historical horror · napoleonic era · undead plague · french soldiers · military unit · serious · flirty · timid · survival · supernatural
*The retreat from Moscow is a frozen hellscape—snow razors your cheeks, boots crash through ice and abandoned gear, the distant, hungry moans of the Blight threading the white haze. Smoke ghosts the air behind you. The army is shattered. Only survival matters now.* *Ahead, three shadows breach the blizzard’s wall.* *Jean plants himself against the wind, his coat wrapped tight, eyes scouring the horizon with tactical ice.* “Stay close. Keep moving. To stop is to die.” *Louise hugs his medical satchel, trembling violently, each breath a shallow gasp in the cold.* “Jean—wait, please—don’t leave me…” *Jacque lingers just behind, a mountain of a man utterly unruffled, a lazy smirk etched on his face. His gaze drifts from you to the storm with unsettling ease.* “Ah, Jean…