General Horace Burns of the Snowjack Infantry Company stared with fire in his eyes as his battery of cannons released their payload in unison.

Horace was perhaps the most decorated general in the Flintlock Empire. A blood mage general, Horace had a knack for war. It was like an instinct for him.

And the Flintlock put that instinct to good use.

Horace made entire nations bend their knees in supplication to their new masters. And this time, he had been sent to Frosthaven.

Normally he would have scoffed at such an assignment. Especially one so deep into a backwater continent. A continent that hadn't even developed firearms.

But here, in this northernmost corner of a faraway land, lived the last bastion of the Frostmarked. Horace's assignment not only involved subduing this people but ensuring that none of the Frostmarked lived to pass on their bloodline to the next generation.

By whatever means necessary, but preferably execution.

Horace salivated at the prospect. Everyone knew the Frostmarked were evil, after all. They represented the ways of the past. A powerful race that had left their mark on the world eons ago, their influence still lived on in the memories of mankind. Their philosophy, their way of thinking, and even some traces of their religion underpinned virtually every world culture, binding humanity together like a patchwork quilt.

Once a powerful and influential group, the Frostmarked eventually faded into history's background, taking their mysterious frost powers with them. Of all places, they had chosen to retreat here—the Northern Reach.

It was good that they did, of course. Had frost magic remained in use, whole industries and technologies would not have developed. Science would have been frozen in time. The Flintlock Empire would not be what it was today.

Horace grimaced as he pondered the momentous occasion that his mission represented. The new versus the old. Progress versus stagnation.

The Flintlock Empire had risen to dominance, representing a new way of life. A superior way.

And in order for the world to move on, properly so, there could be no connection to the past. Nothing to fall back on. Nothing to stop the progressive march of history that would take humanity to the future.

Like an old, wounded dog, Frosthaven needed to be put down lest humanity one day be tempted to fall back on its errant ways. Who better to do it than a member of the ancient enemy of frost mages. A blood mage of rare ability, Burns was an accomplished general in one of the most advanced societies in the world. The Flintlock Empire.

Horace's eyes burned with contempt as he waited, patiently, for the walls of Hailstone Keep to collapse. It had taken him a year to transport his entire company here to this filthy excuse for a capital city.

Now it would fall. And he would enjoy gutting it as well as its inhabitants.

What an old thing it was. His battery of cannons fired in unison, each launching cast iron balls at the aged stone that provided such a flimsy fortification. An ancient and outdated technology. It clearly had never been tested against the modern marvels of the Flintlock.

The stones crumbled quickly under the barrage. Each round took down entire sections of the wall. These helpless fools didn't stand a chance.

The Snowjack Infantry Company were over 10,000 strong, and armed to the teeth.

Even if there were frost mages here, they would die. They were no match for this many Flintlock. Horace balled his hands into fists as he watched.

"Sir," a corporal, said to him. The man saluted and stood at attention. "I was asked to report to you, Sir."

Horace shifted his attention. What was it now? Suddenly, he remembered why he had called for this man. "Yes, are you the scout who encountered a frost mage en route?"

"Sir, yes, Sir," the man said. His square jaw was set in place, and his eyes were fixed dead ahead.

"The one who escaped?" Horace said with contempt in his voice.

"Sir, we were ambushed. Caught by surprise."

Horace Burns stared at the man coldly, sizing him up as a soldier. "Very well," he said, retrieving a strange cylindrical device and holding it in his hand. He spoke in a deep, raspy voice. "Shamus was it?"

"Corporal Shamus Sharpshot, Sir," the corporal said.

"Corporal Sharpshot," Horace said, ejecting a long thin needle from the object. "There is no place in my army for the weak."

"Sir, I apologize, Sir. There— "

In an instant, Horace plunged the metal needle into the corporal's heart. Shamus gasped, and his eyes widened. He grabbed onto Horace's outstretched arm with both hands, but the general was unnaturally strong.

"They call this a syringe," Horace said. "A new invention. Very useful. It works well with my...unique abilities."

Shamus coughed, gurgling on his own blood. His legs began to shake. Several nearby soldiers realized what General Horace was doing and slowly backed away. No one wanted to challenge the dire soldier.

"Stand up, soldier," Horace said, placing his hands gently on the dying man's shoulders to steady his stance. The emptied needle stuck out from his heart.

"Execution for your failures," Horace said. "But a new life as a dire soldier." His lips curled upward to one side.

"Wh-what have you done to me?" Shamus said, barely managing the words.

"An infusion of my own blood," Horace said. "It might kill you. But if it doesn't, you'll be stronger than you could have imagined."

Shamus immediately began convulsing and foaming at the mouth, his vision fading to red.