The streets of Port Albion thrummed with life, the sounds of merchants’ calls and laborers’ grunts filling the air. Nathaniel Ashcroft moved through the crowd, his polished boots clicking sharply against the cobblestones. His crimson coat, trimmed with gold, demanded attention, yet the people’s gaze was one of silent contempt.

  “Another lapdog of the king,” one muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. “How many villages must burn before the army is satisfied?”

  Nathaniel paid no mind to the murmurs, his expression impassive as he made his way toward the officers’ quarters near the governor’s mansion. Inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and aged wine greeted him, as did the flickering flames in the hearth, casting long shadows on the walls.

  “Captain Ashcroft,” Edmund Fairfax greeted, his voice rich with ease as he lounged before the grand fireplace. “The governor’s hosting a ball tonight. Will you be in attendance?”

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  Nathaniel’s jaw tightened, the mention of the ball stirring unease. The “victories” reported to him were steeped in blood—villages burned, families scattered. “I have no taste for such frivolities,” he replied, his voice as cold as the stone beneath his boots.

  Fairfax’s smile faltered, but his tone remained firm. “Sentiment has no place in our duty. These rebels are naught but thieves. We bring order.”

  “Order?” Nathaniel repeated bitterly. “Or tyranny, dressed as order?”

  Fairfax’s gaze turned sharp. “Loyalty to the crown is not optional. Mind your words, Nathaniel.”

  Later, in his quarters, Nathaniel sat in silence, the book On the Rights of Man resting heavily in his hands. The words seemed to leap off the page: “All men are born free and equal in rights.” He stared at them, the doubt creeping into his mind, wondering if his duty had led him into the shadow of tyranny.