The sun was sinking low, bleeding gold and rust through the trees.
The air hung thick with smoke and silence — the kind that follows after gunfire.
Frost moved through it with steady purpose, boots pressing deep into the soft earth, his breath fogging faintly in the cooling air.
The camp came into view — a scatter of canvas tents pressed tight against the treeline, edges frayed, mud caked around the stakes. No fires burned, no lamps lit yet.
Only the last light of day cut through the branches, washing the camp in dull amber and shadow.
He carried her easily, though not gently — one arm under her knees, the other around her back.
Phoenix's head rested against his shoulder, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only sign she was still alive. Her rifle hung from its strap against his side, useless weight now.
A few soldiers looked up as he passed, then looked away again. Whatever questions they had weren't worth asking.
Colonel Lukas Hartmann stood near a field table littered with maps and ration tins, his cap tucked under one arm. His posture was exact, his coat buttoned even in the stillness.
HARTMANN: "Good. You're here."
His voice carried easily through the air — calm, commanding.
"I've decided to pair everyone into groups. Ranks don't matter here on the ground — survival does."
Sergeant Fox stiffened nearby, his mouth opening to speak before he thought better of it.
Hartmann's gaze flicked to him once — sharp enough to end any protest before it began.
HARTMANN: "Mazur, you're with the Lieutenant. You move at dawn."
Frost gave a short nod, jaw tightening as he adjusted his grip on her. Without another word, he turned toward the row of tents, leaving the Colonel behind — the only sound the crunch of boots and the steady rasp of
Phoenix's uneven breathing.
As he passed the last tent, she stirred weakly in his arms, her voice rough, barely more than a whisper.
PHOENIX: "Don't… don't take me to the med tent…"
Frost stopped. For a moment, the only movement was his thumb flexing against the fabric of his sleeve.
His eyes, unreadable beneath the shadow of his brow, flicked down to her.
FROST: "You need to be checked."
She exhaled sharply — a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, though it wasn't.
PHOENIX: "I said… don't."
Something in her tone — firm despite the tremor — made him hesitate.
Then, with a low grunt, he shifted her weight again and turned toward a quieter end of camp.
The tents there were darker, half-abandoned, the silence between them thick. Whatever he suspected — he'd find his answer soon enough.
He set her down carefully on the nearest cot, the frame creaking under her weight. She winced, one hand pressed against her ribs, breathing shallow.
PHOENIX: "You can stop looking at me like that. I'm not dying."
He didn't answer. Instead, he knelt beside her, eyes scanning the dark stain spreading beneath her vest. The fabric was torn, soaked through near the side.
Without a word, he started unfastening her vest — deliberate, practiced movements, not tender but not cruel either.
FROST: "Hold still."
She didn't fight him. Just watched as he peeled away the vest and set it aside.
Beneath it, her undershirt clung to her skin, streaked with dirt and blood.
He reached for the hem, lifting it just enough to assess the wound — and then froze.
The bruising was there, yes, but what stopped him was the tightly wrapped banding across her chest — layers of cloth flattened and hidden under her uniform. Not regulation issue.
His jaw tightened.
For a second, he said nothing — just stared, the realization settling like a punch to the gut.
Under his breath, he muttered,
FROST: "Cholera jasna…" (Bloody hell…)
He let the fabric fall back into place and stood, raking a gloved hand across his face.
FROST: "You're a damn woman…"
PHOENIX: "Last I checked."
Her voice was rough but steady, as if daring him to make it a problem.
He stared at her for a moment longer — a long, cold look full of questions he didn't ask — before the tent flap rustled behind him.
Sergeant Fox stepped in, still wearing his field jacket, dirt smudged across his cheek.
He froze halfway through the flap, eyes darting between the two of them — Frost standing tense, Phoenix sitting on the cot, vest tossed aside.
The air in the tent shifted.
FROST: "You knew."
Fox hesitated. "Yeah. I knew."
Frost's shoulders squared. "You compromised the whole damn unit."
Fox stepped forward, jaw tight. "She earned her place, Frost."
Frost's voice dropped. "Not your call."
FOX: "It was when I knew command wouldn't even give her a chance. She's saved more lives than half the men out there."
Phoenix had had enough. Her head snapped up, eyes hard despite the fatigue weighing her down.
PHOENIX: "Enough. Both of you."
The words hit sharp — authority from someone barely holding herself upright.
Fox froze mid-sentence. Frost's mouth shut with a click.
PHOENIX: "Sit down. I'm not dying, and I'm too damn tired to listen to you two measure your ranks."
They exchanged a look — then obeyed. Fox dropped onto his cot with a grunt; Frost lowered himself onto the edge of his, elbows on his knees, mask hiding most of his expression.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The lantern flickered once, throwing long shadows across the tent.
Then Phoenix exhaled, slow and shaky.
Phoenix: "You want to know why I did it?"
Neither answered. She didn't wait for one.
PHOENIX: "Look — I've got no family. No friends waiting for me somewhere. I grew up dirt poor. It was a dang miracle I graduated high school"
Her gaze drifted toward the canvas wall, as if the memories were painted there. She let out a heavy yet soft sigh.
PHOENIX: "On paper, I'm nobody. And back home? The best chance I had was showing some ankle at the nearest strip to keep the lights on."
Her voice cracked into a humorless laugh before hardening again.
PHOENIX: "So yeah. Maybe it's stupid, but the Army— this— it's the only life I ever had. The only thing I was ever good at. You think I joined for glory? For medals? Because I wanted to?
She shook her head.
Phoenix: "No. I joined because it was the only way to actually live."
Silence settled again, heavier than before.
She looked at Frost directly now, meeting his eyes through the mask.
PHOENIX: "What else would you have suggested I do, Frost?
For once, he didn't have an answer. His jaw flexed, but no words came.
Outside, the night wind whispered through the trees — a low, constant hum.
After a long pause, he finally said, quiet and even, throwing up his hands:
FROST: "Fine… we move at dawn."
He plopped down on his cot, unsatisfied, still annoyed.
Fox let out a quiet sigh and stood. "I'll get us some food."
An unspoken silence filled the tent as he moved to the small camp stash.
Frost stayed seated a moment longer, jaw tight, before rising to gather medical supplies for Phoenix's scrapes and bruises.
Once he left, Phoenix slumped back against the cot, letting out a quiet, frustrated, "Fuck."
The word hung in the still air, swallowed by the canvas walls.
When both returned, the routine of tending to wounds and eating fell into place without words.
Phoenix's scrapes were cleaned, a small bandage pressed to a nick on her arm, and the quiet tension between them remained.
They ate in near silence, the faint scrape of utensils against tin plates the only sound.
Once the food was done, the pain meds went to work, and the three tried to settle onto their cots.
Sleep came hard at first — muscles tight, minds racing — but eventually, exhaustion won.
The tent grew still, save for the soft rhythm of breathing, carrying them into the fragile reprieve of night.