The air reeked of burnt timber and iron, a sour tang that clung to the back of Clara’s throat. She crouched behind a splintered fence post, her fingers digging into the dirt as cannon fire roared across the field. The sky was a bruise of smoke and ash, the sun a pale coin behind the haze. Around her, soldiers in tattered uniforms scrambled for cover, their boots crunching over shattered glass and twisted metal. Clara’s pulse hammered in her ears, drowning out the screams of the wounded.
A bullet whizzed past her head, striking the post with a sharp *clang*. She flinched but didn’t move. The Confederate officer who’d captured her weeks ago had warned her: *“You’ll die here, like the rest of your kind.”* She hadn’t believed him then. Now, as the earth trembled beneath her, she wondered if he’d been right.
The explosion hit seconds later, a shockwave that sent her sprawling. Dust and debris rained down, coating her face in grit. Clara coughed, her lungs burning. Somewhere nearby, a man shouted—her brother, maybe? She couldn’t tell. The battlefield was a blur of movement and noise, a cacophony of gunshots and cries. She forced herself to stand, her legs trembling. The camp ahead was on fire, the tents reduced to smoldering heaps. Her fingers brushed the revolver at her hip, cold and solid. She’d taken it from a fallen soldier earlier, its weight a comfort she couldn’t explain.
A figure emerged from the smoke—a woman, her uniform torn, blood streaking her cheek. Clara froze. The woman’s eyes locked onto hers, wide with recognition. *Mama.* The word surfaced unbidden, bitter on her tongue. She’d last seen her mother in the village square, minutes before the raid. Now, here she was, alive but broken, her hands raised in surrender.
“Clara,” her mother whispered, voice frayed. “Don’t—”
A gunshot split the air. Clara’s mother crumpled to her knees, a dark stain blooming on her chest. Clara’s breath caught. The woman’s head tilted back, her lips moving in a soundless plea. Then she was still.
Clara stumbled forward, ignoring the pain in her ribs. Her mother’s hand was cold, her skin already pallid. A single drop of blood traced her jawline, catching the dim light. Clara pressed her fingers to the wound, but the blood didn’t stop. It seeped through her gloves, staining them red. She wanted to scream, to cry, but the sound died in her throat. The world had gone quiet, the distant explosions fading into a dull hum.
A shadow loomed over her. Clara turned slowly, her revolver raised. A Union soldier stood there, his face obscured by soot and sweat. His uniform was mud-streaked, his eyes dark with exhaustion. He didn’t lower his weapon. “You’re not one of them,” he said, his voice rough. “I saw you at the camp.”
Clara nodded, her grip tightening. “Where’s my brother?”
The soldier hesitated. “He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
The man exhaled, wiping his brow. “They took him. The officers—” He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “You should leave. This place is done.”
Clara shook her head. “I’m not leaving without him.”
The soldier studied her, his expression unreadable. Then he turned, shouting over his shoulder. “Get back to the line! We’re pulling out!”
Clara watched as the soldiers retreated, their boots crunching over the battlefield’s ruins. The air was thick with smoke, the scent of gunpowder and death hanging heavy. She knelt beside her mother, her fingers brushing the woman’s hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t save you.”
The words felt hollow. She had no idea where her brother was, no plan, no hope. But she couldn’t leave. Not here. Not like this.
A distant horn sounded—a long, mournful note that echoed across the field. Clara stood, her legs unsteady. The camp was a wasteland, the tents gone, the wagons overturned. She turned north, toward the distant hills, her revolver clutched tight. Somewhere out there, her brother was still alive. And she would find him.
The journey began at dawn, the sky a pale gray as Clara trudged through the scorched earth. The air was cold, her breath visible in the morning light. She hadn’t slept, couldn’t bring herself to rest. Her mother’s body lay behind her, wrapped in a tattered blanket, and she kept glancing over her shoulder, half-expecting to see her rise. But the woman didn’t move.
By midday, the sun beat down, turning the ground into a furnace. Clara’s boots were soaked with sweat, her throat dry. She stopped at a stream, crouching to drink. The water was cold and clear, soothing her parched lips. She cupped her hands, splashing it over her face, then sat back, breathing heavily. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the chirp of insects and the rustle of leaves.
A noise behind her made her freeze. Clara turned slowly, her hand on the revolver. A man stood a few paces away, his hands raised in surrender. He was older, his face lined with years of hardship. His clothes were worn, but his eyes were sharp, assessing.
“You’re not from around here,” he said, his voice low.
Clara didn’t answer. She studied him, searching for threats. The man’s gaze flicked to her revolver, then back to her face. “You’re lost,” he said. “This place isn’t safe.”
“I’m not lost,” she replied. “I’m looking for someone.”
The man frowned. “Who?”
“My brother. He was taken by the soldiers.”
The man’s expression shifted, something unreadable passing across his face. “You’re in the wrong place,” he said. “That war’s over.”
Clara stood, her jaw tight. “It’s not over for me.”
The man studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Then you’ll need a guide.”
Clara hesitated. Trust was a dangerous thing. But she had no other options. “Where are you going?”
“The town of Red Rock. It’s a few days south. You’ll find answers there.”
She glanced at the horizon, where the hills rose like jagged teeth. “I’ll go with you.”
The man nodded, turning toward the path. Clara followed, her steps steady despite the weight in her chest. The journey ahead was uncertain, but she had no choice. Her brother was out there, and she would find him—even if it cost her everything.
