The air in the southern theater began to tighten.
Not because of a single defeat, but because defeat was being anticipated. Units were pulling inward toward the interior. British forces were accelerating their advance, stretching their supply lines again and again—yet the pressure never eased.
It meant one thing—
The enemy was preparing to gamble on something decisive.
Within the span of a few days, Nathan Carter received three separate requests from different sources, all asking essentially the same question:
Could troops be advanced early along a certain route that appeared viable?
On the map, every one of those routes looked ideal.
Straight roads.Accessible supply.Clear withdrawal options.
Too ideal to be accidental.
The actual order arrived on a cold, gray morning.
It did not come from Nathanael Greene.
It came from the theater's temporary coordination command.
The content was simple:
A unit would advance along the designated route within two days, seize a "favorable position," and pin British movement.
It was the same route Nathan had been asked about repeatedly.
He finished reading the order and said nothing at first.
Elias Moore stood beside him and asked quietly, "You think something's wrong?"
Nathan spread the map out and tapped several points with his knuckles.
"This road is too clean," he said.
"Isn't clean good?" Thomas Reed asked.
"Clean means," Nathan replied, looking up, "it's been looked at too many times."
The British didn't need to set an ambush there.
They only needed to let you pass.
Nathan took his unit to reconnoiter the route in advance.
What they found was worse than he expected.
No ambush.No blockade.
Not even obvious signs of surveillance.
It felt like a corridor that had been deliberately emptied.
Elias circled through the woods and returned with a single sentence:
"It shouldn't be this quiet."
In war, that sentence was more dangerous than any report.
That same day, Nathan went to see Greene.
He did not challenge the order.
Instead, he submitted a supplemental risk assessment.
The language was extremely careful.
He did not write do not advance.He did not write this is a trap.
He wrote only three points:
The route was abnormally quiet.The surrounding terrain was unsuitable for prolonged occupation.Once advanced, rapid withdrawal would be extremely difficult.
Greene read it and did not respond immediately.
He understood what the document represented.
It wasn't advice.
It was a request to alter an existing order.
That night, Nathan did not return to camp.
He sat in front of the map for a long time.
If the order were carried out, the unit would likely be forced into a fight it did not need to take.If the order were withdrawn, someone would lose an opportunity—perhaps even a position.
This wasn't a tactical problem.
It was political.
The next morning, the order was adjusted.
Not canceled.
Delayed.
By one day.
The official reason was tidy:
Further confirmation of British movement was required.
That single day was enough.
On the night of the delay, British forces launched a sudden strike along the flank of that same route.
The target wasn't the advancing unit.
It was a rear supply node.
Had the original order been executed on schedule, that unit would now have been cut off—separated front and back.
When the report came in, headquarters fell silent.
No one spoke Nathan's name.
But everyone knew who had slowed the order by one day.
This time, no one accused him of overstepping.
Because reality had finished the argument for him.
And Nathan understood something with clarity:
He had begun to influence the orders themselves.
That step was far more dangerous than leading men.
After two days of intense redeployment, the camp finally settled—briefly.
That evening, Nathan was temporarily assigned to coordinate casualty transport.
It wasn't his core responsibility.
But he didn't refuse.
Because in war, the most truthful places were often not the front lines.
Outside the medical tents, he saw Abigail Warren.
Not for the first time.
But for the first time, they spoke.
She was handing a stack of records to a surgeon, her brow drawn tight, her voice restrained but firm.
"This soldier isn't just running a fever," she said. "His breathing rate is wrong."
The surgeon looked irritated. "I've examined him."
"Then examine him again," Abigail replied, not yielding. "If you're wrong, he'll be dead by tonight."
The words were soft.
But they left no room for negotiation.
The surgeon turned back into the tent.
Nathan stood nearby and said nothing.
Only when Abigail turned did she notice him.
"You're…" She glanced at his insignia, paused. "Mobile reconnaissance?"
Nathan nodded.
"I've heard of you," she said.
It wasn't praise.
More like confirming a name.
"I've heard of you too," Nathan replied.
That made her stop for a moment.
"They say you don't judge by convention," she said.
"They say you insist on finishing things," Nathan answered.
This wasn't flirting.
It was two people working at the edge of a battlefield, quietly locating each other.
From inside the tent came the sound of the surgeon issuing new orders.
Abigail exhaled.
"Thank you for not interfering," she said suddenly.
"This is your domain," Nathan replied.
She looked at him again—really looked at him.
"Then maybe someday," she said, "you can buy me a hot drink."
It wasn't an invitation.
It was a postponement.
In this time, that was clear enough.
Nathan didn't answer immediately.
He nodded.
"After these next two days," he said.
She said nothing more, turned, and left with the records.
Night settled slowly.
The camp remained uneasy.
But Nathan knew—
He had just completed a second critical choice.
The first was slowing an order by one day.The second was slowing a relationship by one step.
Both followed the same logic.
What must happen will happen.
But not too fast.
He returned to his unit and continued preparing for what came next.
The war was far from over.