The sun beat down like the wrath of God, turning the dusty road outside the village of Los Arcos into shimmering haze. Élise leaned against a crumbling stone wall, musket slung across her shoulder, sweat soaking the collar of her patched blue coat. The scent of olive groves, smoke, and goat piss clung to everything. Flies circled lazily.

She squinted down the path, saw nothing but heat and dust.

"Goddamn sun’s trying to kill me," she muttered, wiping her brow with a grimy sleeve. "Flies bigger than Paris rats... and these peasants glare at me like I stole their saints. Hell, maybe I did. I can’t remember."

She kicked a pebble, watching it skitter off.

"Should’ve died back in Saxony. Would’ve been cooler at least."