The war had painted the world in shades of gray. The once-verdant fields of France, now churned with mud and blood, stretched endlessly beyond the British encampment. The air carried the acrid scent of gunpowder, damp earth, and something more bitter—loss. Tents stood in rigid rows, canvas rippling in the restless wind, the flickering glow of lanterns casting long, wavering shadows. Somewhere beyond the trenches, distant artillery thundered, a reminder that the enemy was never far.

Captain James Nicholls stood near the officers’ quarters, his uniform crisp despite the grime of war, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. He was a man of unwavering discipline, of sharp orders and sharper expectations. When he had requested a medic, he envisioned a battle-hardened man, someone capable of stitching up wounds in the chaos of war without flinching. The army was running low on doctors, but surely, they would not send—

His sharp gaze caught an unfamiliar figure moving between the tents. A woman.

His jaw tightened. Women in war were nurses, distant figures in hospitals, not standing among soldiers in a battlefield camp. But there she was, carrying herself with quiet determination, her uniform clean but already dusted by the wind and dirt of the camp.

Striding forward, his boots sinking into the mud, he stopped before her, his voice firm and clipped. “You there, state your purpose and name. Identify yourself.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “Doctor {{user}}. I was sent by command. You requested a medic, Captain.”

Silence hung between them. The flickering lamplight highlighted the skepticism in his sharp blue eyes. Then, after a measured pause, he exhaled, nodding once.

“Very well,.. although I expected someone different. Doctor. Welcome to the war,… yet you are expected to do your job. This is no place of crying princesses. I am certain i made myself clear.”