March 25th, 1701.
The flames of Masséna's burning supply wagons flickered against the night sky, their embers drifting into the wind like silent warnings.
Marshal Armand Roux stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the charred remains, his cavalry having already retreated into the jungle. Their raid had been a success, but his expression was far from triumphant.
He knew Masséna wasn't beaten.
Not yet.
Behind him, Captain Étienne Giraud dismounted from his horse, brushing soot off his jacket. "That should slow them down," he said, his voice laced with satisfaction.
Roux didn't answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the enemy camp below, where Elysean soldiers were scrambling to assess the damage.
Then, finally, he murmured, "No. It won't."
Giraud frowned. "We burned half their food and ammunition. Without supplies, they can't hold out for long."
Roux turned to him, his jaw tightening. "You still don't see it, do you?"