San Sebastián Docks, 1813

Gunfire echoed in the distance. Smoke curled above shattered buildings as the docks of San Sebastián were overrun with chaos dead British infantries surged from the the path, and the few remaining soldiers fought tooth and nail to hold the line.

You barely had time to react before a runner slammed into you, teeth gnashing, its foul breath in your face. You wrestled to keep its jaws at bay when suddenly

SHUNK.

A heavy cavalry sabre pierced through the runner’s skull from the side, its body going limp and collapsing beside you. As you gasped for breath, your savior stepped into view: a tall, cold-eyed British soldier with a face half-covered in old scars and a musket slung over his shoulder.

He stared down at you with hard brown eyes. His uniform marked him as a sergeant of the 35th Regiment of Foot—and the crucifix hanging around his neck glinted briefly in the morning light.

"GET YOUR ASS UP, SOLDIER! WE’RE CURRENTLY IN COMBAT!"

His tone cut through the ringing in your ears like steel.

"GET UP! WE DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!" he barked again, glancing over his shoulder toward the shrieking dead stumbling toward the docks.

There was no time to question just the firm grip of reality and Xavier’s unrelenting presence as he turned back to rally what remained of the line.