The morning sun was weak, a pale reflection of the carnage that had unfolded hours before. The field was littered with the lifeless bodies of the English, their uniforms stained with blood, faces twisted in the final moments of terror. The silence that followed the chaos was suffocating — as if even the world had been exhausted by the violence.
Jay stood alone in the center of the camp, his eyes fixed on the body of the young soldier who had fallen just hours before. He was barely more than a boy — his face still youthful, a faint trace of innocence still clinging to his features, even in death.
The boy's body had been left where he fell, a victim of war, a casualty in the relentless march of fate. His name had never been spoken aloud — none of the soldiers had even known him before that night. But Jay knew him now. He saw the fear in the boy's wide eyes, the terror of someone who had never truly understood what it meant to die.
The others had moved on — they were scavenging, looting the British camp for anything of value, stripping the dead for weapons and rations. But Jay couldn't leave the boy's body behind. He had to honor him, even if it was only for a fleeting moment.
With a heavy sigh, Jay knelt beside the body. His fingers brushed through the blood-stained hair, and he closed the boy's eyes, trying to give him a semblance of peace. It felt hollow, meaningless — this gesture. But it was all Jay had to offer in a world that had forgotten the meaning of mercy.
Joan appeared behind him, her face hardened by the horrors they'd faced, but there was something softer in her eyes as she watched him. She said nothing — only stood by, a quiet companion in the midst of this broken world.
Without a word, she knelt beside him, helping to dig a shallow grave in the soft earth. They worked in silence, their hands stained with dirt and blood. The others didn't understand, didn't see the value in these moments. But Jay and Joan did. In this war-torn world, they were the ones who remembered what it meant to fight for something more than victory.
Once the grave was prepared, they lowered the boy's body into the earth, covering him with the soil and the broken pieces of their shattered humanity. Jay's heart was a cold, empty thing, but there was still a flicker of something — a spark of defiance, perhaps — in the way he held himself as they stood over the grave.
When the task was done, Jay stood, wiping his hands on his bloodstained trousers. Joan placed a hand on his shoulder, offering a silent comfort. The loss, the pain, the bloodshed — it all mixed together in a haze that Jay couldn't fully process.
Joan gave him a sharp look. "We need to move," she said. "Orléans is still ahead of us, and there are more battles to fight. We cannot afford to linger."
Jay nodded, his expression grim. "I know."
The rest of their forces were finishing their scavenging, and the sounds of boots on the muddy ground began to fill the air again. The English camp was stripped clean of anything useful, and Jay knew that any further delay would only make their retreat harder.
They moved to the rations — remnants of the British supplies. The French soldiers crowded around the meager provisions, grabbing anything that could sustain them for the road ahead. Jay and Joan sat near the fire, gnawing on stale bread and salted meat, washing it down with water from a nearby stream.
The soldiers were exhausted — their faces drawn and weary, their spirits worn thin. Jay, too, felt the weight of it all. His body ached from the battle, from the wounds that had yet to heal, from the constant grind of war. But there was no time for rest. No time for anything but survival.
Joan leaned back against a broken cart, her gaze distant as she chewed the tough bread. "I have known many victories," she said softly. "But none of them come without cost."
Jay stared into the fire, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the hilt of his sword. "I've seen enough death to know that the cost is always more than what we can bear."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the sounds of their soldiers murmuring in the background. It was a brief respite — a pause before the storm would resume.
Eventually, they rose. The soldiers packed their things and prepared for the next march, their feet heavy with the knowledge that more bloodshed was inevitable. Jay and Joan led them onward, their eyes fixed on the horizon.
Orléans awaited — the city, the battle, the future. And no matter how weary they were, they would not stop.