The sun was a pale disk in the sky, struggling to pierce the thick, overcast clouds that hung low over the horizon. After three days of rest, the French camp was packed and ready to move. The soldiers, weary from the constant battle and the death that followed them like a shadow, shuffled in a dull, exhausted procession.
Jay stood at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the dirt road ahead. The weight of what lay before them pressed heavily on his chest. Orléans — the heart of the resistance against the English occupation. The city would be their greatest challenge yet.
Beside him, Joan was silent, her features set in an expression of quiet resolve. Her hair, once golden and bright, was now tangled and streaked with dirt. The gleam of her armor had dulled, though her presence still radiated the same fierce energy that had drawn men to her cause from the very beginning.
Jay couldn't help but notice how much they had both changed over the past few weeks. The boy who had arrived in this world, unsure of his purpose and of his place in history, had been forged by fire and blood. And Joan — though still the same fierce leader, driven by her visions and her faith — had been tempered by the war around her. They had both become something else, something darker, but no less powerful.
As they marched, the sounds of the soldiers' footsteps mingled with the rustle of the wind through the trees. There was an air of finality to it all — as though this march was a crossing of some invisible line, a point of no return. Orléans was their destination, but it was also the beginning of something much larger.
The road stretched on for miles, winding through the hills and forests of northern France. The landscape seemed to mirror the journey they had made — wild, untamed, and scarred by the ravages of war. The land itself seemed to mourn the blood spilled upon it, the lives lost in battles that had left nothing behind but ruins and ghosts.
Jay's mind wandered as they walked. The memories of the past few days — the brutal raid on the English camp, the young soldier's grave, and the endless cycle of violence that seemed to have no end — weighed heavily on him. He had tasted the blood of his enemies, felt the heat of battle surge through him, and had killed without hesitation, without remorse. Each life taken only seemed to add to the darkness that was creeping into his soul.
But there was also something else. Something stronger.
The power that was stirring within him — the Arc blood that ran in his veins — was growing, awakening. It was a force that could not be controlled, something ancient and primal. Jay could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, just waiting for the right moment to burst forth.
Joan caught his eye, her expression unreadable. She had always been able to sense when he was lost in thought, when the weight of the world was pressing down on him. She had been through enough battles, enough suffering, to understand what it felt like to carry the burden of war.
"We're close," she said softly, her voice steady. "The scouts say the English hold the gates of Orléans. But we have the element of surprise."
Jay nodded, his eyes narrowing. The thought of breaking through the English defenses, of breaching their stronghold in Orléans, sent a rush of adrenaline through his veins. The battle ahead would be unlike any they had faced before. But Jay wasn't the same man who had crossed through time and landed in this brutal world. He was no longer the confused boy who had stumbled into Joan's camp. He was something else entirely.
Joan's hand brushed against his as they walked. It was a simple touch, but it carried more weight than a thousand words. Jay turned his head to look at her, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away. It was just the two of them, standing together against the world.
They had been through so much, had seen so much death. But despite the darkness that surrounded them, despite the war and the bloodshed, there was still a flicker of light between them. A bond that couldn't be broken.
"Are you ready for this?" Joan asked, her voice soft but firm.
Jay didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced around at the soldiers who marched behind them. Their faces were grim, their eyes hard. They were fighters, yes, but they were also tired, broken in ways that went beyond physical wounds. And yet, they followed Joan. They followed Jay.
"I don't know if any of us are ready," he said finally, his voice low. "But we'll face it together."
Joan gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Together."
And with that, they pressed on, marching toward Orléans — toward their fate.