Berlin – February 1813
A thick frost coated the city of Berlin, muting its once-vibrant streets. Smoke no longer rose from chimneys. Markets had been abandoned. The only movement came from the shifting eyes of soldiers stationed along the Spree, peering eastward, where the rivers of Poland no longer carried fish—but fragments of bone and drifting red snow.
Inside the Königsberg Room of Charlottenburg Palace, a fire burned bright for the first time in days. Not for warmth, but ceremony.
They came not as conquerors, but as survivors.
Lucien Bonaparte entered first, bearing no imperial regalia. His cloak was torn, blood-stained from the Russian front. He removed it without flourish, revealing the tattered uniform of a French staff officer.
Behind him, Count von Hardenberg of Prussia gave a cold nod. The man looked twenty years older than the month before, his face lined not by age, but by horror. The Austrian envoy, Prince von Hesse, stood with sunken eyes, his right hand wrapped in bandages that still bled faintly beneath the cloth.
Marshal Barclay de Tolly of Russia arrived last—his face stone, his voice hollow.
"Let us begin," he said.
Lucien placed a rolled scroll on the table. "By Emperor Napoleon's decree, the Grande Armée offers ceasefire to all present states, on one condition."
Barclay narrowed his eyes. "He still speaks in conditions, while the dead are at our walls?"
Lucien met his gaze. "He still thinks, General. While the rest of Europe prays."
There was a long silence. Then, slowly, Barclay unrolled the Prussian missive.
"We propose… a joint command," Hardenberg said. "One banner. One defense. For as long as the dead walk."
"Unified forces, supply corridors, shared intelligence," added von Hesse.
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "And who commands this 'defense'?"
The table fell silent.
Finally, Barclay said: "Not your brother."
Lucien leaned forward, voice low. "Then who? You, Barclay? The man who abandoned Vilnius while your soldiers screamed in the snow?"
"Watch your tongue, Bonaparte," von Hesse warned. "We are not allies yet."
Lucien smiled faintly. "No. We're not."
Then he tapped the map.
"But they are."
He traced a black line with his gloved finger—stretching from Warsaw, to Brno, to Vienna, then veering west.
"They've breached the Elbe. Dresden is next."
"And Prague has fallen," von Hesse whispered.
No one dared speak.
Lucien's voice softened. "You can bicker over thrones. Or you can raise pikes. Choose."
Barclay de Tolly stood. "We will sign. For now."
Hardenberg nodded stiffly. "A temporary alliance. No treaties. No oaths. Only… coordination."
Von Hesse added, "And once this plague is ended, we return to matters of state."
Lucien said nothing. He watched their eyes and saw no true unity—only desperation.
He dipped a quill in ink, signed the first page of what would become known as The Pact of Ashes.
London – War Office
Lord Castlereagh slammed the dispatch on the table.
"They've allied. Bonaparte, the Russians, the Austrians—even the Prussians. All in one miserable stew."
Wellington leaned forward. "That cannot be ignored."
"The Prime Minister will not accept an alliance with the Corsican Devil."
"Then he'll have to accept extinction."
A quiet voice from the corner interrupted them.
"If I may… His Majesty is willing."
Both men turned.
The Duke of Clarence stepped forward, ceremonial saber gleaming.
"This is no longer about politics," the future king said. "It is about the survival of mankind. If Bonaparte himself stands between London and hell, then we stand beside him—for now."
Madrid – Royal Crypts
Queen María Isabella's hands trembled as she read the final paragraph of the English missive.
"So… the living kingdoms unite."
"Yes, Majesty," said her advisor. "Even the Pope has offered blessing to this… unholy pact."
She looked toward the sealed crypt behind the altar, once the resting place of kings.
"Then Spain too shall join the alliance. But tell them this…"
She turned to face the golden crucifix, its face weathered and cracked.
"If the dead do not stop in Austria… we will light Iberia ourselves. The plains shall burn before the rot takes root."
Napoleon's Field Command – Alsace Border
News arrived by fast courier, breathless and frostbitten.
Napoleon read the message in silence, then gave it to Marshal Ney.
"They agreed?"
"They did."
Napoleon said nothing for a moment. Then: "Good."
Letour, the pale doctor, hovered near. "And your next move, Sire?"
Napoleon smiled coldly.
"They've offered men. Supplies. Maps. Even the British send coin. But I do not want their charity. I want their fear."
He turned to the dark tent behind him—lit by green-glowing lanterns. Inside, chained bodies twitched unnaturally.
"Prepare the Legion Noire," Napoleon said. "Let them see what true command looks like."
Letour shuddered. "And what shall we call this new army?"
Napoleon's eyes glinted.
"The Army of Reclamation."
Rome – Vatican Basilica
Candles flickered. A figure in white robes emerged from the shadows, addressing the assembled bishops.
"They think an alliance of empires will save them."
"What do you propose, Holiness?" asked one cardinal.
Pope Pius VII raised a parchment sealed in red wax.
"I propose we remember the words of Revelation. For if the first Horseman has come, then the others ride close behind."
He looked toward the horizon.
"Faith alone will not hold them back."