The King's carriage was a mobile sauna.
Steam leaked from the window frames, hissing into the cold autumn rain. The glass was fogged white on the inside.
I rode beside it on my mare, keeping a respectful distance. Even through the wood and velvet, I could feel the heat radiating from the vehicle.
It wasn't a comfortable warmth. It was the dry, oppressive heat of a furnace.
Behind us, the Royal Convoy stretched for a mile.
Supply wagons with broken axles. Soldiers marching in rags. The Old Guard, their bearskin hats drooping, trudging through the mud.
We were heading north to Boulogne. To the invasion camp.
But it felt like a retreat.
The countryside was dead.
The "Blue Drop" withdrawal had hit the provinces hard. We passed villages that were silent tombs. Bodies lay in the ditches, curled into fetal balls, faces twisted in agony.
Some had torn their own skin off. Others had just stopped breathing.
And the ones still alive...
They watched us from the treeline. Hollow eyes. twitching limbs. They looked more like ghouls than peasants.
"General," a scout called out.
I spurred my horse forward. Napoleon was already at the front, staring through his telescope.
"What is it?" I asked.
"A toll booth," Napoleon said.
He handed me the glass.
I looked.
The bridge over the Somme was blocked.
A barricade of overturned carts, furniture, and dead horses.
Standing on top of the pile was a man.
He was huge. Shirtless in the freezing rain. His chest was covered in scars—self-inflicted scratches from the withdrawal.
He held a rusted saber in one hand and a severed head in the other.
Behind him, fifty men stood with pitchforks and muskets. They were shaking. Vibrating with the need for a fix.
"Citizen Razor," the scout whispered. "A deserter. He calls himself the Warlord of the North."
"Clear the road," Napoleon ordered. "No prisoners."
I drew my saber.
"Old Guard! Form line!"
The soldiers behind me groaned. They were tired. Hungry. They didn't want to fight another skirmish against starving Frenchmen.
"Wait."
The voice came from the carriage.
The door opened.
Steam billowed out. A thick, white cloud that smelled of ozone and sweat.
A figure stepped out.
It wasn't the King in his royal coat.
It was Alex Miller in his shirtsleeves.
His white shirt was soaked with sweat. It clung to his chest, revealing muscles that shouldn't exist on a Bourbon.
Steam rose from his skin in waves. Raindrops hit his shoulders and hissed, evaporating instantly.
He didn't shiver. He burned.
Behind him, a smaller figure emerged.
Charles.
He was wrapped in three heavy fur blankets. Only his eyes were visible—dull gold coins in the shadow of the hood.
His breath plumed in the air. Thick, frosty clouds.
They walked past the horses.
They didn't look at us. They looked at the barricade.
"Your Majesty!" I called out. "Stay back! They have muskets!"
Alex ignored me.
He walked with a heavy, rhythmic thud. Thump. Thump.
Charles glided beside him. Silent. Ghostly.
They stopped ten paces from the bridge.
Citizen Razor looked down at them. He laughed. It was a wet, hacking sound.
"Look!" Razor shouted. "The fat King is steaming! Is he cooked already?"
His men cackled. A jagged, nervous sound.
"We want a toll!" Razor yelled. "Gold! Or Blue! Give us the Blue!"
He pointed his saber at Charles.
"Or give us the boy. We're hungry."
Alex tilted his head.
He took off his smoked glasses.
His eyes were gold. Spinning. Whirring.
"Hunger is a powerful motivator," Alex said. His voice was a deep baritone that cut through the rain. "But it leads to poor investment strategies."
Razor sneered.
"Kill him!"
A bandit on the left raised a musket.
BANG.
The shot echoed in the valley.
I flinched.
Alex didn't.
He raised his hand.
He caught the bullet.
SIZZLE.
He opened his hand. A flattened piece of lead dropped into the mud. It was molten. Glowing red.
The bandits went silent.
"Thermal transfer complete," Alex whispered.
He lunged.
He didn't run. He exploded forward.
He hit the barricade.
He slammed his palms against the main support beam—a massive oak trunk.
HEAT DUMP.
He pumped energy into the wood.
The moisture inside the log flash-boiled.
BOOM.
The log detonated.
Splinters the size of daggers flew everywhere. The barricade collapsed in a shower of steaming wood.
Citizen Razor fell. He landed in the mud, stunned.
Alex stood amidst the wreckage. He was glowing now. A faint, red aura surrounding his body.
"Charles," Alex said. "Stabilize the market."
The boy moved.
He dropped the blankets.
He wore a simple grey suit. He looked small. Fragile.
He walked toward a bandit who was trying to stand up.
The man swung a club.
Charles caught the weapon.
FREEZE.
Ice spread from his hand. It covered the club instantly. Then it jumped to the man's arm.
The bandit screamed.
His arm turned white. Then blue. Then black.
Frostbite in seconds.
The man fell, clutching a limb that was now a block of ice.
It was a massacre.
Alex burned through them. He punched a man in the chest, and the man's coat caught fire. He grabbed a musket barrel, and the metal warped, glowing cherry-red.
Charles froze them. He touched a leg, and the bone shattered. He touched a face, and the scream died in a frozen throat.
Fire and Ice.
They moved in perfect sync. A binary system of death.
Citizen Razor scrambled backward. He was terrified. The withdrawal tremors were gone, replaced by pure, primal fear.
"Monster!" Razor screamed. "What are you?"
Alex walked toward him.
Steam poured off his shoulders. His eyes were blinding gold.
"I am the Audit," Alex said.
He grabbed Razor by the throat.
Razor's skin blistered. He gagged.
"And you are a liability."
Alex squeezed.
SNAP.
He dropped the body.
Silence returned to the bridge.
The rain hissed on the burning wood.
Alex stood there, heaving breaths of steam. Charles stood beside him, shivering, his breath fogging the air.
They looked... inhuman.
Gods of physics. Monsters of math.
Alex turned back to us.
His shirt was torn. His skin was red and angry.
"Clear the debris," Alex ordered.
His voice was calm. Professional. Like he had just finished filing a report.
"We are behind schedule."
He walked back to the carriage.
Charles followed, picking up his blankets.
They climbed inside.
The door closed.
The Old Guard stared. Veterans of Italy. Men who had stormed the bridge at Lodi.
They were terrified.
They gave the carriage a wide berth.
Napoleon rode up beside me.
He looked at the frozen corpses. At the charred wood.
He took a long drink from his flask.
"General?" I asked. "Did you see that?"
"I saw it," Napoleon whispered.
He wiped his mouth.
"We didn't bring a King to Boulogne, Michel," Napoleon said softly.
He looked at the steaming carriage.
"We brought a plague."
"Move out!" I shouted, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.
The column lurched forward.
We crossed the bridge.
We stepped over the bodies.
And we marched north.
Toward the sea.
Toward England.
And toward a war that was no longer about flags or borders.
It was about survival.
Against the monsters we served.