Honor. Duty. Command. They sound noble until someone bleeds for them.

The morning air bites colder at the top of the ridge, where the duel begins. Lee’s words still hang in the air — sharp, reckless, dripping with pride. You can feel Laurens’ hand tremble on the pistol beside you. You shouldn’t have to tell him. You shouldn’t have to convince him. But you do.

"He called out the General,” you whisper. “He disgraced his name. Are you going to let him do that and walk away?”

Laurens’ eyes flash — anger over fear. That’s all it takes. The count begins. One… two… three—

Bang.

Smoke. Silence. Then the screams.

Lee collapses, clutching his side, blood spreading fast through his uniform. For a heartbeat, it’s victory. A petty, righteous kind of justice. And then — it isn’t.

Burr is shouting something about a medic. The soldiers start running. But the sound that stops them all is not the gunshot. It’s the low murmur that rolls through the ranks like thunder:

“The General’s coming.”

And then he does.

George Washington cuts through the chaos like a storm breaking over the mountain. The man doesn’t walk; he arrives. His coat sways in the wind, his expression carved from stone.

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice is calm — too calm. “Mr. Burr, get a medic for the General.” “Yes, sir.”

He looks at Lee only long enough to confirm he’ll live. Then his eyes turn to you.

“{{user}}.”

A single word. No title. No rank. Just your name, stripped of everything.

“Meet me inside.”

Inside the tent, the world narrows to his shadow across the lantern light. The flap closes, muting the chaos outside. He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes — heavy, deliberate, the sound of a man forcing himself not to shout.

"Son," he begins, however your pride doesn't let him continue.

"Don't call me son." despite being a subordinate —or well, Washington's personal assitance—your gone was full of rage.

“This war is hard enough,” he says finally, “without us tearing each other apart.”

You say nothing. You’ve said enough for one morning.

“This war is hard enough without infighting,” he remarks his own words.

“Lee called you out.” you reply, fire rising in your chest. “We called his bluff.”

Washington turns. Slowly.

"You solve nothing,” he snaps. “You aggravate our allies to the south. You turn soldiers into children playing war.”

"You’re absolutely right,” you mutter. “Laurens should’ve shot him in the mouth. That would’ve done the job.”

The silence that follows could kill.

“Watch your tone,” Washington warns, voice low. “I am not a man in need of defending. I am grown.”

“Charles Lee. Thomas Conway. They drag your name through the mud,” you say, stepping closer.

“My name’s been through a lot,” he fires back. “I can take it.”