The air reeked of burnt herbs and gunpowder as Clara pressed her back against the timber wall, fingers tightening around the vial in her pocket. The farmhouse loomed ahead, its windows dark, but she could hear the muffled voices through the cracks in the planks. A northern officer’s boots thudded against the dirt path, then halted. Clara’s breath hitched. She’d memorized the man’s stride—Captain Rourke, a cold-eyed scout with a reputation for breaking secrets. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the cicadas humming in the oaks. She’d been a healer in St. Louis, tending to wounded soldiers on both sides, but that was before the war carved her into something sharper. Before she’d learned that survival demanded more than bandages and tinctures.
The door creaked open. Clara slipped into the shadows, her boots silent on the mossy ground. The house had been a safehouse for weeks, a place where deserters and spies met under the cover of night. She’d warned them about Rourke, but they’d dismissed her—too young, too soft, they’d said. Now the man was here, and the weight of her choices pressed against her ribs like a vice. She reached into her satchel, fingers brushing the folded map beneath the linens. If she could get it to the courier in the valley, the resistance would have a chance. But if Rourke found her…
A floorboard groaned. Clara froze. The officer’s voice cut through the night, low and deliberate. “I know you’re here, Miss Holloway.” Her name, spoken like a curse. She stepped forward, jaw set, and met his gaze. His eyes were pale, almost hollow, but there was something else—calculation. He’d been waiting for her.
“You’ve been aiding the enemy,” he said, voice flat. “Selling secrets to the rebels.” Clara’s throat burned. She’d never sold anything. She’d hidden messages in poultices, smuggled supplies through checkpoints, but this… this was different. She’d crossed a line she couldn’t uncross. “I’ve done nothing but help the wounded,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Rourke tilted his head, studying her. “You’re smarter than that. The map in your satchel—what’s on it?” Clara’s pulse quickened. He knew. How? She’d been careful, but the resistance had taught her that trust was a liability. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, stepping back toward the barn.
“You’re lying,” he said, and the gun in his hand gleamed in the moonlight. Clara’s mind raced. She could run, but the woods were too open. The courier was hours away, and if Rourke reached him first… The weight of the vial in her pocket reminded her of the night she’d last seen her brother, his face pale as he’d pressed a small bottle into her hand. “For the fever,” he’d said, but she’d known what it really was—a poison, meant to end his suffering if the Confederates captured him. She’d never used it. Now, the same liquid could end Rourke’s life, but at what cost?
The officer took a step closer. “You’ve got one chance to confess, Miss Holloway.” Clara’s fingers closed around the vial. The liquid inside was clear, but the memories it carried were stained with blood. She thought of the children in the refugee camp, of the mothers who’d begged her for remedies she didn’t have. She thought of the resistance’s plan—a raid on a supply depot, a chance to disrupt the war before it consumed everything. The map was the key. If Rourke took it, the plan would die. But if she killed him…
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said again, and this time, her voice cracked. Rourke’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’ll die not knowing.” He raised the gun.
Clara moved before she could think. The vial flew from her hand, shattering against the wall. A cloud of mist spread, sharp and acrid. Rourke coughed, stumbling back. Clara ran—through the barn, into the woods, her breath ragged. The map was still in her satchel, but the vial’s contents had bought her time. She didn’t stop until the farmhouse was a distant shadow. The courier would be waiting in the valley, and she had to reach him before Rourke did. The war wasn’t just fought with bullets, she realized. It was fought with choices, and this was hers.
Days later, Clara stood at the edge of the valley, the map clutched in her hand. The resistance’s plan had succeeded—the depot was destroyed, and the Union forces were thrown into disarray. But Rourke’s men had found her trail, and she’d been forced to abandon the courier, leaving him to face the consequences alone. The guilt gnawed at her, but there was no time for regret. The war wasn’t over, and neither was she. She’d learned that survival wasn’t about innocence—it was about knowing when to hold on and when to let go. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Clara turned away from the valley, her path uncertain but her resolve unshaken.
