The days bled together, marked only by the relentless pounding of hooves and the distant cries of ravens cutting through the sky.
Amelia had never known such exhaustion.
The endless riding, the unforgiving terrain, the frigid nights by the fire—it was a world apart from the luxury of Everthorne Manor.
But she did not complain.
She did not break.
Claude was out there—fighting, bleeding, risking everything. And she refused to be the woman who simply waited for news, helpless and idle.
So when the opportunity came, she seized it.
The evening air was sharp and cold, the sky above a vast stretch of ink, scattered with stars. The soldiers had made camp in a clearing ringed by towering pines, the mingling scents of wood smoke and damp earth thick in the air.
Amelia sat on a fallen log, her eyes fixed on the sparring knights before her. Steel flashed silver in the firelight, striking with forceful, deliberate precision.
She couldn't look away.
The way they moved—smooth, strong, precise. A deadly dance, every step measured, every strike carrying the weight of experience.
She wanted that.
She needed that.
A presence settled beside her. Dante.
"You stare like that, and they'll think you're in love," he mused, arms crossed over his chest.
Amelia didn't look at him. "Teach me."
Dante blinked. "What?"
She turned, gaze unwavering. "Teach me how to fight."
He laughed. "That's a joke, right?"
"Do I look like I'm laughing?"
Dante ran a hand down his face, exhaling. "Amelia, you're the Duchess of Everthorne. You don't need a sword to be useful."
Her jaw tightened. "I refuse to be a burden."
Dante studied her warily. "You don't have to—"
"I do." Her voice was steady, her conviction unshaken. "I am no warrior, but I will not stand by while others fight for what I love. Claude battles. His men battle. If I can help—if I can stand my ground—I will."
Silence stretched between them. Dante released a slow breath before shaking his head with a grin.
"You're stubborn. Like him."
Amelia lifted her chin. "Will you teach me or not?"
He laughed. "Fine. But don't expect me to go easy on you."
The first lesson was brutal.
Dante tossed her a wooden practice sword. It was heavier than she expected. Her arms ached within minutes.
Her first swing? Awful.
Her footwork? Worse.
And then there was her leg.
The old injury—the limp she had carried since childhood—was a cruel disadvantage. She couldn't pivot as quickly, couldn't dodge with ease.
She fell. A lot.
But she never gave up.
Every evening, after long, grueling rides, she trained until her muscles screamed in protest. She absorbed every correction, endured every bruise, and pushed forward.
She wasn't the strongest.
She wasn't the fastest.
But she was relentless.
And when, at last, Dante placed a real sword in her hands—its steel cold and glinting beneath the firelight—something inside her shifted.
It felt right.
It felt like power.
Her whole life, she had been surrounded by men who made choices for her, who fought battles while she stood aside.
But not anymore.
With a sword in her grasp, she wasn't just a Duchess.
She wasn't just Claude's wife.
She was a woman who would fight for what she loved.
The days blurred into a relentless haze. Amelia trained until her body became numb to the pain—the bruises, the aching muscles, the constant throb in her bad leg.
The soldiers no longer saw her as a dainty noblewoman. They regarded her now with a different kind of respect.
She wasn't the strongest. She wasn't the fastest. But she was determined. And that determination earned her a place among them.
The sun dipped low, casting a soft golden glow over the hills. The chorus of cicadas buzzed in the distance, blending with the low murmur of the men sitting around the campfires, their voices a quiet hum in the night.
Amelia wiped the sweat from her forehead, rolling her shoulders as she caught her breath from another sparring session.
Dante flashed her a grin, spinning his practice sword. "You're improving."
She met his gaze with a faint smile, hands on her hips. "I'd hope so. Otherwise, all these bruises would be for nothing."
Lucas, who had been sharpening his dagger beside her, laughed. "They're badges of honor now, Duchess."
Amelia scoffed, shifting her weight onto her good leg. "They're ugly, that's what they are."
Dante grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Battle scars. Women love them."
"I am a woman," Amelia deadpanned. "And I do not love them."
Dante chuckled, tossing her a water flask. She caught it without hesitation.
That wasn't the only thing that had changed.
Her reflexes had sharpened. Her movements were more precise, more economical. She still had to adjust for her limp, but now she knew how to fight around it—how to shift her weight from foot to foot, how to find balance, even when the odds were against her.
She wasn't a fighter—not yet.
But she was no weakness.
The assault came in the dark silence of dawn.
The sky was painted in soft hues of violet and rose when the first war horn shattered the quiet.
The camp erupted into chaos. Soldiers scrambled to their feet, grabbing swords and shields. Horses reared, their riders pulling on reins, preparing for the oncoming battle.
Amelia's pulse quickened. She could hear it—the thunder of hooves, the clanging of armor, the war cries slicing through the morning haze.
Without a second thought, she grabbed her sword. No hesitation. No fear.
Dante was there in an instant, his hand gripping her arm. "Stay back."
She pulled free, voice steady. "I trained for this."
His expression hardened. "You're not prepared for war, Amelia."
Amelia's heart hammered in her chest, but she held his gaze. She could see the concern in his eyes, the fear. But she was done waiting. She was done standing by while others fought for what she cared about.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she wasn't ready.
But war was here.
And prepared or not, she would fight.