Shamus Sharpshot arose from the ashes, his royal infantry uniform torn and tattered, with pieces burning orange-red. His blood boiled. His emotions raged.

How could this have happened?

They had been so close. Close to destroying the famed Hailstone Keep of ancient lore after traveling across oceans and continents, only to see their fate turned on a ploy? The entire target of their attack had been a fake.

Frost magic of epic proportions.

Shamus wandered through the wreckage of the once 10,000-man strong Snowjack Infantry company. Bodies were burnt to a crisp and then soaked with water. Men were flayed alive by metal shrapnel from the explosion.

Others were simply blown to bits.

In the end, water was the only thing that saved them from complete annihilation. Why were the Frostmarked so careless? They could have had complete victory. Instead, they abandoned their ruse as soon as the explosion hit, leaving three thousand Flintlock to be saved by the very water that created the illusory Hailstone Keep.

This wasn't war.

The Flintlock waged war. War had rules. War had tactics. War even had order. This was a brutal mockery of war. Shamus would have preferred a valiant death to this.

The water level had fallen to Shamus' boots. Steam rose from the swampy muck after dousing out the flames, filling the air with an admixture of mist and ash. Through the fog, Shamus could see a lone figure walking calmly. The shadowy silhouette revealed a tall man, his neatly pressed uniform intact, silver buttons lining its center—a tricorn hat on his head. The man's back was erect and his body large and well-muscled. It could only be one person.

Horace.

General Burns emerged from the cloud of soot, his still neatly pressed uniform lined with black ash. His face wore a scowl, lines forming near his nose and eyes, his anger palpable.

Shamus saluted the dire general, his hand forming a flat line near his head. "Sir," Shamus said.

Horace grunted and then spoke in a low voice. "Dark tidings, Corporal. Dark tidings." His eyes glowed red.

"Should I gather the men for retreat?" Shamus said. "The day is lost."

Horace's eyes pulsed brighter, and his fists clenched into balls. Speaking through clenched teeth, he said, "This is only the beginning, Corporal. I do not lose wars."

"Sir?" Shamus said. "Only one-third of us remain. The survivors are gathering farther south. There's nothing further we can do."

"The war is far from over, Shamus," Horace said. He reached down into the soggy swamp. With one hand, he grasped the collar of a dying soldier. Then he lifted the man up into the air with supernatural strength. The unconscious man's body was limp, broken bones bending unnaturally at several joints.

But there was breath. Just barely.

After letting the man down, Horace rolled up the sleeve of his jacket, the bunched-up cloth forming the only visible wrinkles on his uniform.

"Sir?" Shamus said questioningly.

Horace removed a silver dagger from his belt. The hilt of the ornate weapon was embroidered in flowery golden ornamentation. Fit for a king. Then the general used it to and slit his own wrist. Crimson blood poured out as if from a faucet. It streamed down his arm, staining his jacket.

Shamus gaped.

Burns knelt down beside the barely living soldier and let out a few drops of his blood onto the man's wounds.

"You're making him like you," Shamus said, understanding. "Like us."

"This is why I don't lose battles," Burns said. "This is why they sent me."

Shamus understood. Burns would remake the army, at least those injured, into dire soldiers. But would it be enough? If Frosthaven had defeated their entire company with a single trick, then what good was it to try and fight them.

"Help me save the wounded," Burns said. "Prepare them for me."

"Sir," Shamus said. "You expect me to do that?"

"It's the only way," Burns said.

Shamus Sharpshot wanted to belch.

Burns glared at Shamus as if ready to bark an angry order, but then his face relaxed. "They expect us to retreat like a dog with its tail in between its legs. That means we have an advantage. We need to press that advantage."

Shamus nodded, pulling out his own dagger. "Very well. Do you have your syringe?"

"No," Burns said, shaking his head. "Lost it in the blast. But that doesn't matter. It only takes a few drops to minimally endire a soldier. Your transformation was stronger because you had more transfused. The rest will take longer. Not all of them will make it, but those that do will recover from their wounds. Eventually." The general moved on to another wounded soldier, releasing his blood into the man's open wounds.

Shamus rolled up his sleeve and slit his wrist. "Did you know I would survive?"

Burns looked him in the eye. "Some men can't handle the transformation," he said. "But I sensed you had enough grit. Still others reject it entirely intentionally. They die, refusing the gift."

Excellent. Burns gambled with Shamus' life. And now it was his turn to do likewise. "How many will die? These are our own men, general."

"Everyone dies," he said eerily. "But one in three become like us."

Shamus took in the odds. So Burns had gambled with his life like a game of handgun roulette? Of course he did. "And how many resist it altogether?" Shamus asked.

"It's hard to say," Burns said, staring at Shamus and pausing. The man was hesitating about something. What was it? He touched the tip of his three-cornered hat. "But in general, I've never seen a Frostmarked willingly undergo a blood blending."

Interesting. All these years serving the Flintlock alongside dire soldiers, and only now did he learn of such a thing? It was like a secret only a few were let in on. And perhaps it was linked to why the Flintlock wanted the Frostmarked dead so badly. Aside from their being the scum of the earth, of course.

Still, the Flintlock typically were sparing in their use of dire soldiers, using them only when absolutely needed. Most generals were dire, and some of their lieutenants. Occasional elite squads were endired for special missions. But never before had Shamus heard about an entire company being transformed? That was ludicrous.

"We end them here," Burns said. "There will be less of us, but we'll be far stronger than ever before. We cannot afford to fail."

Shamus leaned down into the swamp and felt a leather boot tucked under a supply box. Heaving, he pushed the box aside and pulled up a limp figure. "So we're medics now," Shamus said. "Healing with our blood."

Burns cracked a smile, his lips curling to one side. The tall, slick man let out a soft chuckle.

"What's funny about that?" Shamus said. He grabbed the figure out from the ground.

"We're not spreading life," Burns said, tossing back his head. His tricorn hat shifted backward as he did.

Shamus furrowed his brows. He yanked on the boot of the limp figure on the ground. The person's face was covered in a gray hood. Strange. That wasn't typically worn by soldiers. He picked up the unconscious figure, lifting it with both of his arms so as to pry the body free from between an entrapping supply box.

"Blending," Burns said, his eyes glowing red. "Is a basic principle of any magical element. In this case, it allows me to pass down power from me to you, granting you the powers of the dire soldier."

Shamus' eyes narrowed. This wasn't making sense. "How does that work exactly, Sir?"

"We all die," Burns repeated.

"Excuse me, Sir?"

"You and I," Burns said. "We're already dead."

Shamus stumbled backward in shock. How could he be already dead? That didn't make any sense.

As he registered the truth of the revelation, he dropped the body he had been holding, which slammed against the ground with a thud.

The overdrawn hood fell back, revealing the face of a frost mage girl.