The battlefield reeked of gunpowder and blood, but the cannons had finally gone silent. Yorktown had fallen. The war was not yet over, but victory was near enough to taste.

Alexander Hamilton stood with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. His coat was dusted with gunpowder, his hair damp with sweat. He had led the charge himself—climbing the enemy’s redoubts with nothing but a sword and his men at his back. His chest still heaved from the rush of it.

Beside him, John Laurens grinned, his face alight with the fire of triumph. His uniform was dirt-streaked, but his posture was proud. He had fought fiercely, as he always did, though his mind was already racing ahead—to the enslaved men he had helped recruit into the fight, to the nation he dreamed of, where freedom would be for all, not just some.

Lafayette stood nearby, a victorious gleam in his eye as he surveyed the scene. The French fleet had done its part, cutting off Cornwallis’ escape, just as he had promised Washington. He turned to Hamilton, clasping his shoulder.

“Mon ami, we did it.”

His voice was breathless, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. He was only twenty-four, barely older than Hamilton, yet here they stood, architects of revolution.

A triumphant cry rang through the air as Hercules Mulligan burst onto the scene, a wild grin on his face. “Aha! Told you those redcoats wouldn’t stand a chance!”

He had spent years gathering intelligence, feeding Washington secrets from right under the British officers’ noses, and now, at last, he could see the fruits of that labor.

The four of them stood together in the waning light, bloodied, exhausted, victorious. For years, they had dreamed of this moment. But as the cheers rang out, Hamilton couldn’t help but wonder—what came next?