The sun had long since set when the battlefield of Noveria fell into a surreal silence.
The wind still howled across the plains, but there were no more orders, no more clanking of armour or cries of soldiers.
Death had passed, relentless, and the ground was littered with bodies that the twilight enveloped in a greyish light, as if to slowly erase the horror of the day.
Mireille walked alone among the corpses, her boots crushing the mud and dried blood. Each step was an effort, not only physical but mental.
Her breath was short, her hands trembled slightly, and her mind oscillated between alertness and exhaustion.
Around her, the chaos of war lingered in her memories and sensations. The metallic smell of blood, the acrid scent of dark mist, the sweat of horses, the smoke of campfires and the biting wind — it all came back in flashes.
Images and sounds engraved in her memory for a long time, but still as disturbing as ever.
Mireille remembered the cries of her comrades falling, the clang of steel and bone striking armour, the screams of the wounded who could not be helped.
Yet, in the midst of this carnage, she had survived. And that survival weighed heavily on her, more than any physical injury.
...She felt empty.
The war had drained her, and no words or thoughts could fill that void.
***
A few weeks later, back in civilian life and wandering the streets of the capital's seedy neighbourhoods, the now ex-captain paused for a moment, her hands on her knees, gazing at the horizon where the sun was about to set behind distant mountains.
Her heart was still pounding, not from fear but from exhaustion. Overwhelming exhaustion, in fact.
Her eyes had become abnormally accustomed to violence and carnage. And now, in the morbid calm, she perceived the emptiness of existence.
None of her actions, none of her victories seemed to really matter here anymore. She had considered all kinds of ways to survive after this.
Begging, switching to a different line of work, learning a trade that involved something other than death, or perhaps taking care of the orphans in her native village...
She had many ideas, but for someone accustomed to death and violence like her, none of them seemed truly viable in the long term.
Above all, she was not in the best of mental shape.
That was why, in a moment of desperate lucidity, a simpler solution had crossed her mind:
to sell herself.
To become what she had always hated in her youth — a slave of the flesh, a survivor in the most despicable world possible.
Deep down, there was no difference between selling her body to the army — ultimately to die on the battlefield — and selling her body on the streets, to provide fleeting pleasure to a bunch of unloved or drunken men, who might beat her or stab her to death depending on how satisfied they were with her services.
If she didn't die at the front, she would die of disease, or at the bottom of a street.
Seen in this light, both choices were repugnant and traumatic in essence. So one or the other made little difference.
She had even coldly considered how to go about it, who to trust, and the risks and constraints she would be willing to accept.
Strangely enough, it all seemed like a way to regain control over what remained of her life.
Yet she shook her head, closing her eyes to chase away the thought, but it remained there, tangible, an option she was prepared to take if fate did not lend her a hand.
The rain began to fall, lightly at first, then more insistently, soaking her clothes and sticking her hair to her face.
The mud and pain made each step more difficult, and the cold bit into her exposed skin.
Mireille sat down on a stone bench, which had surely seen better days, letting her hands slide down her body.
She thought about what she could become, the choices she had not yet made, and the consequences of this life she was contemplating with cold lucidity.
Yet somewhere deep inside her, a spark refused to die.
She just wanted to survive. Yes, survive, but with a breath of dignity, even if she did not yet know how to achieve it.
It was then that the sound of a horse approaching broke the silence.
Mireille immediately stood up, her muscles tense, ready to draw a knife or defend herself. But it was not an enemy.
A black carriage, elegant despite the mud and debris, had stopped near her.
The doors opened, and a noble-looking man stepped out. His clothes, impeccable despite the downpour, betrayed his wealth and rank.
Behind him, an elegant woman with a dignified bearing and eyes full of wisdom followed his every move attentively.
Their gazes fell on Mireille.
There was something in their eyes that she had never seen in those of her military superiors. Curiosity, assessment...
And a hint of compassion.
The man stepped forward, his boots sinking slightly into the mud.
"You are Mireille Lorne, aren't you?" he asked, his voice firm yet anything but threatening.
She stared at him, her hands still trembling, unable to respond immediately.
"Yes... I... I am..." She stammered, unable to find the words to continue.
However, an old reflex made her freeze.
'How do they know my name?'
Mireille remained tense for a few seconds, ignoring her surroundings.
Something was wrong. Who were these people, and what kind of information did they have about her?
A cacophony of thoughts and questions swirled around in the young woman's head.
Rain dripped onto her hair and shoulders, but she was no longer aware of it. Despite everything, she gave them the benefit of the doubt.
For one good reason:
She had spent the last moments of her military life imagining darker ends than this, and suddenly, an unlikely opportunity presented itself.
The woman beside the elegant man gently placed a hand on Mireille's shoulder.
"You don't have to speak if you can't. We know what you've been through."
Her voice was soft, but each word resonated in Mireille's mind like a promise of safety and redemption.
The young woman felt something break inside her: all the barriers of cynicism and survival fell away.
She had planned to accept anything, even the worst of lives, but the humanity and recognition in that gaze were more powerful than any plan she had imagined.
The man then knelt slightly, to be at her level.
"I have a proposal for you.
" A-A proposal?"
"Yes. I am offering you a roof over your head, a job, and a place where you can become someone again. You survived the horror of war, and I believe your skills and courage should be put to greater use."
Mireille felt her breath catch.
It was impossible.
Everything she had planned — despair, survival in the shadows and debauchery — had just been swept away in an instant.
Everything was called into question.
Her first reaction was surprising, to say the least — even for her. She wanted to run away, hide, refuse this chance.
But, beyond all this, something inside her simply wanted to accept... and exist.
She looked down at her still slightly swollen and stained hands, then slowly raised them.
"I... I accept." She whispered, her voice barely audible but firm.
The man smiled, and the woman beside him nodded in approval.
'Then you are welcome, milady, the new servant of Wrighton Manor.' she said simply.
The wind almost stopped howling around them, as if the entire street was holding its breath.
Mireille followed the earl and his wife to the carriage. Each step was heavy with fatigue, but she felt the gravity of her decision give her new life.
She knew that the road ahead would be difficult, filled with challenges and impossible choices, but for the first time in a long time, she felt that her destiny was not being imposed on her.
She had seized it with her own hands, even if they were trembling.
As the carriage pulled away from the suburbs, the rain mingling with the mud, Mireille took one last look at the hills in the distance — where the plains of Noveria lay.
The trenches, the bodies, the ghostly cries and the violence of the past. All of it seemed to fade away behind her.
But deep down, something told her that this was only the beginning.
The shadows she had fled from on that field would never truly disappear. They would follow her, always present in her memories and in her choices.
And yet, Mireille now had a place to breathe, a place to exist...
...A helping hand in the midst of chaos.
***
The carriage stopped in front of Wrighton Manor, and Mireille felt a rush of warm, dry air replace the icy dampness of the plain and the suburbs.
She stood up straight, despite the mud and fatigue, and crossed the threshold of the gate with the conviction that, for the first time in a long time, she could still choose her own life.
——And so, the survivor that I was, found a home and a reason to continue existing.——