The field of battle was still.
For the first time in weeks, there were no screams, no steel ringing against steel, no drums of boots pounding toward death. Only the wind, passing through the shattered remnants of a war that had finally — finally — ended.
Smoke rose slowly over charred ground, and the sun burst through gray clouds in wary slivers, as if it, too, waited to determine whether peace would last.
Amelia was at the center of it.
Her armor scuffed, hair disheveled, face covered in the blood and soot of the previous siege. Her helmet clutched in one hand, scanning the horizon where the enemy standard had once been.
It was gone now. Removed. Replaced with Everthorne steel and battered triumph.
Clara stood by her side, slouching slightly against her blade. She wore a shallow gash along her jaw and bruises erupting under her sleeves, but her eyes blazed hot — triumphant, unapologetic.
The generals were already sounding orders, attending to the wounded, mobilizing the retreat. But first, before they could move toward home, before they could turn their backs, they closed in around the three who had made it all possible.
Amelia. Clara. Claude.
The crowd of officers and soldiers remained silent as General Hawthorne, battered but standing, cleared his throat and began to speak.
"There are battles won by sword. And then there are battles won by will." His voice rang out. "You three gave us both."
He spoke to Amelia and Clara, allowing the silence to breathe. "You fought like soldiers. You schemed like commanders. You shed beside us. And in the blackest hours, when we had nothing more, you gave us hope."
Another general nodded. "You've earned your place among us. No title. No rank. Just brothers and sisters in arms."
A storm of cheers broke out.
Soldiers pounded their fists to their chests. Some saluted. Others just gave nods of profound, silent respect.
Clara blinked, her throat hard to swallow.
Amelia bowed her head, overwhelmed, the ache behind her eyes sharp and sudden. For the first time since putting on her armor, she didn't feel like she was acting.
Claude stood between them, gazing at the two women who had once been a stranger and an adversary. Now, they were something different altogether. Something nearer to blood.
The Journey Home
The road home was long and dusty.
Autumn had started to varnish the trees gold and rust, their leaves dropping with every step. Villages they went through had open doors and vigilant eyes. Some cried at the sight of soldiers coming back. Others brought forth bread and wine, placing offerings at their feet.
Amelia rode at the head, her limp concealed under the even pace of her horse. She didn't cover it anymore. She wore it as a badge — a symbol of what she'd been through.
Clara rode alongside her, her sharp sarcasm tempered. She still delivered one-liners and gave looks that could kill, but there was a relaxation between them now. A bond based on something much deeper than mutual survival.
Claude followed behind them at times, observing silently. The dynamic had changed. No damsels in this case. No protectors and protected. Only equals.
Evenings, they sat around fire rings, no longer requiring guards at each corner. Clara would hone her dagger while Amelia wrote in her journal. Claude would sit against a log, eyes closed, simply listening to their voices.
In one village, a child gave Amelia a single red flower. "For bravery," the girl whispered.
In another, an old man grasped Clara's hands and grunted, "We heard what you did. Thank you."
With every step toward Everthorne Manor, it felt like shedding armor — not armor, but the kind worn beneath the skin. Painfully, slowly, they started to allow themselves to believe it was over.
Everthorne on the Horizon
The manor stood at the top of the hill, high and peaceful, unscathed by war's destruction.
As they rode through the gates, Grace stood in the doorway, eyes open wide, her hands clamped to her mouth in shock.
Amelia got down first. Grace flung herself into her arms without speaking.
Clara stood a pace or two back, observing with a tiny, inscrutable smile.
Claude observed both of them.
And for a moment, there was no war. No politics. No past.
Just home.