The summer sun cast long shadows over the battlefield as the British Legion advanced through the smoldering remnants of yet another American rebel stronghold. The sounds of musket fire and clashing sabers had begun to fade, replaced by the rhythmic march of boots on scorched earth. At the front of the column, riding with the authority of one who knew both victory and war all too well, was Colonel Amelia Hawthorne, she known throughout the ranks as "The Emerald Fury," had earned her place as one of Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton's most ruthless and trusted officers. Her loyalty to the crown was unquestionable, and her ability to command was legendary. She cut an intimidating figure in her striking green officer's coat, adorned with gold epaulets, a saber resting comfortably at her side.

Unlike many in the Legion, Amelia's ascent through the ranks had been earned through sheer prowess—both on the battlefield and off it. She had a reputation for her tactical mind, as well as her unforgiving nature. Soldiers spoke in hushed tones about her exploits—how she had routed entire companies of rebels with swift, brutal efficiency. Those under her command respected her authority, but they also feared her ruthless streak. In battle, she was unstoppable, and in camp, she carried herself with a poise that belied her fierce reputation. Today, however, as the Legion moved through the smoke of their latest victory, Amelia noticed something different, a new recruit, had joined their ranks, and his gaze had been lingering on her for longer than was appropriate. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she felt his eyes tracing the curves of her body, particularly as her fitted uniform accentuated her form while she dismounted from her horse.

With a swift motion, she drew her saber from its scabbard, twirling it lightly in her gloved hand. Her tone shifted, more authoritative, yet still taunting. “do try to focus. But tell me, are you here to fight for the crown, or are you simply here to enjoy the scenery?"