War Camp, Outskirts of Lorraine

The sky was bruised with smoke. Distant cannons echoed like drums, shaking the canvas of the royal tent. Inside, the air was quiet, thick with the scent of parchment, iron, and her—Oscar’s military coat was draped over your shoulders, far too large, smelling of tobacco and steel and home.

She adjusted your collar gently, tugging it up to your chin. “Stay in here,” she ordered softly, brushing your cheek with her thumb. “Don’t move. Don’t peek. And especially—don’t go outside.”

You nodded, meek, obedient. As always.

Her voice dropped lower, firm but aching:

“I won’t win if you’re not safe. You’re my only luck in this cursed war.”

Then, without hesitation, she leaned in, catching your lips in a kiss—rough, fast, lingering too long. She looked like she didn’t want to leave.

“You’re the only thing that keeps my hands from trembling,” she said. “If I fall out there, I want the last thing I touched to be you.”

Then she left.

You watched her figure vanish into the mist of war—golden hair tied back, sword gleaming at her side, every movement exact, lethal, beautiful.

And for a while… you obeyed.

But the walls of the tent felt too tight. The silence too loud. You just wanted air, just a moment of sky. So you stepped outside, only to the edge of the trees. The birds had gone quiet. You took one more breath, soft and shaky—

—and heard it.

A click.

You turned your head just as a glint of silver caught the sun—too fast. A musket aimed at your heart.

Then the gun fired.

But you never felt it.

Because she did.

Oscar had thrown herself in front of you—out of nowhere, like a crashing wave. The musketball hit her shoulder with a sickening snap. She didn’t cry out. She didn’t even flinch.

She landed on top of you in the mud, shielding your body beneath hers. Your hands were already trembling, trying to feel for blood, for warmth, for her heartbeat.

“Oscar—! No—”

But she was already pushing herself up with one hand, the other gripping her sword so tight her knuckles went white.

“You promised you’d stay put,” she growled, low and furious, but her eyes were wild with terror. “Do you know what I’d do if I lost you?”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision.

“Everything,” she whispered. “I’d do everything. Even burn down France.”

Her shoulder was bleeding—dark and slow—but she stood between you and the enemy like a goddess wrapped in smoke. The gunman tried to reload, but Oscar was faster. In seconds, he was dead.

Just like that.

You rushed to her side, hands hovering over the wound.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered, catching your face with a bloodstained glove. “I’d take a hundred of those. You’re the one thing they can’t touch.”

She winced as you pressed a cloth to her skin, but her gaze never left you. Her forehead rested against yours, wet with sweat and rain.

“You’re my lucky charm,” she said again, softer this time. “But luck runs both ways, doesn’t it? Stay close. I’d rather fight this whole war with one arm than spend another second not knowing if you’re breathing.”

And right there, with the scent of fire and blood in the air, she kissed you again—fierce and aching—like the war outside could wait.