The days following the battle were quieter, but not gentler.
The battlefield had been stripped of its dead, but there were still wounded. Tents sprouted like mushrooms over bloodied fields, each one full of groans, whispered prayers, and frantic work to keep men alive. There was not much medicine to be had, and time in even shorter supply.
Amelia knelt by cots rather than standing on the battlefield with a sword. Her sword lay at her side unused, her hands instead dripping with water, tinctures, and blood. She hadn't thought her life would be reduced to this — but she hadn't thought about war either.
She worked with diligence. Dressing wounds. Rebandaging ripped flesh. Applying cool cloths to fevers. Clara remained at her side throughout, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, dark hair pulled back tightly as if to shield herself from grief. Neither woman said much in those long hours, but their looks said everything. They divided the work, the pain, the stoic dignity of simply being useful.
It was this that gave them a reputation among the men.
Initially, the soldiers had looked at them with mild amusement — the lady and the ghost-mistress, playing at war. But once they'd fought alongside the men and now tended to them, respect came upon them like smoke in a tent. The men started referring to them as The Iron Doves — a curious combination of elegance and toughness. Not a derisive name. An actual one.
One of the soldiers, hardly more than a lad, cried when Amelia washed out a cut across his ribs.
"Thank you," he breathed. "You fight like a blade and heal like a prayer."
Amelia had to look away.
Clara, on the other hand, moved with a fierce tranquility that bore no relation to status and every relation to intent. She understood pain well — not only the kind that leaked from bodies but the kind that writhed within them. She spoke soft jokes, narrated stories, even hummed once, and her presence within the tents was a salve no balm could provide.
A few days afterward, as twilight fell red and bruised across the horizon, the war council was convened. The generals met in a poorly lit command tent — maps strewn across the table like a gambler's cards, with pieces and scratched ink lines that spoke of troop movements, enemy locations, and bloodshed.
Claude stood beside the map, just back from a reconnaissance assignment, his brow creased. His armor shone dully in the lantern-light, and his shoulders were tight with fatigue.
Amelia and Clara stood aside at first, unwanted but not rejected.
General Toren, a grizzled man with a sharp tongue, pointed north."The supply line of the enemy is too well-defended. We cannot shatter it by force. We have to distract them. Lie to them."
A second general nodded."We tempt their soldiers to the eastern hills. Send fake signals. But for that, we require eyes within. A spy."
There was silence.
The room changed. No one offered.
Clara moved forward."Send us."
Nods turned.
Claude stood up straight."Absolutely not."
But Clara didn't blink. Her tone was flat."They won't be looking for women. We're invisible to them. They'll think we're healers, camp followers, nothing more."
Amelia's voice added hers, firm and low."We're trained enough to take care of ourselves now. We know how to move quietly. How to listen. How to report back. And no one will suspect a thing."
"It's too dangerous." Claude's tone sliced like a knife."You're not trained spies."
"And your trained spies are where exactly?" Clara retorted."Dead or missing. You need people who can get in without raising alarms. You need people the enemy doesn't even bother watching."
The room had fallen silent. The generals stared at them, some disbelieving, others considering.
Amelia moved closer to the table. Her limp slowed the action, but not the determination.
"I've watched every step of the enemy's movement. I know where the holes are. I can get through. And Clara—she's not afraid." She glanced at her."She's quick. She listens to everything."
Claude's jaw hardened."No."
Clara arched an eyebrow."Because we're women?"
He spun to her."Because I've already lost too much."
The tent grew silent once more.
Amelia met his gaze."Then trust us not to die."
Claude gazed between them — two women who had once despised one another, now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with grime on their boots and battle scars on their hands, requesting not protection, but purpose.
The silence hung too long before General Toren spoke.
"The girl's right." He glared at Clara."Both of them. It's mad—but it just might work."
The generals nodded, one by one.
Claude said nothing.
He stared at Amelia, then at Clara, then finally exhaled like a man breaking under something heavy.
"Fine." His voice was low, resigned."But I'm the one who trains you."
Amelia didn't smile. She just nodded.
She and Clara would go behind enemy lines. They would become ghosts in the smoke. Not noblewomen. Not mistresses. Not even Iron Doves.
Just shadows. With knives.And secrets to steal.