5AM November 8th, 1587 - Dijon, Kingdom of France Perhaps me writing this now is vain; I see no way that this journal will escape this city when I die. However, a small part of me wants to keep writing, despite the fact that my hope has been thoroughly extinguished. Perhaps I am selfish. Even if I am unable to survive through flesh and blood, I wish to continue to survive through parchment and ink. Even if centuries pass, as long as this journal survives, I will not be forgotten. And, as I lay dying, I can tell myself that I actually did something. I existed. I had an impact on this world. My life was not a waste. My hope for survival is gone. I have resigned myself to dying here.

Sauer awoke to the ringing of a bell.

He was sitting up before he opened his eyes. The sounds of hurried footsteps and worried voices echoed through the stone streets outside. Sauer made his way to the window overlooking Dijon’s main street.

“W-W-What’s g-g-going on?” Wagner stuttered, joining Sauer at the window, Gladisch following silently.

The moon hung low in the dark sky. The village of Dijon was filled with torchlight and commotion that would typically be reserved for the hours after sunrise.

The dull ringing of the bell remained. The only bell in Dijon that Sauer knew of was the one directly above him, in the bell tower of Saint Gotthard’s Chapel.

That bell was only supposed to be rung in the event of a dire emergency.

Sauer’s heart began to race.

“W-W-What’s g-g-going o-o-on?” Wagner repeated. “They’re n-n-not supposed to r-r-ring the b-b-bell—”

Heavy footsteps fell outside the door to the doctors’ quarters. The door burst open, filling the room with light. Captain Bösch entered, flanked by two soldiers.

“Thomas, Bernard, Kirsa,” Bösch said. He looked and sounded exhausted. “Where’s Adaline?”

“She did not return to her quarters last night,” Gladisch said.

“God damn it…” He took a deep breath.

“C-C-Captain, w-w-what’s g-g-going o-o-on?”

“Are the French attacking us?” Sauer asked.

“We’re under attack, but not from the French. General Krüger has given me orders to establish a camp outside the western wall, and I need the three of you there immediately. You’re the only people with any real medical experience in this whole damn village; be ready to treat any wounded.”

“If we are not under attack from the French,” Sauer said, “who are we under attack from?”

“That’s… complicated,” Bösch replied.

“Why gather outside of Dijon’s walls?” Gladisch asked. “The town’s defences would be sufficient.”

“Krüger’s orders,” Bösch replied, turning to leave. “I don’t have time to explain everything right now; I must ensure that the civilians are evacuated safely. Just get to the camp out west, I will explain everything as soon as I can.”

“With all d-d-due r-r-respect, s-s-sir…” Wagner began, but Bösch ignored him. The two soldiers left with Bösch.

“We should go as well,” Gladisch said after a moment of silence.

“Oh n-n-no, I’m not g-g-going out th-th-there. You heard what the c-c-captain said, th-th-there’s going to be an a-a-attack!”

“We are here to treat the sick and injured,” Gladisch said. “I intend to do that.”

“Gladisch is right,” Sauer said. He could feel his heart beating against his chest as he put on his jacket. Inside, a journal and pen weighed down the breast pocket. “This is what the Empire hired us to do, after all. We just… had a six month standby.”

Wagner bit his lip. “F-F-Fine. But I’m l-l-leaving as soon as we get sh-sh-shot at!”

As they made their way through the chapel, Sauer remembered an interaction he had with a soldier a few months before. The encounter had slipped his mind, the wild conspiracy theories of Barnabas Schmidt seeming inane at the time. Perhaps he had been onto something, as crazy as he had sounded.

Sauer certainly hoped not.

They exited the chapel onto the main street of Dijon. Soldiers wielding torches guided French women and children towards the eastern gate, the men being guided west to assist the Empire.

The amount of noise this early disoriented Sauer. Men shouted, women screamed, children cried. The crackling of torches and echoes of footfalls on the cobblestone roads reminded him far too much of Nuremberg; he had not experienced this amount of activity since relocating to Dijon, and he was not ready to experience it again.

They walked in silence through the chaos of the main street, avoiding groups of French civilians arguing with Empire soldiers. Men fought to stay with their families. Women carried their belongings, crying as they led their children away from their fathers.

They arrived at the western gate, groups of soldiers and horse drawn carts carrying crates of supplies to a growing group of soldiers a kilometer to the west. The soldiers whispered among each other, apparently as unaware of what was going on as Sauer.

They walked through the fields west of Dijon, the sun rising behind them, the early twilight illuminating the beginning of a forest a hundred meters in front of the camp.

They walked for what felt like hours. As they approached the Empire’s western camp, Sauer was astonished at the scale of the operation. At least one hundred soldiers and a few dozen French civilians unloaded crates of supplies from the carts arriving from Dijon, stacking them in a line as a form of improvised defences in the middle of the field.

Silently, Gladisch began helping the soldiers unload crates from the carts. Sauer and Wagner glanced at each other, then began to help as well.

The crates were much heavier than he expected, the clinking of musket ammunition heard from inside. There had to be hundreds of boxes of supplies. What they were filled with, why there were so many, and why the soldiers were piling them in the field, he did not know.

“What the hell are we doing?” a soldier next to Sauer grumbled as he set a crate down. “This isn’t going to stop anyone.”

“These are our orders and we have to follow them,” another soldier replied. “You know how Dietrich gets when we question his authority. I’d rather fight the French than argue with that lunatic.”

“Yeah, but Bösch? This isn’t like him.”

The second soldier laughed. “This isn’t like him? Do you even know what he did in Cologne? If you’ve heard what I have, you’d—”

“Thomas,” Gladisch said, nodding to the last crate in the cart. “I need your help. This is much heavier than the others.”

“Sure,” Sauer replied. The sun rose behind them, long shadows emerging from the darkness. “What do you think is happening?”

“I have no idea,” she replied simply.

“Do you think this has anything to do with the disease from Paris?” He felt foolish asking the question, but he needed a second opinion.

“Perhaps. Do you?”

“I am not sure. A few months ago, I heard some conspiracy theories from a soldier, and all of this reminded me of them. It is nothing, really.”

Gladisch only grunted in reply.

They continued to move crates, the work difficult and tedious.

Sauer stopped to take a break, glancing around the camp. Thirty meters of crates had been set up as a form of barricade, each crate filled with useful supplies. In the center of the camp, he noticed a group of people standing around a crate, a map strewn hastily over top. Captain Bösch was there, wearing a full set of plate armor, minus the helmet, his luscious silver mustache billowing slightly in the early morning breeze. Lieutenant Dietrich was also there, along with three other people that he did not recognize.

Sauer got the attention of Wagner and Gladisch. “We should talk to him. Maybe he is ready to explain everything to us now.”

As they approached, Sauer realized that this may not have been an opportune time.