The alarm bell shattered the dawn's silence.
It rang out through the mist like a scream, tearing through tents, through sleep, through whatever fragile peace the camp had managed to build during the night.
Amelia was already most of the way into her boots when Clara stumbled into the tent, sword clutched tightly in hand, tunic askew.
"We're under attack."
Claude's voice, calm and sure, called from just outside the flap. "Northern ridge. They're coming down fast."
Amelia was out the door before she had even finished strapping her scabbard to her belt. Bitter air gusted against her skin, sweeping ash across the sky. In the distance, fires crackled, their sounds muted by the chaos already growing around them.
She turned and saw it—the smoke. Thick, black, and twisting, rising from the northern hills like a monstrous shadow.
Soldiers yelled and scrambled into ranks. Horns blared warnings. The chorus of battle cries and barking commands surged through the air. Men who had laughed by campfires just hours before were now running toward the fight.
The sky wasn't red from the setting sun—it was stained by war's fire. A column of smoke stretched up, thick with the smell of burning metal and flesh. The clash of swords, the screams of dying men, the pounding of hooves—all of it reverberated through Amelia's chest, tightening her grip on her sword as she sucked in air.
She had lost count of the hours a long time ago. Memories of the ballroom, of the manor, of Claude's touch—everything felt like it belonged to someone else. Now, there was only this—an endless struggle that threatened to swallow her whole.
Her sword was slick with oil, the once-glimmering steel now stained dark red, as though it had absorbed the very rage of war. Her body was heavy, aching with fatigue, but she couldn't stop—not yet.
The battlefield was chaos—a deadly dance of clashing weapons, thundering hooves, and men charging with bloodlust in their eyes. Amelia had learned, painfully, that hesitation meant death. There was no grace in this fight. No room for the elegance of a ballroom. Only survival.
At her side, Clara moved like a force of nature. Her hair was tightly bound beneath a rag, her eyes bright with purpose, her every movement a deadly strike. The sleek lady who once lounged in silks had disappeared. In her place was a warrior—fluid, fast, precise. Clara's sword cut through the air with lethal intent, cleaving through enemy lines like a black comet streaking across the sky.
"Left!" Clara shouted, her voice clear above the noise. Amelia spun just in time to see a soldier charging toward her. She sidestepped, and Clara's shoulder collided with the enemy's chest, knocking him off-balance. Without a second thought, Amelia drove her boot into his throat, and his body crumpled at her feet.
A cold dread twisted in Amelia's stomach. It wasn't the first life she had taken, but every time it felt like the first. Every body left behind was a reminder of what they had become—what she had become.
The next opponent was a tall man wielding a wicked sword, trained to kill. He moved with the weight of experience, but Amelia had learned enough to fight back. Her limbs moved faster than she expected, her body responding with speed and precision that seemed almost foreign. She parried his blow, twisted his wrist, and plunged her sword deep into his side.
She stepped back, heart thundering in her chest. There was no room for remorse. Not here. Not now.
The battle raged on, hours of blood, dust, and steel clashing against steel. But alongside Clara, Amelia fought like a well-oiled machine—two warriors, their movements synchronous, becoming an unstoppable force.
As the hours dragged on, the enemy began to retreat, their ranks disbanding with the signal of a horn.
But it wasn't over.
The battlefield fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the cries of the wounded. Soldiers, friend and foe alike, lay scattered across the bloodstained earth, some already dead, others moaning in agony. It was a grotesque landscape of death.
Amelia stood still for a moment, gasping for air, her chest heaving as she absorbed the scene before her. The smoke from the distant fires coiled around her like a serpent from the past, reminding her of the horrors she'd seen—reminding her that none of this would ever leave her.
"Are you okay?" Clara's voice cut through the fog of her thoughts.
Amelia wiped the sweat and blood from her brow with the back of her hand, eyes unfocused. She didn't answer immediately. She simply nodded when she turned to face Clara, the familiar, bloodied face of her companion who had been with her through it all.
"I'm fine." The words felt hollow, a lie wrapped in exhaustion.
But even as she spoke, a wave of horror welled up inside her. She glanced at the body of a young soldier lying face-up in the dirt, his eyes wide and filled with terror, his mouth still half-open as if his last breath had been a plea for help that would never come.
Her stomach turned.
"We have to help them," Clara's voice was quiet, resolute—more a command than a request.
Amelia swallowed hard, unable to speak. She nodded.
"Yes. We should."
Together, they began their grim task.
Side by side, they moved among the bodies, their steps slow and deliberate. It didn't matter who had fought for which side. These were men—soldiers who had died in the name of something they likely never fully understood.
Amelia and Clara dug graves with their bare hands, their palms raw and bleeding, covering the bodies with dirt—soldiers who would never return to their homes, whose families would never know the fate that had befallen them.
"They fought," Amelia whispered, her voice thick with exhaustion. She placed her hand gently over the body of a soldier, her fingers trembling against the cold earth. "They all fought."
There was no difference now. No title, no rank, no name. Just the offering.
Hours passed. The sky shifted as the sun began to set behind the horizon. The battlefield was still, save for the occasional moan of an injured soldier or the soft rustle of the wind.
Claude found them hours later, just as they were finishing. Both women were covered in sweat, their faces streaked with dirt and blood. Their eyes were sunken, their bodies sagging with fatigue, but they had not stopped.
Claude watched them from a distance, his armor battered but still functional, his face softening as he took in the sight of the two women who had fought beside him—and cared for the fallen, regardless of their side.
He said nothing at first, just observing. And then, softly, with quiet reverence, he spoke.
"You didn't have to."
Amelia didn't meet his eyes. Her expression was unreadable as she replied. "We did what needed to be done."
Without another word, she turned and began walking away, toward the camp, toward the silent aftermath of the battle.
Clara followed, and together, they left the field behind. The weight of war still rested on their shoulders, but their bond had deepened. They were no longer just comrades—they were survivors, and they would see this war through to the end—together.