December 11th, 1799

That Wednesday was a stormy, freezing day. The skies were closed. The air was covered by curtains of white. The fast falling snow, the thick fog, and the clouds of condensed water floating around made it nearly impossible to see what was happening more than ten feet ahead.

Lugo was worried about the visibility, but Obermann deemed the conditions as perfect.

—They won't be able to see us coming —the lower ranking officer said, as he put his bicorn over his head.

Francis overheard this conversation from the corner of the room, but also agreed with Lugo's concern. The lack of visibility would be a huge problem. The cold, another one. Obermann was only trying to be optimistic, because he wanted to defeat the Ruhmnians once and for all, but he also was being stupid.

—Are your men in position? —Laupin approached Francis, and asked him with a whisper.

—Yes. They're hiding in the bakery. I'm about to leave, and join them there.

—Do you remember when to attack?

—Yes. Once the Ruhmnian lines reach the central square and the first fusillade takes place.

—That's right —Camille shook his hand—. Good luck my friend. Take care of yourself.

—Good luck to you too —Francis hugged him, before giving him a tense smile and walking out the door.

The general snuck out of the city hall and into the dead silent streets of the city.

The day before this ambush took place, all the residents of Petrovak received orders from major general Obermann to remain locked up inside their homes during the morning and afternoon of that Wednesday.

—It's for the sake of your own safety! —he warned, and watched as the Harmanian volunteers translated his words to their wives, children and friends.

Thankfully, the locals seemed happy to comply. And, since the weather conditions were too dangerous anyway, they decided to listen. No businesses opened. No parties were held. No meetings. Nothing. Everyone closed their doors and windows, and kept to themselves.

Even the beggars had gone inside the churches, to hide from the conflict and the cold.

But the civilians were not the only quiet individuals in the capital. Hidden in the buildings that surrounded the central square, just as Laupin had envisioned, were the soldiers of the republican army, waiting for the critical hour to arrive.

Most were sitting down on their long stairways, ready to storm the streets at any given time. Others were hiding behind thick curtains, impatient to fire at their enemies from the high windows. And a few braver ones even had climbed up to the snowy roof of some houses, to have a clearer view of the city's outskirts and spot the Ruhmnian forces sooner.

So, when Francis said that the was not a single soul in sight, he meant it. The pavement was clean. You couldn't spot a single shadow for miles.

All of their provisions had been moved and safely stored in the underground crypts of the Johannes von Damaskus Abbey, which was being protected by general Santerre and his men. Their empty carts, baggage trains and wagons, taken to a road outside of Petrovak by major general Munsch. So there weren't even vehicles laying around. The street was bare.

Like this, the aura of the city was terrifying. There were no joyful and charming voices bickering, laughing and singing in the distance. There wasn't a single ray of light shining through the fog. The sound of the wheels turning was absent. The neigh of horses was gone. All was white, all was still, all was silent.

This reality seemed like a dream that preceded a terrible nightmare.

Feeling a shiver run through his spine, Francis hurried up and entered the bakery. The owner of the business, Mikail Korotkov, had offered his assistance to the republican army on his own volition, and had allowed their soldiers to hide inside of his business, in exchange for civility.

—Don't destroy my life's work, and I'll keep you well fed —he said, after mentioning the horror stories he'd heard about the scorched land policy applied by Obermann.

—We will not set fire to your bakery, sir.

—Good.

To show how supportive he was of the foreign troops, he'd spent the morning baking, and once Francis' men arrived to his doorstep, he invited them inside and served them bread. Now he was sitting on a stool behind his counter, watching those poor, restless soul devour each crumb with the hunger of a thousand beasts.

—Thank you for this, sir. They'll need the extra energy to fight —Francis said to the man in his complicated language, and shook his hand.

—Get those ruhmnian bastards out of Harmania, and I'll feed you and your men all year if you need me to —the baker said, with some resentment in his voice—. They are the worst rats that have ever stepped into this country. Kill them all, if you can.

—We'll try —the general nodded, then released the baker's palm and headed up to the second floor of the building, where more of his soldiers were hiding.

He moved to the nearest window, and checked the central square. It still was empty, and devoid of all life. They'd have to wait a little bit longer.

—When did Laupin say Alexsei would head out to contact the Ruhmnians?

—Around 10:00.

—It's 11:15 already. Look at that watch.

—Where?

—The wall.

—Oh shit, you're right.

—Maybe the bastard got lost in the fog.

—Maybe he never wanted to help us at all.

Francis overheard this conversation between the men behind him, but said nothing throughout it, and kept watching the window. He trusted Laupin, but understood the lack of faith of those cadets. They had gone through hell to reach Petrovak, and the end of said journey wasn't proving to be worth it. There was no reward for their feats, only more suffering and pain. They had all rights to feel let down and upset.

But Laupin, thankfully, proved their words wrong. Around 11:30, blotches of red and black were seen walking down the street, through the fog and into the city square. But they weren't moving in lines, weren't holding any formations, and didn't seem at all ready for a surprise attack. In fact, they all looked rather confused by the state of the usually rambunctious city. It was empty, soundless, still. And so, so... weird.

Francis then raised his eyes to the city hall. The upper windows of the building opened, and the mouths of a thousand muskets emerged between the curtains. Shots were fired, the first wave of Ruhmnians were killed, and right then, the ambush began.

—EVERYBODY OUT! OUT NOW! —he screamed and jumped up to his feet, with his saber in hand.

Jacques and Charlie, who were also crouching near a window, stood up and repeated his orders with louder, less sophisticated voices:

—MOVE YA' ARSES!

—STOP SLOUCHING AND GET UP AT ONCE! YA' BUNCH OF LAZY FUCKS!

Francis had no time to chastise them for their choice of words. He had an attack to lead. And so, he ran outside, where chaos had already begun. Shots were being fired from every direction. Luckner's cuirassiers – which were hiding in the nearest post house- came running down the street like wolves, ready for the carnage. Francis charged towards the city plaza as the riders crossed the pavement around him and got lost in the fog ahead.

The some of the disoriented Ruhmnians formed a square to try and resist the multiple, simultaneous assaults by the republicans. They were able to repel the calvary by doing so, but not the infantry.

Others ran away, but were caught and killed by Obermann's forces. And most of the troops that had stormed the capital, believing it to be empty, found themselves at loss as to what to do. This lack of communication and reaction from the Ruhmnians was precisely what the republicans needed to win the first part of the battle.

The second part of the battle, however, would be trickier. Because it involved leaving the city altogether, and marching to the nearby fields again. After all, the enemy generals weren't nearly as stupid as the rebels wanted to believe they were. Most of their forces were still concentrated near the woods, away from the capital.

Outside of Petrovak, more than 90.000 men waited for them. And they knew the Ruhmnians well enough to know they wouldn't leave without a fight.

As Francis and his brigade made their way out of the capital, shivering as they fought against the increasingly cold weather, the general calculated an estimate of how many men the republican army was working with. His results were hopeful, but not good.

Their legion had 53.000 men left. Adding the 20.000 international soldiers brought by Laupin, and the 52.000 Harmanian volunteers, the total number of belligerents was 125.000.

The Ruhmnians, on the other hand, had 2 corps present —taking in consideration the size of their previous attacks— and also counted with the help of a newly arrived brigade. Although Francis did not know their exact numbers, he could think of an estimate: 110.000. Subtracting the soldiers killed on the city square, there were about 105.000 Ruhmnians left.

This meant that despite the bad weather, the poor shape of their troops and their lack of motivation, they still had a bigger chance of winning than their opponents.

And he had to make his men know that too. Because if there was a will, there was a way.

And this is why, out of the blue, he began to sing the lyrics to one of their most popular patriotic songs, that usually was played by his trumpeters in the battle field to raise the morale; "La Victoire du Peuple".

The soldiers, picking up on his grave and steady voice, began to sing along as well. And soon, he wasn't along in the performance; the whole brigade was shouting the words to the hymn.

Laupin, hearing the choir, also followed along. Munsch came next. Then Arquette. Santerre. Obermann. Linières. Chaumont. Lindry. Marie. And even the frightened marshal Lugo.

Everyone was singing their lungs out as they crossed the pale and cold fog, left the city, and ventured into the woods.

The patriotic spirit of the whole legion was reborn through music. With their minds and mouths busy, screaming those poetic words about freedom and justice as loud as they could, to both frighten their enemies and raise their own faith in themselves, they found themselves without time to question their own destiny, and to fear the unknown. They didn't focus on the approaching terror, because they couldn't. And they didn't care about dying, as long as they kept singing along.

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AN: Yet another old drawing: