Paris. November, 1812.
While the Russian wilderness froze and bled, the gilded heart of the French Empire pulsed with uneasy silence.
The Tuileries Palace stood in solemn majesty beneath a sky the color of slate. Its vast halls were lit by chandeliers that failed to chase away the creeping cold in the air. Courtiers whispered more than they spoke, and even the most arrogant generals seemed restless, their boots echoing too loudly in corridors that once rang with triumph.
In the grand chamber beyond the Hall of Mars, Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte sat at a long oak table scattered with letters, maps, and reports. A fire crackled behind him, but it cast no warmth over the man they called L'Empereur.
His eyes, sharp and dark, scanned a sealed dispatch bearing the insignia of the 12th Light Infantry. Wax broken. Message read. Burned.
He said nothing for a long time.
Marshal Berthier, his Chief of Staff, stood to the side, hands clasped behind his back. "It is most certainly a mistake. Some panicked exaggeration. Men grow superstitious in the cold."
"Morel's handwriting was steady," Napoleon said at last. "There was no madness in his tone. Only terror."
He stood and paced before the hearth, casting a long shadow against the marble walls.
"They speak of the dead rising. Frenchmen and Russians alike. Marching again. Without command. Without life." He stopped, turning sharply. "Does that sound like exaggeration to you?"
Berthier hesitated. "There are rumors, yes. Of similar occurrences in Galicia. A Polish battalion disappeared without trace. A convoy of supplies was found overturned. Horses torn apart. No tracks in the snow."
Napoleon's jaw clenched.
Behind them, a tall man emerged from the shadows. Dressed not in military uniform, but in a long black coat lined with sable fur, he bowed with a practiced grace.
"Your Majesty," the man said, voice like oil on stone. "If I may offer counsel."
"Ah. You." Napoleon narrowed his eyes. "Dom Augustin. I did not summon the Inquisition."
"I go where heresy treads," the man replied. "And what you speak of is no madness. It is older than war. Older than Rome. You may wear the crown of empire, sire, but this—" he paused, stepping forward "—is a plague that has crowned itself in death."
Berthier scoffed. "Surely we're not giving weight to superstition."
Dom Augustin reached into his coat and pulled forth a torn page, brittle with age and marked with a symbol—an ouroboros, a serpent devouring its own tail, but with bones instead of scales.
"This manuscript was recovered from beneath the catacombs. Latin. From the time of the Black Death. It speaks of the Legion of the Hollow. Soldiers who fell and rose again, bound by a cursed oath."
Napoleon took the parchment, studied it in silence.
"You think this is connected to my campaign?"
Dom Augustin's smile was cold. "Russia is where Europe dies, they say. You've marched into the land of bones, Emperor. And now the bones are marching back."
A knock at the chamber door broke the tension.
A breathless officer entered, face pale, snow still melting on his coat.
"Dispatch from Vilna, Your Majesty. Urgent."
Napoleon took it and read quickly. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"Well?" Berthier asked.
"Vilna has fallen," Napoleon said. "Not to the Russians. To something else. The garrison is silent. No survivors. They say the dead breached the walls."
Silence followed.
Then, slowly, Napoleon straightened his coat and turned to the fire.
"Ready the Imperial Guard. Recall the survivors from the 12th. And summon the scholars from the University of Paris. I want the truth of this 'Legion'."
"Sire?" Berthier asked. "You mean to face this threat personally?"
Napoleon stared into the flames.
"If the dead rise," he said, voice low and iron-willed, "then I shall bury them a second time."
Dom Augustin stepped forward once more. "Then may God help you, Emperor. For what stirs now does not kneel, does not die, and does not forget."
Outside, snow began to fall over Paris.
And far beneath the city—in chambers sealed for centuries—something stirred.