The moon was low in the sky, puffed and amber-colored, casting a yellowish glow over the broken hills that enclosed the ravaged valley. The enemy camp twinkled in the distance, torches wobbling like fireflies through the mist. It appeared quietly peaceful from far away.
But Amelia wasn't fooled.
She smoothed the tight bandages wound around her torso, flattening out any semblance of femininity. A streak of soot smeared across her jaw line to erase the softness in her features. The stained tunic fit poorly across the shoulders, the boots pinched at the sides.
Clara stood next to her, arms folded, concealed just as thoroughly — but with her characteristic grin hiding behind her mouth.
"So this is it," Clara breathed. "Our grand metamorphosis into shadows and falsehoods."
"You were always halfway there," Amelia breathed back.
Behind them, Claude stood wordlessly. His arms were crossed, his stance taut.
The generals had grudgingly sanctioned the scheme — a desperate action necessitating a desperate measure. The women would pose as young conscripts from a conquered northern province who had been displaced into the enemy camp. The south's army had started to accept displaced "volunteers" under dubious terms. It was an opening in their ranks, and an opening in their vigilance. One they could use.
Clara had presented the concept. Boldly. Cleverly. Amelia had supported her with no hesitation.
Claude, though, had resisted it. Hard.
"There are trained men who can do this," he'd declared. "Let them."
"And those trained men don't have our edge," Amelia'd replied. "They perceive us as harmless. As less. That's our knife."
Claude's jaw had set. His fists had clenched. But in time, he'd relinquished.
Now, as the hour crept close, the tension between the three of them coiled tighter than ever.
"You don't have to do this," Claude said quietly, eyes fixed on Amelia. "There's still time to pull back."
She turned to face him, her voice low but firm. "I'm not backing down."
Clara intervened between them with a sigh. "If this is going to turn into another bridal row, I swear I'll defect to the enemy camp for some peace and quiet."
Claude glared at her. Clara raised an eyebrow in false innocence.
Then a soldier approached, a young scout, wide eyes and doubtful.
"It's time. The window won't last."
Amelia and Clara shared one look. A silent nod passed between them. Then they turned to Claude.
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Then he stepped forward and handed Amelia a folded piece of parchment. "If anything goes wrong, light this. It'll send smoke the color of blood. We'll come for you."
Amelia took it, fingers brushing his.
"Try not to need it," he added, softer.
Clara winked at him. "We'll be back before you're done sulking."
And off they were, like ghosts disappearing into the trees.
Slipping into the forest like phantoms, slipping between roots and trees, silent as death. The world constricted around them — fog swirling in the valleys, the muffled howling of enemy hounds in the night.
They crept up to the fringe of the enemy camp just at midnight.
There, in the background whispers of foreign words and the crinkle of soldiers rolling over in their sleep, Clara and Amelia made their way into enemy lines — unarmed, unnoticed, and completely alone.
But not helpless.
This was only the start.
Not of a mission.
But of something grander.