Morning came like a thief.
Grey light leaked through the seams of Joan's war-torn tent, casting a cold glow over the remnants of the night before — scattered armor, torn cloth, the faint scent of sweat, steel, and fire still clinging to the air.
Jay stirred first.
His body ached — not from battle — but from the rawness of what had passed between them. His arm was still draped over Joan's waist, holding her as if the world might try to steal her away.
He watched her sleep — for just a moment longer.
Even in rest, Joan looked like a warrior queen carved from stone and fire. Her hair — usually bound in tight braids beneath her helm — had fallen loose, strands of gold tangled across her dirt-smudged face. Bruises littered her arms. Scars whispered stories across her back.
But none of it dimmed her beauty.
To Jay, she was terrifyingly perfect — not because she was flawless — but because she was real.
Slowly, her eyes fluttered open — sharp, storm-grey — instantly alert.
Her lips curved into a tired, knowing smile.
"We survived the night," she whispered.
Jay chuckled low. "Barely."
For a few heartbeats, the war outside did not exist. There was only them — two souls caught between destiny and desire.
But reality returned fast.
A horn blew in the distance — the harsh sound of French commanders calling the battered army to move.
Joan sat up, the rough linen sheets falling from her scarred shoulders. The look in her eyes had changed — back to the warrior, the leader.
"We leave within the hour," she said, voice steady.
Jay sat up beside her, reaching for his shirt and gear. "Where?"
Her jaw clenched. "Orléans. If we lose it... France falls."
Jay paused, then asked the question that had haunted him since arriving in this brutal century.
"Do you think we'll make it out alive?"
Joan turned — and for the briefest moment, her mask cracked.
"I don't know," she whispered.
But then she stood — bare feet on cold earth — looking like a queen born of ruin and war.
"But I do know this..."
She stepped close, pressing her forehead to his — fierce and unbreakable.
"You fight beside me now. And I will not fall while you still draw breath."
Jay grinned — blood pounding in his veins.
"Then let's paint the battlefield
The sun barely clawed its way over the blood-soaked horizon as Jay and Joan marched through the ruined countryside, the battered remnants of their forces behind them. Smoke from burning villages curled into the sky like dying prayers. The earth was soaked with mud and ash — the cries of the wounded and dying haunted every step.
But something worse lingered.
Jaques.
Trusted captain. Loyal friend.
Or so Joan had believed.
Jay saw him first — cloaked in British colors — handing over maps, French supply routes, secrets meant only for their command.
Joan's heart shattered in her chest. Her face — dirt-streaked, blood-stained — twisted with fury and heartbreak. Jay stepped beside her, eyes dark, voice like iron.
"He dies."
Jaques turned, startled — then arrogant. "You wouldn't—"
Jay didn't hesitate.
Steel screamed as Jay's sword cut through the air — the force of his swing fueled by betrayal and rage. The blade crashed into Jaques' neck — bone splintering, flesh parting like wet paper. Blood geysered from the stump of his neck, hot and steaming in the cold morning air.
His head hit the dirt with a wet thud, rolling until it stopped at Joan's feet — his dead eyes staring up at the woman he betrayed.
Joan didn't speak.
She drove her sword down — skewering the severed head into the mud — nailing his treachery to the earth for all to see.
"Let them know," she whispered, voice shaking with fury, "this is the fate of traitors."
The army, though weary and wounded, roared in approval — their spirits hardened by the brutal justice they had witnessed.
Jay stood beside her, his breathing heavy, his hands slick with blood — not just of enemies… but of betrayal.
Their war was far from over.