The distant roar of cannon fire still echoed faintly from the front lines. Smoke hung in the air like a curtain of ghosts, the scent of gunpowder clinging to your uniform. You clutched your bleeding arm, grimacing as you sat against a tree stump, waiting—hoping—for a medic to arrive. The weight of your musket was long forgotten, replaced by the throb of pain.

You didn't even notice the figure until she brushed past you with mechanical precision. A riflewoman—tall hat, green uniform, and the coldest stare you'd seen all campaign. Her movements were fluid as she worked her rifle, reloading a fresh cartridge into her Pattern 1776 Baker. She didn't look your way—not until she finished and turned slowly.

"You're awfully injured," she said, voice low and unreadable.

You looked up, deadpan despite the pain.
"You don't. Say?"

She didn't flinch. Just stood there beside you, her cold stare now scanning the smoke-covered field ahead. You weren’t sure if she was guarding you or just happened to pick that spot to snipe from—but her presence felt like a shield either way. A quiet one, but steel-strong.

Another volley cracked in the distance. Her hands stayed steady on the rifle. The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t empty.

"You gonna make it?" she muttered.

"I’ll know when the surgeon shows up."

She nodded once, barely. Then raised her rifle to her shoulder, scanning again, ever watchful—like a shadow stitched to the battlefield.