Morning came cold and gray,
clouds sweeping out like wet wool over the horizon.
The training area, cut into a depression in the ground,
was already awake with sound —
steel ringing off steel,
boots hitting dirt,
bellowed orders ringing across the open ground.
Amelia cinched tight the straps of her leather gloves
and curled and uncurled her fingers.
Her breath puffed before her lips.
Clara cracked her neck to one side of her.
Wearing a soldier's uniform,
she was thin, wiry, sharp —
like a sword in a scabbard nobody was looking for.
Her hair was tucked under a cap,
her eyes shining with mischief and threat.
"You ready, Your Grace?"
"If you call me that once more,
I'll knock you on the head with a training sword."
"Kinky," Clara grumbled, smiling,
but she took her wooden sword anyway.
The drills were started rough and quick.
Claude didn't hold back.
Neither did the generals.
They were matched up with battle-hardened soldiers —
men who didn't think much of mercy,
or giving a woman, much less two,
an inch for anything.
But what the men didn't realize,
they were soon to discover.
Amelia received a blow to the ribs in the first ten minutes.
A hard one.
She fell on one knee, winded, coughing.
The soldier who had punched her stood over her,
poised to jeer her with some flippant remark.
But she stood before he could utter a word.
There was blood on her lip.
Her limp more exaggerated now.
"Again," she said, brandishing her sword.
Clara was in a worse state.
She fell three times in the mud,
almost broke her fingers deflecting a blow,
and still had time to spit a broken joke
at every opponent who believed she'd remain down.
Claude stood at the edge of the yard,
his expression impossible to read.
They practiced from sunrise to noon,
then from noon to sunset.
Day after day.
Sword fighting.
Knife fighting.
Terrain tactics.
Strength conditioning.
Tactical maneuvers.
They bound their hands until the skin grew blistered and bloody.
And still—they returned.
On the third day,
Amelia parried her opponent's blow cleanly
and sent him crashing onto his back.
On the fourth,
Clara took down a man twice her size
with a smile and a low sweep of her leg.
The soldiers had ceased laughing by then.
By the fifth day,
the camp was gossiping about
"the twin ghosts" —
two who never seemed to sleep,
who trained late into the night after others had retired,
who assisted in carrying supplies for the injured
and pored over enemy maps by the light of the fire.
Amelia stood shoulder to shoulder with men
who used to look past her,
now requesting her opinion about flanking attacks.
Clara instructed some of them
on how to cheat at dice,
for amusement.
The soldiers loved her for it.
And Claude — he observed it all.
He didn't intervene.
He didn't praise.
But one evening,
as Amelia collapsed onto a bench beside the campfire,
aching and dripping with sweat,
he came to her in the stillness.
"You surprised them," he said, his voice low.
She didn't raise her head.
"Did I surprise you?"
Claude was quiet for a very long time.
Then:
"You've become someone I would follow into battle."
Amelia slowly turned. Met his eyes.
"Then it's about time."
Across the fire,
Clara lifted a metal mug in silent toast.
Amelia smiled at her with the smallest smile.
The war continued raging.
The spy mission continued threatening.
But they were no longer two women
jammed into a man's world.
They were soldiers now.
Bruised.
Bloodied.
Unbreakable.