The dawn arrived, bathed in the crimson glow of blood and fire. The battle had raged through the night, its fury unyielding. Nathaniel could scarcely remember when the smoke and screams had first filled the air. Now, the fields were a graveyard, the ground soaked with the blood of comrades and enemies alike. The faces of the fallen stared up at a sky that had promised freedom, yet delivered only death.

  Nathaniel stood among the wreckage, his sword dripping with the remnants of his choices. The faces of the dead haunted him—men he had once led, men he had once known. He had guided them into this, and now they were lost, their bodies scattered across the battlefield. The cost of revolution was etched in the land, and Nathaniel wondered if it had all been worth it.

  Through the smoke, he caught sight of Margaret, her hands stained with blood as she tended to the wounded. Her face was hard, her eyes distant. There was no joy in victory, no triumph in this. She moved with a quiet determination, her actions a testament to the price of the cause they fought for.

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  Nathaniel approached her, but the words he longed to speak stuck in his throat. How could he ask if it had been worth it? How could he ask if they had done the right thing when the cost was so high?

  “Is this the price of freedom?” he whispered, his voice lost in the chaos around them.

  Margaret didn’t look up, but her voice, calm and unwavering, cut through the noise. “We knew this would come. There is no victory without sacrifice.”

  Before Nathaniel could respond, the sound of approaching soldiers reached his ears. The monarchy’s forces had regrouped. Another wave of men, eager to crush the revolution beneath their boots, advanced. Nathaniel’s heart pounded as he readied himself for the next battle.

  There was no turning back now. The revolution had to succeed, no matter the cost.