As Nathaniel Ashcroft and his regiment neared Greystone, a chilling silence fell over the village. The usual sounds of daily life—the bleating of sheep, the chatter of children—were gone, replaced by an eerie stillness. Only the wind’s soft whisper in the trees disturbed the quiet. His orders were simple: “Eliminate all threats.” Yet, these villagers, gaunt and weary, appeared no more dangerous than the earth beneath their feet.

  A heavy doubt settled in Nathaniel’s chest. The scent of damp earth and decay was a sharp contrast to the cleanliness of his quarters. As he dismounted, his boots sank into the wet ground, and he signaled for his men to search the houses. Something felt wrong—these people hardly seemed capable of rebellion.

  Inside a small chapel, he saw her: Margaret Ellington, kneeling beside a wounded man. Her blood-stained hands were steady, her face calm despite the chaos around her. Tall, dark-haired, and composed, she was a sharp contrast to the panic that gripped the village.

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  “Your name?” Nathaniel asked, his voice betraying his doubt.

  “Margaret Ellington,” she replied, her gaze unwavering.

  The man groaned beneath her touch. “He was shot defending his family.”

  Nathaniel studied her. She wasn’t the fierce revolutionary he’d expected—no, she exuded quiet strength, a woman unshaken by the turmoil.

  “Arrest her,” the lieutenant ordered harshly.

  Nathaniel hesitated. “There’s no evidence of rebellion. Stand down.”

  The lieutenant balked, then complied reluctantly. As Nathaniel left, Margaret’s eyes followed him, filled with a mix of questioning and hope. He had disobeyed orders, and for the first time in years, doubt gnawed at him. Was this truly justice?