The letter arrived folded crudely, sealed with twine and wax smudged at the edges.
The courier had no words, only a stiff salute and a single sentence.
"It was smuggled out from somewhere near Zaragoza. Sir, they said it was for you."
Moreau took it with little thought.
He received dozens of letters petitions, updates, threats, pleas.
He set it aside with his usual detachment and resumed reviewing the engineering reports from Perpignan.
The map beside him, inked with troop logistics disguised as civilian deployments, remained open.
His mind was calculating schedules, not emotions.
But something about the wax imperfect, like a child's attempt at formality drew his eyes again.
He picked up the letter and broke the seal.
The paper inside was worn.
The handwriting uneven, cramped at points and meandering at others.
The French was rudimentary, riddled with mistakes, but the intent bled through every word.
He began to read.
"Dear General Moreau,
