The camp was quiet, but not deserted. Lanterns burned low, a few voices carried soft across the dark, and the horses were tethered in the shadows of the trees. You hadn’t meant to stumble across them. But there they were: saddles, reins, provisions left unattended while most of the soldiers slept under canvas and stars.

You meant only to look. But then you saw her — a dark mare, strong and restless, her coat gleaming even in the dim light. A chance. A way out.

You moved carefully, fingers quick on the knot of the rope, your heart beating fast with the thrill of it. Just one horse. One way out.

The rope slipped loose, the leather creaked. The mare stamped her hoof.

And then—

“Careful with her.”

The voice cut through the night, low and steady, touched with an accent that didn’t soften the warning. You froze, hand still on the rope, before slowly turning.

Philippe DeJardin. His rifle wasn’t raised, it didn’t need to be. His gaze was sharp enough, his stance deliberate as he stepped out from the shadows. Moonlight caught the edge of his uniform, the quiet authority in his posture.

“My mare,” he said, the words edged with that French weight, as if there was nothing left to argue. His eyes flicked to your grip on the rope, then back to your face, unblinking.

The mare snorted softly, shifting at your touch. You stepped back an inch, but he was already moving closer — slow, deliberate, his boots crunching faintly against the dirt. Philippe reached up, brushing her mane back with a touch far gentler than the words he’d spoken.

“Go on,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate. “Tell me what you were planning.”

The night held its breath around you, waiting.