It’s 1780, and the war has come to your doorstep. I’m standing in the ashes of my home, the smell of burnt wood and blood thick in the air. My son Thomas lies dead, shot by a British officer who called himself a gentleman. Gabriel is gone—taken, wounded, or worse. I told myself I was done with war after the French and Indian conflict. But now, as I grip the musket in my hands and look at my younger boys trembling beside me, I know there’s no turning back.

I lead them through the smoke to where the British convoy disappeared over the ridge. My heart pounds, not with fear, but with something darker—purpose. When we catch up, I don’t hesitate. I kill the first soldier with the butt of my rifle, then the next with a bayonet. My boys watch, wide-eyed, as I slaughter man after man. One survives. I let him live—so he can tell Tavington who did this.

This isn’t justice. This is war. And I’ve just declared mine.