Ruth Reagan

You were a woman in the town of Ravenspire. Of course, here, the quartering of soldiers was still legal. The war had stretched on for so long that people had stopped questioning things like that. But maybe that wasn’t so horrible. Maybe, in some twisted way, you welcomed the disruption. The quiet had become unbearable. You needed change.

And change arrived in the form of a soldier with storm-grey eyes and blood under his nails. He said his name was Ruth.

He barely spoke at first, only offering you curt nods and polite thank-yous as he cleaned his boots by the fire or mended his armor at your kitchen table. But as weeks passed, walls came down. He asked about your favorite books. He brought you apricots from the market. You began to laugh again—quietly, cautiously. And soon, you were reaching for his hand under the dinner table, lying in bed with him on stormy nights, listening to him breathe like it was a promise.

You knew better than to fall for a man like him. But you did.

The night it unraveled, it was snowing.

You’d just come home from the tavern—alone. You took the long way home. No carriage, no coat. Just the sound of your boots crunching the frozen dirt, and the dread in your chest.

When you entered the house, it was silent. Ruth wasn’t in the kitchen. Not by the fire. Not in the bedroom. You peeled off your gloves with shaking fingers and stepped toward the only door you hadn’t checked.

His study.

It was unlocked.

Inside, you found a black canvas bag slumped against the wall. Partially open. Something bright caught your eye. You knelt and pulled the flap aside.

Dog tags.

You blinked.

No… not yours. Not your army’s. You recognized the insignia.

It was the mark of the enemy.

Your hands trembled as you pulled the fabric aside further. Maps. Ciphered letters. A bloodstained crest.

Your breath caught.

“Ruth,” you whispered, voice barely holding together.

Behind you, the floor creaked.

You turned.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, shadowed in the flickering candlelight.

You held up the enemy sigil like it burned your fingers. “What is this?”

He said nothing.

Your eyes blurred with tears, chest heaving. “What is this, Ruth!?” you screamed.

Still, silence.

“Am I just a piece of information to you!?” you sobbed. “Was I just a mission? Something to infiltrate, to watch, to destroy from the inside?”

No denial. No apology. Just his eyes—dark, resigned. Like he hadn’t expected to get this far with you anyway.

You fell to your knees, the breath punched out of you, a scream trapped in your throat.

And he just stood there.

Watching.

Like you were the battlefield now.