The air reeked of sulfur and blood by the time Elara reached the ridge. Her boots sank into mud churned by cannonfire, each step a battle against the weight of her coat. The sky burned crimson, not from sunset but from the fires spreading through the enemy’s supply wagons. She crouched behind a fallen oak, fingers tightening around the rifle’s stock. The barrel was still warm from the last shot, a .58-caliber Springfield that had taken down three Confederates before the smoke swallowed them.
“We hold the line,” said Corporal Hayes, his voice a gravelly whisper. He crouched beside her, his face etched with sweat and soot. “But they’re coming again.”
Elara didn’t answer. Her eyes tracked the movement in the distance—gray-clad figures advancing through the smoke, bayonets glinting like jagged teeth. The 12th Pennsylvania Infantry had held this ridge for two days, but the Union forces were thinning. She could feel it in the way the men moved, their shoulders hunched, their hands shaking as they reloaded.
A shell exploded near the far end of the line, sending a plume of earth into the air. Elara flinched but didn’t move. The sound was familiar now, a rhythm that pulsed through her bones. She’d learned to measure time by the explosions—each one a heartbeat, each pause a breath.
“You’re still here,” Hayes said, his tone not unkind. “Most of the new recruits run when the guns start.
“I’m not a recruit,” Elara replied. Her voice was steady, but her fingers trembled as she adjusted the rifle’s sight. The barrel was slick with rain, and the trigger felt like ice against her palm.
Hayes studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering on the scar that ran from her temple to her jawline. It was a old wound, one she’d earned in a skirmish two months prior. “You’ve got guts, girl. But this ain’t no place for fools.”
The warning hung between them, but Elara didn’t respond. She focused on the distant figures, their ranks thinning as Union artillery roared again. The sound was deafening, a thunder that made her teeth ache. She could feel the heat of the cannonfire even here, a dry wind carrying the stench of burnt powder and dead men.
“They’re coming,” she said finally. “Ready the muskets.”
Hayes nodded, his hand moving to the rifle at his side. Elara turned her attention to the horizon, where the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the field. The sky was still red, but the air had grown colder. She could see the faintest trace of snow in the distance, a promise of winter that none of them would live to see.
The first volley came at dawn. Elara’s ears rang from the blast, her vision blurred by smoke and exhaustion. She fired without thinking, the rifle kicking back against her shoulder. The man in gray fell, his body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.
“We’re out of bullets,” someone shouted. The voice was distant, muffled by the chaos. Elara’s hands moved on their own, loading the next round with mechanical precision. Her fingers were raw, the skin split from the cold and the grip of the rifle. She didn’t feel it.
The battle raged for hours, a blur of movement and sound. Elara fought with a focus that bordered on detachment, her body moving on instinct. She didn’t think about the men around her, didn’t let herself dwell on the faces she’d seen fall. There was no time for grief.
Then, a scream. It cut through the noise, sharp and raw. Elara turned just in time to see Hayes stumble, a bullet tearing through his side. He fell to one knee, clutching the wound as blood seeped through his fingers. The sound of his pain was louder than the guns.
“Hayes!” she shouted, but the word was lost in the chaos. She dropped her rifle and ran toward him, ignoring the bullets that whizzed past her. Her boots splashed through mud as she reached him, kneeling beside him as he gasped for breath.
“It’s… okay,” Hayes said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve got to… keep going.”
Elara’s hands shook as she pressed against the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. “I won’t leave you,” she said, but the words felt hollow. She knew what this meant. The Union was losing, and there was no time for mercy.
Hayes managed a weak smile. “You’re a good soldier, Elara. But you’re not… one of us.”
She didn’t understand, not at first. Then she saw the way his eyes flicked to her hands, to the faint outline of her wrist beneath the glove. The truth hit her like a punch to the gut. He knew.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, but he was already gone, his body going still as the smoke from the cannons curled around them.
The battle ended hours later, the Union forces retreating under the cover of darkness. Elara stood amidst the wreckage, her rifle empty, her hands bloodstained. The field was a graveyard of broken men and shattered dreams. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t.
As she walked away from the ridge, the weight of Hayes’ words settled in her chest. She had fought for a cause she didn’t believe in, for a war that had taken everything from her. The North would win, but at what cost? The answer was written in the blood on the ground, in the silence that followed the guns.
Elara didn’t look back. She had a long road ahead, and the winter was coming.
