The ground was muddy, heavy with ash and rain. The wind still carried the lingering scent of explosives and dried blood.
But in the camp, that morning, everything was still.
When Althéa passed between the tents, a line formed without a word.
The soldiers stood.
No shout. No command.
Just that dense silence, that respect which cannot be fabricated.
The youngest followed her with their eyes as one watches a legend.
The veterans lowered their heads with solemn gravity.
Two years.
Two years surviving under her command.
Two years understanding that she never sacrificed her men for nothing.
That she never stepped back when it was time to walk in front.
That she remembered every fallen name. That she buried the dead herself.
They called her Flame of the Ravine.
Because she always appeared where everything was meant to die.
Althéa walked forward, upright, her uniform worn, her gaze unwavering.
Her unreal white hair, pressed back and tied into a tight low bun, left nothing loose.
Her amethyst eyes, once icy, now reflected a fatigue restrained for far too long… and absolute control. A hardness.
Her body had changed.
She had grown.
Her shoulders had broadened. Her muscles hardened.
Her fingers, once slender, were now covered in calluses. Marks of weapons, of soil, of survival.
She was no longer the nervous young woman she once had been.
She had become a rock no storm had ever managed to break.
A sergeant, his face covered in soot, straightened and saluted her with his hand over his heart.
“Commander de Soléandre.”
She stopped. Returned the salute.
Other voices followed, in echo, louder, almost like a solemn murmur:
“Commander de Soléandre.”
One by one, the soldiers repeated her name.
Not the way one calls a superior.
Like one invokes a promise kept.
She did not smile. She never pretended.
She simply nodded.
Then, without a word, she entered the command tent.
Today, she would sign the end.
The air inside was heavy, saturated with metal, dried sweat, dust.
A tall man in uniform was already waiting for her.
He sat back lazily in his chair, a malicious smile hanging on his face.
His eyes slid over her, assessing her without discretion, as if evaluating some curious beast.
Behind him, two soldiers from his camp shuddered when they saw her.
Commander Althéa.
She approached.
Without detour.
She sat opposite him, placing her gloves on the table without a sound.
The man inclined his head slightly, mockingly.
“Flame of the Ravine… We finally meet.”
“Commander.”
The word slipped from Althéa’s lips like a blade laid flat.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
No warmth.
No contempt either.
Just controlled neutrality.
She sat straight, unmoving.
Her amethyst gaze anchored in his without blinking.
No excess words. No unnecessary movement.
“You sound less fiery than the rumors claimed,” the man said, still sprawled in his chair, a smirk on his lips.
He gestured vaguely toward her.
“I expected a storm. I see a breeze.”
Behind her, her soldiers clenched their fists.
One stepped forward, voice rumbling.
“Do not disrespect Flame of the Ravine!”
The man burst out laughing. A theatrical, mocking laugh.
“Flame of the Ravine? Truly?”
He leaned forward slightly, his predatory smile deepening.
“You people always amuse me. A woman at the head of an army? She’d have to know how to hold something other than a broom first.”
He paused, snickering.
“Though… she could always make herself useful in other ways. I have a tent. And time to kill.”
Althéa did not react.
Not a breath. Not a twitch.
She calmly opened a pouch at her belt.
Took out a folder.
Placed it flat on the table.
Then withdrew her hands.
Silence.
The man waited. Irritated by the lack of reaction, he grabbed the document.
Opened it. Scanned the first lines.
And laughed again.
“That’s your grand plan, Flame? Peace scribbled on paper? You really think I’ll lay down my arms because you command it?”
He threw the document across the table.
It slid, fell to the ground, landing at Althéa’s boots.
Behind her, her men moved as one.
Jaws tight. Hands on weapons.
But Althéa simply extended her hand.
A single motion.
They froze.
She bent down.
Picked up the document.
Straightened.
Without a word.
She placed it again at the center of the table, her movements precise, measured.
“What I am offering you…” she said in a calm, icy tone, devoid of emotion,
“…is peace.
Peace for a war that has lasted far too long.”
The commander let out a sneer.
“And what stops me from killing you right now, tell me, Flame of the Ravine?”
Althéa looked straight into his eyes.
“You cannot kill me.”
He laughed.
“Oh? And why is that?”
He drew a pistol from his belt.
Pointed it directly between her eyes.
Her men reacted instantly, raising their weapons.
Althéa slowly lifted her hand.
Silence.
Obedience.
The weapons lowered.
“You,” she said calmly,
“You’re incapable of it.
I could disarm you before your finger reaches the trigger.”
He laughed again.
“I think you’re terrified. Too cowardly to end this war the way it began. So you come here with this rushed piece of paper because you don’t have the strength to defeat me.”
Still impassive, the pistol aimed at her forehead, she replied:
“And your men?”
A suspended silence.
“What about my men?”
“Do they still want to be here?
Do they still want to fight for you?”
Her voice grew deeper.
“Do you think about them? Even for a second?”
“My men will do what they’re paid to do.”
“Money has no value here anymore.”
Then she turned her head slowly toward the two soldiers behind him.
She looked them straight in the eyes.
“And you, soldiers?
Do you not wish for this to end?
Perhaps you have family.
A wife. Children. A mother. A father.”
Her voice softened—never weak.
“Will they have to wait longer?
Or worse… never see you again?
All to defend the interests of powerful men…
who will never fight for you?”
The pistol was still aimed at her.
She did not blink.
“What I’m offering you, soldiers… is the chance to choose yourselves.
You… and the ones you love.”
Then, without warning, in a fluid, precise motion—
She disarmed the commander.
The weapon flew into her hand as if it had always belonged there.
He staggered back.
She now held his gun.
And with it, the power to end his life.
But she did not.
Instead, she walked calmly toward one of the enemy soldiers.
Placed the pistol in his trembling hand.
Then gently guided his hand—
until the barrel rested against her own forehead.
“Go on, soldier.
Do what your commander orders.
If you wish to obey a man too weak to fight himself…”
Her voice remained calm.
“…or lower the weapon.
And go home.
To those who care about you.”
“SHOOT HER!” the commander screamed hysterically.
But the shout only revealed his powerlessness.
“I climbed the ranks to reach this position,” she continued,
“because I dragged myself through the mud.
Because I bled, wept, killed… for people like you.”
She pointed at all four soldiers in the tent.
“Because I knew they would never abandon me.”
Then she looked at the commander.
“And you…
Do you think he would do the same for you?”
Silence.
“I am Althéa de Soléandre.
Flame of the Ravine.”
She looked back at the trembling soldier.
“And I, too…
want to go home.”
The barrel trembled against her forehead.
Tears streamed down the soldier’s face.
Duty… or love.
Then—
He lowered the gun.
And handed it back to her.
Beside him, the other soldier dropped his weapon.
Althéa turned her head toward her own men.
A single look.
They understood.
One by one, they dropped their weapons.
The metallic clang echoed through the tent like a tolling bell.
Althéa did the same.
Then she returned to the table.
The document was still there.
She slid it back toward the commander.
“Think carefully, Commander.”
Her voice was calm. Firm.
“You no longer have your men’s support.
It is over.
Sign.”
She tapped the paper once.
He met her gaze.
No hatred.
No rage.
Only quiet certainty.
He sat down.
Took the pen.
And signed.
The pen scratched the paper.
One signature.
Nothing more.
And then everything vanished.
The tent.
The men.
The commander.
The weapons.
The noise.
The war.
Replaced by a blinding white.
An infinite, silent expanse.
And before her, in that peaceful void—
…a fracture opened.
Althéa barely smiled.
She was finally going home.
