The air stank of ash and blood.
Amelia cinched the binding around her chest beneath her frayed tunic, the coarse cloth dragging against skin that no longer flinched at discomfort. Mud clung to her boots as she stepped through the remnants of the southern camp. Bodies—some still faintly warm—were being carried off for burial. The ring of steel and the cries of dying men had finally stilled, leaving behind a taut, watchful silence.
She'd watched it all unfold from the ridge—unable to intervene, unwilling to look away.
Clara paced beside her, equally still, her jaw set. Her disguise had long since become irrelevant—no one doubted them anymore. Not after they'd coordinated with medics, managed weapon stores, relayed intelligence. Not after they stopped asking for permission.
The smoke hadn't yet lifted from the field below.
And then—a voice. Crisp, measured. Familiar.
"Take care. That arm's nearly shattered—don't let the bone cut the artery."
Amelia froze.
Her breath caught.
She hadn't even realized she was moving until tents and wounded soldiers blurred past her in a rush. Clara's voice called after her, but Amelia didn't slow.
She rounded the edge of the makeshift infirmary—and there he was.
Claude.
Exhausted. Filthy. His uniform ripped, bloodstained—but not with his own, she noticed, with a flicker of gratitude. He stood directing triage with that same unshakable calm, face taut with effort, one hand clutched tightly to his side.
Amelia stopped cold. Her voice failed her.
But he turned—as if he'd felt her there.
Their eyes met.
Time didn't slow—it halted.
His lips parted in stunned recognition, and in that instant, the ever-composed general looked like a man completely undone.
"Amelia?"
Her heart lurched. He looked older. Hardened. But alive. And hearing her name on his lips made everything else real again.
She swallowed. "You absolute idiot," she rasped. "You should've written again."
He stepped forward—hesitant. His injured hand twitched, as though unsure whether to reach for her.
She didn't wait. She closed the space between them and wrapped her arms around his neck—like surrender, like defiance.
For a heartbeat, he stood frozen—unsure if she was real.
Then, at last, he leaned into her.
They stayed like that—silent, clinging—in the middle of a ravaged battlefield, while the world continued around them as if it hadn't just shifted on its axis.
When they pulled apart, Claude looked past her—and his eyes widened.
"Clara?"
She stepped out from behind Amelia, her usual sarcasm softened by the moment.
"Good to see you, General," Clara said dryly. "You're still terrible at staying out of trouble."
Claude blinked between the two of them. "What in the Saints' name are you doing here?"
Amelia gave a tired smile. "Looking for you. And doing a bit more than embroidery, as it happens."
Claude ran a hand over his face. "You shouldn't be here. It's not safe."
Clara folded her arms. "And yet, here we are. Alive. You're welcome, by the way."
He turned back to Amelia, jaw tight—torn between relief and fury.
"We didn't come to be decoration," Amelia said, steel threading her voice. "We've worked. We've helped. We've fought."
Claude exhaled, visibly overwhelmed.
But then—softer than anything before—"You came for me."
Amelia nodded. "You're not alone in this war, Claude."
Silence stretched between them. The air hung heavy with things unsaid, but beneath it all ran something undeniable.
Hope.
Claude's gaze drifted to the scorched horizon. His expression sharpened.
"If you're staying—"
"We are," Clara and Amelia said in unison.
He inhaled slowly. "Then we've got work to do."