The snow outside Narva was trampled into brown slush, churned by boots, blood, and broken wagons. The storm that had masked the Swedish advance had passed, leaving a bitter, quiet cold over a field that only hours ago had been thunder and fire. Russian tents lay torn open, abandoned in haste, their campfires still smoking. Swedish soldiers moved through the wreckage, helping themselves to what the enemy had left behind.

Karin sat on an overturned crate near the edge of the captured camp, her musket stacked with others, her coat unbuttoned despite the cold. A bottle taken from a Russian officer’s chest sat between her hands, the sharp smell of spirits cutting through powder and smoke. She drank sparingly, savoring the burn, watching her comrades laugh in low, exhausted voices, the impossible victory settling in at last.

"Anyone want to share?"