To my beloved brothers and sisters,

  The mountains close around us like walls of ice, yet our eagle standard cuts through the storms as if it carries the sun itself. We have fought here for months. Victories have been won, but each has come at a terrible price. Too many friends now lie buried beneath the snow—not only from enemy steel, but from frostbite, which has claimed more lives than the French. Still, the men whisper that Rome has been reborn. These frozen passes are not merely a march of war, but a march of destiny, to reclaim our place in the world.

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  The French are said to be near collapse. Whether that is truth or rumor, we cannot yet know. They are veterans of wars that shook all of Europe. We, the heirs of a broken past, carry steel forged in new fire. Yet every man here walks as though the Caesars themselves march beside us. If we falter, the world will remember us as relics. But if we prevail, Rome will no longer be a memory—it will live again.

  At sunrise we march into the greatest battle yet. None among us can sleep. They say Napoleon himself will lead the assault, determined to shatter our defense and force his way into our lands. We will not allow it. And if the gods permit, he may not live to see another dawn.

  Pray for us, my brothers and sisters. The cost has already been great, and may grow greater still. Should these words be my last, let them stand as proof that Rome rose once more upon the snow.

  — The letter ends abruptly in blood, the final words and signature forever lost.