Before them lay Black Hollow, stretching out like the shadow of death itself — a dark stretch of ravine and craggy woods where enemy tents were camouflaged beneath netting and the air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and coming blood.
In the war tent, a map lay spread across the table, tokened and raked with charcoal scratches. Lanterns cast their dim light against the canvas walls, shadowing long expanses across the soldiers huddled within.
Amelia stood next to Claude, her hair knotted up under a hood, her face all angles and edge.
"There's a narrow path here," she said, indicating a trail along the cliff edge. "Just wide enough for two men abreast, but it goes straight behind the enemy's depot."
Colonel Rourke rubbed his jaw. "Too small to send the entire company."
"Then send me," Clara said.
She stood behind Amelia, her cut-short hair pushed up under a scout's cap, a knife buckled onto her thigh like it was home.
Claude's eyes narrowed. "You want to command the rear infiltration?"
Clara shrugged. "You require speed and stealth. I can climb. I've done worse in tighter skirts."
Amelia, against her will, choked on a laugh.
Claude didn't.
"This is not a stunt," he said coldly. "You're not showing me anything by dying."
"We're not trying to show you anything," Amelia said tightly. "We're trying to win."
Silence fell.
Then, with a slow nod, the general assented."We ride at dawn."
Outside the Tent
The night was tense in camp — soldiers greasing blades, testing arrows, wrapping loved ones' letters in case they didn't make it back.
Amelia knelt by the fire, grinding herbs into a tiny pouch to send to the medics. Clara came up beside her, two mugs of bitter camp tea in hand.
"You know," Clara said, handing one to her, "I'm not entirely certain when we became… this."
"Whatever 'this' is?"
Clara smiled crookedly. "Stubborn. Bravado. Foolhardy."
Amelia sipped. "You were always like that."
"You weren't. Not like that."
Amelia watched the fire, her mind elsewhere."I used to believe that strength was in silence. Obedience. Dignity."She glanced up, her eyes gentle."Now I know otherwise."
Clara glanced down. Her hand brushed Amelia's for the briefest second before she stood."We should get some rest. Can't outsmart a war if we're half asleep."
Dawn
The wind bit at their cloaks. Frost covered the grasses in brittle white as the war party assembled.
Clara cinched the straps on her pack, blades concealed in her boots and back sheath. She turned to Amelia, who now wore hardly any resemblance to the duchess she had once been. Her face was tanned with sun, her stance sturdy, her sword strapped firmly on her back.
Claude approached them, armored and stealthy.
He stood before Amelia.
"You don't have to do this," he whispered.
"Yes," she said. "I do."
They gazed at each other.
And then he leaned forward — not to kiss her, not to make some grand gesture — but to drop something small into her hand.
A wooden pendant, intricately carved. His. From before the war.
"Return," he whispered. "That's an order."
Amelia nodded once. No vows. Only determination.
The horns blew.
The army marched.
Clara dissolved into the mist with her patrol, vanishing toward the cliffs. Amelia sat next to Claude, steel in her backbone.
This evening, Black Hollow would be consumed.
And with it, the last fantasy that war was ever play.