Rank was not something Nathan Carter ever asked for.
In fact, he had deliberately avoided it.
He understood too well that within the Continental Army, rank was not a reward—it was an amplifier of responsibility. Once a name was formally written into the rolls, every action ceased to be personal. It became institutional.
And the flexibility he had carefully preserved would be cut in half overnight.
But war never moved according to personal preference.
The catalyst came from an operation that could not be called a success.
That night, Nathan's unit carried out its planned sabotage against an outer British outpost, severing a line of communication. During the withdrawal, however, one soldier twisted his ankle. Their pace slowed.
They returned safely.
But it was not a clean withdrawal.
The following day, British forces reinforced security in the area.
Which meant one thing—
The unit had been noticed.
It wasn't failure.It was exposure.
The news reached the command level quickly.
And exposure had a way of forcing institutions to respond.
That evening, Nathanael Greene summoned Nathan to his tent.
A document lay on the table.
Not an order, but a personnel adjustment proposal.
"I can no longer allow you to operate as an 'accompanying aide,'" Greene said.
Nathan glanced at the paper and understood immediately.
"You think this will make me safer?" he asked.
"Quite the opposite," Greene replied. "It will bind you more tightly."
The document proposed a simple change:
—Grant Nathan Carter the lowest commissioned officer rank.
It was the most basic entry point in the Continental Army.
No authority over large formations.No right to independent strategic decisions.
But it meant one crucial thing:
He would no longer be a vague presence.
"You can refuse," Greene said. "I won't compel you."
Nathan was silent for a long time.
He knew that refusal did not equal safety.
A unit that had already drawn attention, operating without legal status, was far more likely to be quietly expended.
"I accept," he said.
Greene showed no emotion, only nodded.
"Then understand this," he said. "From now on, your actions are no longer yours alone."
"I understand," Nathan replied.
The commissioning was simple.
No ceremony.No applause.
Just a name entered onto a list.
That night, Thomas Reed studied Nathan carefully for the first time.
"You're really an officer now," he said.
Nathan didn't correct him.
"What does that mean?" Elias Moore asked.
"It means," Nathan answered, "that you're sharing the consequences with me."
It was the first time he stated responsibility aloud.
The unit's status shifted with it.
They were no longer casually broken apart.No longer treated as temporary manpower.
They gained a vague but legitimate designation—
An independent mobile reconnaissance detachment.
The name was unremarkable.
So ordinary it attracted little attention.
Yet sufficient to secure operational space.
It was during this period that Nathan first noticed Abigail Warren.
She did not arrive suddenly.
She had always existed at the edge of military life.
Abigail was the daughter of an officer, moving from camp to camp with her father, tending the wounded and organizing supplies. She wore no uniform, yet understood the rhythm of camp life intimately.
Nathan first took notice of her when she corrected a surgeon's assessment while recording casualty conditions.
Her tone was not forceful—but firm.
That confidence came from observation, not impulse.
They did not speak immediately.
Their eyes met briefly.
Abigail's gaze lingered for a moment on Nathan's new insignia, then moved on.
No curiosity.No deliberate attention.
As if he were merely one of many newly commissioned officers.
That, more than anything, made Nathan remember her.
That night, the unit received its first task under its new, official status.
Still not direct combat.
But a risk-assessment mission—determining whether a village had been infiltrated by British forces.
The task was simple, but demanded patience.
Before departure, Nathan said only one thing:
"We have a name now."
"So?" Thomas asked.
"So failure is more complicated than it used to be," Nathan replied.
Thomas smiled faintly. "And success?"
Nathan looked toward the road disappearing into the darkness.
"Success will make more people start watching us."
It was fact.
And the clearest judgment he could make at that moment.
The unit moved into the night.
Campfires faded behind them.
Nathan knew exactly what this step meant:
He had entered the Continental Army's true track of power.
From here on, being merely useful would no longer be enough.
He would have to become—
Indispensable.