Their training ground was a rough stretch of dirt just beyond the infirmary tents, bordered by blackened trees and the last wisps of smoke curling up from the burned ridge. Morning mist hung thick and silver, draping the shattered weapons racks, practice mannequins, and splintered targets like a shroud.
Claude stood at the center—sleeves rolled, wooden sword in hand, eyes razor-sharp.
Opposite him, Amelia gritted her teeth and adjusted her stance. Clara, on her right, already stood loose and ready, one eyebrow lifted in a crooked smile that suggested she was thoroughly enjoying herself.
"You're overextending," Claude said, quiet but cutting. "That limp will cost you if you don't balance. Force alone won't save you."
"I am compensating," Amelia snapped, swinging. He blocked easily, knocking her arm wide with infuriating control.
"No. You're pushing," he said, stepping back. "That makes you predictable. Step wider on your right. Redirect your weight. Stop fighting your own center."
She scowled but tried again. This time, he didn't stop her.
Clara came next, fast and cruel, her blade a blur. Claude grunted and deflected, sending her staggering a half-step.
"You're not fencing with perfume and court smiles anymore, Beaumont," he growled. "This is war."
Clara spat in the dirt. "Good. I was tired of pretending."
They paused to breathe, the mist still curling low around them. Claude's face eased, only slightly.
"You're both improving. Quickly."
Amelia leaned on her sword, sweat glistening along her brow. "Desperation makes great motivation."
Claude's gaze lingered between them. For a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe. Then:
"I wasn't captured."
Silence slammed between them.
"What?" Amelia's voice was sharp, brittle.
Claude exhaled. "There was no kidnapping. I volunteered to disappear. It was a trap—for the traitor embedded in our ranks. A leak feeding the enemy our movements. The upper chain kept it quiet. Most of the men didn't know."
Amelia took a step closer, disbelief plain in her face. "We thought you were dead. We crossed battle lines—risked everything—and you were playing spy?"
Clara's arms folded. Her voice, flat. "This was a ruse?"
Claude didn't flinch. "I didn't know the damage it would cause. The traitor was buried deep. My disappearance forced him to move. We caught him. But it cost us—time, lives. And I couldn't send word. Any letter risked interception."
Amelia's throat tightened. "You could've given me something. Anything."
Claude stepped closer, his voice softer now. "I didn't think you'd follow. I thought you'd stay in Everthorne. Safe. But you didn't."
Clara huffed. "We're not really the 'sit tight' type."
Amelia's face shifted—anger fading, understanding rising beneath.
"You did what you had to," she said quietly.
Claude nodded once. "And now, so are you."
They stood in silence—three warriors in a triangle of scorched earth, the sounds of distant war drumming behind them: hammering steel, shouted orders, marching feet.
But here, for a heartbeat, there was something more grounded than conflict.
Unity.
Claude tossed them each a new blade.
"Again. You're not here as guests. If you're staying…"
"We fight," Amelia said, raising her sword.
"We endure," Clara added, stance already resetting.
Claude gave a single nod. And they moved—striking, blocking, learning.
Together.