, pictured these poor people running for their lives before being gunned down.

Like a funeral procession, Colonel de Bréhant’s troops advanced slowly before suddenly coming to a halt. Their gazes all locked onto the sight at the edge of the village—a massive oak tree.

Hanging from the gnarled branches of this centuries-old tree, motionless figures swayed gently.

More than one soldier fell to his knees upon seeing the men, women, children, and elders left exposed to the sun and the birds. Rough ropes suspended them above the ground like lifeless puppets.

Tears rolled down Adam’s cheeks as his eyes remained fixed on the tree.

Captain Gauthier, his face twisted with emotion, slowly drew his pistol and raised it before shooting at a crow that held a middle-aged woman’s eye in its beak. The bullet pierced the bird’s chest, and it fell onto the grass near a child’s shoe.

There must have been a dozen bodies in that tree.

Never had Adam felt as cold as he did in that moment.

"Cut them down," Bréhant ordered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Lay them in the grass. We… Ah… Captain Colmard, take care of them."

The officer, as pale as his uniform, said nothing but nodded. He gave a few stiff, almost mechanical instructions, and they began untying the knots that held the poor souls.

No one spoke during the entire operation. There was nothing to say.

"Move out," Bréhant finally said, his voice slightly firmer. "We will find these bastards."

His troops were so silent that he didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. Everyone resumed the march in an eerie quiet, and it didn’t take long before they found the rangers’ trail.

But all they kept finding were more dead bodies and more smoldering ruins. Destruction seemed to be the sole purpose of the group they were chasing.

Frustration grew unbearable within the troops. The soldiers, their faces hard and their jaws clenched, feared they would always arrive too late.

Then, they noticed that the rangers’ tracks led south, away from the river and the populated areas.

After committing all their crimes, they had turned back and were now trying to return home.

Those bastards! They think they can get away with this?! Never!

They entered the woods and followed the tracks for two days until, eventually, the trail scattered. The footprints disappeared into the dense forest, making further pursuit impossible.

It was like chasing a ghost.

Adam clenched his fists tighter, his anger pounding in his skull. His helplessness was driving him mad.

We’ll never catch them! Damn it! They have too much of a lead on us now! Shit!

Colonel de Bréhant’s troops were forced to return empty-handed to Fort Bourbon. Before the Marquis de Montcalm, de Bréhant could do nothing but lower his head.