Nowhere Left to Run

April 12th, 1701.

The rain fell in heavy sheets over the jungle, washing away the bloodstains left behind from the last skirmish. The scent of damp earth mixed with the lingering stench of smoke and gunpowder, a constant reminder that war had consumed the New World.

Armand Roux sat beneath the tattered canopy of his war tent, watching the flames flicker against the soaked fabric. His body ached from the battle at Port-Liberté, but he had no time to rest.

Masséna would not take this loss lightly.

Across from him, Étienne Giraud tightened the bandages around his arm, grimacing. "Port-Liberté was a success, but it won't stop him. That bastard is relentless."

Roux exhaled, his fingers drumming against the wooden crate beside him. "No, it won't stop him. But it will force him to act."

Vasseur, still weak from his injuries, shifted where he sat. "How do you know?"