The morning broke with a heavy stillness. Even the birds refused to sing. Valoria, once bright and full of laughter, now stood wrapped in fear and smoke.
Clara woke to the sound of horses outside, their hooves echoing through the courtyard. She ran to her window and saw men in uniform gathering, their faces pale but proud. The banners of the Royal Army fluttered in the wind. The war had begun.
Downstairs, her father, Lord Edward Whitmore, stood in full uniform — gold trim shining on his blue coat. He looked taller than usual, though his eyes carried the weight of a thousand worries.
Evelyn clung to his arm. "Father, please don't go," she whispered, her voice breaking.
He smiled softly and kissed her forehead. "My darling, every man must stand when his country calls."
Clara stood a few steps away, her hands trembling though she kept her chin high. "You've already served your time," she said quietly. "Let the younger men go."
Her father looked at her for a long moment, his eyes full of love and sorrow. "If I don't go, Clara, how can I ask others to fight for what we believe in?"
Her throat tightened. She wanted to beg him to stay — to tell him the war would take everything — but her pride wouldn't let her.
Instead, she whispered, "Then promise you'll come back."
He smiled faintly. "I'll try, my dear. That's all any of us can promise."
By midday, the streets were crowded with people saying goodbye. Flags waved, drums rolled, and children cried in their mothers' arms. The air smelled of dust and gunpowder.
Clara and Evelyn stood at the gate as their father mounted his horse. He looked down at them one last time. "Be brave, my girls. Take care of your mother."
Clara nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. Evelyn couldn't hold back her tears.
Then, with a command from the officer, the soldiers began to march. Their boots struck the ground in perfect rhythm, and the sound followed them long after they disappeared down the hill.
Clara watched until the last flag vanished from sight. Her chest ached, but she refused to cry.
When she turned back toward the house, she saw her mother, Lady Whitmore, standing silently on the balcony. Her face was pale, her hands gripping the railing as though she might fall.
Clara went to her and said softly, "He'll be all right."
Lady Whitmore's voice trembled. "No one is all right in war."
That night, the first gunfire echoed across the valley.
It started as a faint rumble, like distant thunder. Then came the sharp cracks — one, then many — rolling over the hills like waves. The servants ran to the windows; Evelyn cried out; even the candles seemed to flicker with fear.
Clara stood by the window, her heart pounding. "It's begun," she whispered.
From far away, the glow of fire painted the horizon.
"Do you think Father is there?" Evelyn asked.
Clara took her hand gently. "He's strong. He'll fight bravely."
But inside, she was shaking. The sound of battle was closer than she had ever imagined.
Days passed. Letters from the front arrived, each one filled with tales of courage and loss. Clara read them aloud to her mother and sister by the fire.
In one, her father wrote:
The enemy is fierce, but our men stand firm. The fields are burning, but so is our will. I think of home every night, and it gives me strength.
In another, he wrote simply:
Tell Clara the roses still grow, even on the battlefield.
She held that letter to her chest, her eyes wet.
Weeks later, the news came that the enemy had taken the Northern Border. Refugees began arriving in Valoria — families without homes, soldiers without hope. The Whitmore estate opened its doors to the wounded.
Clara worked tirelessly, tending to the injured with Evelyn by her side. The scent of medicine and smoke filled the halls.
One evening, as she washed blood from a soldier's arm, she asked, "Did you see Captain Graves?"
The soldier looked up weakly. "Nathaniel Graves?"
"Yes," she whispered.
He hesitated. "Last I saw him, he was leading the charge at Rivermount. Brave man… too brave, maybe."
Clara's heart sank. "What do you mean?"
The man looked away. "We lost many that day."
Her hands froze. "No," she said, her voice shaking. "He promised—"
The soldier said nothing more.
That night, Clara sat by her window again. The war had reached closer now — the light of burning villages glowed faintly in the distance. She could smell the smoke.
She opened Nathaniel's old letter, the one that had started it all. The ink was smudged from her tears, but the words still whispered to her heart:
Your face will be the last image I carry into battle.
She pressed the letter to her lips. "You can't be gone," she murmured. "Not you."
Outside, thunder rolled again — or maybe it wasn't thunder. Maybe it was the sound of the world breaking.
The first gunfire had begun.
And with it, Clara's heart had entered its own war — one of hope, loss, and unspoken love.