November 14th, 1804.
Friedland, a town poised on the brink of history, lay nestled amidst the rolling hills of Eastern Europe. Russian General Prince Bagration squinted through his dusty spyglass, beads of sweat trickling down his furrowed brow, as he peered northward. What he saw sent a chill down his spine.
The French Army, a relentless and imposing force, was converging on the horizon. Their troops, like ants scurrying to a feast, were amassing with a purpose that boded ill for the Russians.
"I warned the Russian High Command about this disastrous position," Bagration muttered, frustration evident in his voice. "If we face the full might of the French Army here, we will be crushed, and the consequences will be dire."
He lowered his spyglass, casting a concerned gaze to his aide-de-camp, who stood nearby, awaiting his orders.
