The night before the raid, the camp was eerily silent. The usual chatter of soldiers had died down, replaced by a tension so thick it could suffocate. Jay sat on the edge of the firelight, his sword resting on the ground beside him, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the straps of his armor. It was poorly fitted, uncomfortable — but it would have to do.
The soldiers around him seemed calm, despite the impending battle. Some sharpened their weapons, others prayed, their whispers barely audible above the crackling of the campfires. But Jay couldn't settle. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with thoughts of the fight ahead.
Joan had given him no choice. Tomorrow, he would stand beside her — and the others — facing the English forces in Orléans. A raid unlike any battle he'd ever imagined.
He could hear the wind howling outside the camp, the chill of the evening biting into his skin. A storm was coming. Not just the one in the sky, but the one on the battlefield.
A shadow loomed over him, and he glanced up to see Joan standing there, her expression unreadable. Her armor gleamed faintly in the dim light, her sword strapped to her side. She didn't speak immediately, but her presence was enough to still the storm of nerves inside him, if only for a moment.
"You're quiet tonight," she said, her voice low and steady, almost as if she were speaking to herself.
Jay gave a half-hearted smile, trying to mask the fear gnawing at him. "Just thinking."
Joan sat down beside him, her gaze distant, her eyes flicking toward the dark horizon where the first signs of dawn were beginning to creep in. "I've seen many men think before a battle. Most of them do not survive the dawn."
Jay turned to her, his throat dry. "How do you do it? How do you fight every day without… without the fear?"
Joan's eyes were fixed ahead, as if seeing something beyond the camp, beyond the land. Her voice softened, becoming almost a whisper. "Fear is a fire that can consume you, or it can make you stronger. I've learned to carry it with me, to use it."
Jay nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure he understood. The weight of her words pressed heavily on him. Joan had already fought countless battles — seen friends die, witnessed the horrors of war. And yet, she stood firm, unyielding.
"Tomorrow, you will face your fear," she continued, her voice steady and calm. "But do not let it control you. Let it fuel you."
There was a pause before she turned her gaze back to him, her eyes intense, burning with an unspoken challenge. "If you want to survive, Jay, you must fight not just with your sword, but with your heart."
Her words were like a dagger, sharp and piercing, but also strangely comforting. She wasn't offering him false assurances. She was telling him the truth — in this world, survival was a test of willpower. The heart had to be as strong as the body.
"You're ready," she said softly, almost as if speaking to herself now. "I can see it in your eyes. But readiness alone won't save you. You must fight to win. Not for glory. Not for pride. But for the ones you love. For the future."
Jay swallowed hard. "I don't know if I can do this."
Joan's gaze softened, just for a moment, before her steely resolve returned. "You don't have a choice. We are all fallen, Jay. We fight for what we can save. For what's worth fighting for."
The wind howled louder, and the tension in the camp thickened, like a storm that could not be avoided. The sky had turned dark, the first raindrops falling, each one a prelude to the chaos that would soon unfold. The storm wasn't just in the sky. It was in their hearts.
---
The next morning, the camp came alive with the sounds of preparation. Soldiers strapped on their armor, tightened their shields, and checked their weapons. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and anticipation. Jay's stomach twisted in knots, but there was no turning back now.
Joan appeared beside him, her eyes focused, her mind already on the battle ahead. "Remember what I told you," she said, her voice quiet but sharp. "There will be no second chances. Fight like your life depends on it."
The army marched toward the front lines, the clanging of armor and the murmur of soldiers' voices filling the air. Jay's heart raced, and he could feel the weight of his sword more than ever before. He tried to focus, tried to breathe, but the fear was there — creeping beneath his ribs, a cold, gnawing presence.
Joan walked beside him, her presence grounding him in the chaos. She said nothing more, but her mere proximity made him feel as though he wasn't completely alone in this. She would fight beside him. She wouldn't let him fail.
As they approached the outskirts of Orléans, the first wave of English soldiers came into view. They were lined up, their armor shining under the overcast sky, their banners flying high. The sight of them sent a wave of dread through Jay's chest.
But Joan's voice cut through the silence. "This is it," she said, her eyes flashing with a fire that could not be extinguished. "Fight with everything you have. Show them who we are."
The command sounded like thunder in Jay's ears, and for a moment, everything went still. Then, the battle cries rang out, and the storm of war was upon them.
The clash of steel against steel rang out across the battlefield as the first wave of English soldiers surged forward. Jay's heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow, the grip on his sword tight and unyielding. The roar of battle, the cries of the wounded, and the thunder of hooves pounding against the earth enveloped him. The world had narrowed to the brutal rhythm of survival.
Beside him, Joan was a blur of motion, her sword slicing through the air with deadly precision. She moved like the wind, fast and unforgiving, her every strike finding its mark. The soldiers around her fell, their armor clattering to the ground like broken dolls. She was unstoppable, a force of nature. But Jay could barely keep up.
The first English soldier came at him with a battle cry, swinging his sword down with crushing force. Jay barely managed to deflect the blow, his arms screaming in protest. The impact sent a shock through his body, but he managed to stumble backward, keeping his feet beneath him.
His training with Joan had taught him the basics — how to hold his ground, how to react, how to strike. But now, in the heat of battle, everything seemed to move too fast, too chaotic. The fear clawed at him, gnawing at his mind, telling him to run, to escape, to save himself.
But he couldn't. He had no choice. Not when Joan was right there, cutting through the enemy with ease. He had to fight.
Another soldier lunged at him, and this time, Jay didn't hesitate. He swung his sword in a wide arc, catching the soldier off guard. The blade connected with a sickening thud, sending the man sprawling to the ground. Jay's chest heaved as he pulled the sword back, the weight of his actions sinking in. He had taken a life. The shock of it hit him harder than anything he'd ever felt.
"Focus, Jay!" Joan's voice cut through the fog of his mind, sharp and commanding. She was already moving again, her sword flashing in the air as she took down another enemy soldier. Her words pulled him back into the present, and he forced himself to breathe.
He had to fight. For his survival. For her. For everything.
With renewed determination, Jay joined the fray. The battle was chaos — men clashing, blood spilling, the sound of screams filling the air. He had never imagined anything like this. But there was no time to think about it. He had to move. He had to survive.
Joan fought beside him, but she was a shadow — always a step ahead, her blade a blur of death. Jay's movements were slower, more cautious, but he was improving. The fear was still there, but it wasn't as strong. He was learning to carry it, to fight through it, as Joan had said.
Another soldier came at him, his sword raised high, ready to strike. Jay didn't hesitate this time. He stepped forward, meeting the blow head-on, his sword clashing with the enemy's. The force of the strike pushed him back, but he dug in his heels and pushed forward, using his momentum to knock the soldier off balance. With a quick thrust, Jay sent the man crashing to the ground, his sword slipping from his grasp.
For a brief moment, Jay stood frozen, staring down at the fallen soldier. Blood pooled around the man, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. The weight of what he'd done hit him harder than the battle itself. He had killed.
But there was no time to mourn. No time to think. He had to keep moving.
Joan's voice reached him again, cold and sharp. "Don't stop. You fight or you die."
Her words were like a slap in the face, bringing him back to reality. He looked around, seeing the chaos all around him. His soldiers. Her soldiers. They were all in this together, fighting for something greater than themselves.
Jay tightened his grip on his sword and pushed forward once more.
---
The battle raged on for hours. The sun had long since disappeared behind a thick blanket of clouds, and the sky was now a roiling mass of dark, angry clouds. The storm that had threatened earlier was now a torrential downpour, the rain pouring down in sheets, turning the battlefield into a muddy, blood-soaked hell.
Jay's body was covered in cuts, bruises, and dirt. His arms were heavy, his movements sluggish, but he fought on, driven by something he couldn't quite name. The roar of battle filled his ears, the sound of swords clashing, men shouting, and the cries of the dying. But through it all, there was Joan — always moving, always striking, her blade dancing through the chaos like a whirlwind.
Jay's movements were no longer hesitant. The fear was still there, lurking in the back of his mind, but he had learned to push through it. He had become a part of the battlefield, his every movement a reflection of the chaos around him.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the battle began to shift. The English forces, though formidable, were beginning to falter. The tide was turning in their favor. Jay could feel it — the momentum was with them now. The enemy's lines were breaking, their formation crumbling under the weight of the French assault.
Joan moved faster now, her every action a testament to the fury of the storm that had followed her throughout her life. She cut through the enemy forces like a blade through cloth, her strikes swift and sure. Jay fought beside her, his sword moving with newfound strength.
"Push them back!" Joan yelled, her voice like thunder above the din of battle. "Do not let them retreat. Push them to the gates!"
The French soldiers surged forward, their morale rising with each fallen enemy. The English were breaking, their ranks in disarray. Jay's heart raced as he fought, adrenaline surging through his veins. He could see the end — victory was within their grasp.
But as the battle neared its climax, Jay saw something that made his blood run cold.
At the far side of the battlefield, a group of English knights were regrouping, preparing for one final assault. They were led by a towering figure, his armor gleaming in the rain, his sword raised high.
Joan saw it too. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the battlefield. "Stay with me," she commanded. "We finish this together."