The cruelty of glory's poisoned chalice has never been more poignant than in Napoleon's fall. A vast empire to rival Rome comes crumbling down, like the marble to the chisel, even as the sculptor strives to capture its enduring legacy.


The Empire was chipped away, piece by painful piece, from the snow-swept steppes of Russia, to the blood-soaked Spanish sands of Pamplona's bullring colosseum, and to final defeat by Wellington at Waterloo.


This novel tries to uphold, to the bitter end, humanity's will to hold back the tide of the inevitable and cling to the flame of one man's destiny, even as it threatens to burn out amidst the snow.


The flicker of Napoleon's light, fragile as the snowflake before the all-vanquishing thaw, was never extinguished despite the howling wind, snapping like the wolves ever at his heels, seeking to tear his empire apart, piece by piece.


I hope you see Napoleon in this light, as I do.