the night before.

A shiver ran through Lee as a stiff, icy breeze swept over him. He bolted upright. The tent was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a small kerosene lamp. The usual sounds of the night were gone.

“Guards!” he shouted. “Guards!”

No response.

From the corner of the tent came a low, dull whoosh.

Whoosh.

Numbness crept over him. He knew that sound.

Metal sliding over wood; he wasn’t alone.

“Guards!” he shouted again.

“They will not come. Nor will any of your other men.”

He lurched from his cot and tried to reach the flap of the tent, but hit the ground hard. An icy pain shot through his palms.

How is it this cold? It’s summer.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

He turned, breath snagging in his throat.

A young woman sat at his map table, idly spinning a dagger on the table. Regal. Composed. Inevitable.

“Please,” she said, her tone soft but commanding, pointing to his cot. “Sit.”

He lowered himself onto the cot, unable to look away from the row of daggers strapped across her vest.

“Who-who are you?” he managed.

“Who, who,” she echoed. “You sound like an owl. Pity you lack the wisdom.” She sighed, "Desperate men make such fools.”

“You-you’re here to kill me.”

“You, you,” she echoed. “Strange sound.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Am I here to kill you? What gave you that impression?”

Her finger traced lazily along the lines of her daggers.

Lee drew into himself, his eyes darting between her and the tent flap.

“You can try,” she murmured. “But you won’t make it.”

Desperation seized him. He lunged for the flap.

He didn’t make it three steps.

An impossibly strong hand seized his hair and hurled him back onto the cot. She was on him an instant later, straddling his chest, a dagger hovering a hair’s breadth above his right eye.

“Do not test me,” she spat. “Do we understand each other?” Her tone turned suddenly calm, and courteous.

Lee nodded slowly.

“Good.” She rose from him. “No, I’m not here to kill you. I’d much prefer you live and kneel in disgrace at Grant’s feet. A far more suitable end for a coward like you.”

“I am no coward. I’m a man of honor—of duty, of integrity. I fight for what is right. And I will never kneel before that drunkard,” he said, finding his conviction.

She smiled. “There’s the Lee I was hoping to meet. You are a coward—there’s no doubt about that.”

“ I will not endure such insolence!"

“Anger. Good. I was beginning to think I’d misjudged you.” Her smile sharpened. “Honor?” she repeated. “There is no honor in chains. No honor in sending men to die for your pride.”

“We are stewards of a natural order..”

“You are beneath me.” She closed the distance between them. “Shall I claim you as property?”

“A man bows to no woman.”

“And yet you tremble before me,” she whispered. The frost from her breath settled on his graying beard like a shroud. “Tell me, General, is it the woman you fear? Or is it the shadow of the man you’ve become since you shook hands with the Wanderer?”

“You are no woman. You are a witch, a demon sent to defy Providence.”

“A witch? A demon?” She tilted her head. “I don’t believe anyone has ever called me that.”

“But that is what you are, sent to lead me from my path of honor and from defending the natural order.”

“Defy Providence?”

She turned and sat at the map table, unsheathed a dagger, and drove it deep into the wood. Then she dragged the blade across the map. The sound of tearing paper and splintering timber echoed through the tent.

She carved a gash from Cemetery Ridge to Little Round Top.

Darkness bled from the torn edges, seeping into the Confederacy’s battle lines, devouring them in abyssal black.

“This,” she said softly, “is Providence.”

He watched in fury as the void swallowed the names of his divisions.

Pickett. Pettigrew. Trimble.

Gone.

She rose. “Now, General.” She turned and crossed to his travel trunk. “Time to prepare.”

She removed one of his uniforms and faced him, holding it out. “Here.”

“For what?”

“Your truth.”

“I will not suffer the indecency of disrobing before a woman—especially one such as you.”

“Understand this—since you see yourself as a man of honor, undeserving though it may be, I shall turn my back to you. I will not dishonor you with my gaze.”

“Fine!” he snapped. “Turn around.”

“As you wish.”

She turned.

He disrobed quickly, folding his pajamas and placing them neatly on the cot before dressing in his gray uniform. He squared his shoulders as he buttoned the double-breasted coat. He fastened his saber at his side, rolled his shoulders back, and drew a slow, steady breath.

His hand tightened around the hilt.

He lowered his gaze.

And in one swift motion, drew the blade and thrust it toward her back.

She spun instantly, steel ringing as her dagger deflected the strike.

“Yes!” she breathed.

Her boot slammed into his stomach, launching him through the tent and onto the hard ground outside.

He rolled across the ground, gasping for breath, shielding his eyes from the blazing sun. He staggered to his feet, clutching his ribs.

Damn her, she broke a rib.

He stood there, breathing hard—then froze.

The encampment was silent. Deserted. Still. Cold.

In the distance, he heard it.

But it wasn’t the sound of battle. No—this was something colder, lower, more desperate. It pulled at him.

He turned toward the tent.

The woman stepped out, tilted her head, and smiled.

Heat flared in his chest—anger, sharp and rising.

But the sound was still calling to him.

He moved toward it. With each step, the air grew colder—heavier.

The sound swelled, sharpening into a desperate cry.

A shudder ran through him as he stepped onto the battlefield.

Before him stretched a sea of mangled, mutilated bodies, writhing in unison—

calling his name.

He stumbled, his boots slick with frost that shouldn’t exist, and glanced down.

A hand—blue with cold, mangled by grapeshot—clamped around his ankle.

“General,” the voice rasped, wet and hollow.

He gasped.

And blinked into darkness.

He staggered backward. A warm glow—orange, yellow, red—burned behind him, casting his shadow long and wiry across the horror before him.

He turned, breath catching.

A cross burned against the dark. The woman sat before it. Then she rose and walked toward him.

“W-what is this?” he asked.

She stopped and met his eyes. “This is your legacy—your corruption of everything you claim to hold sacred.”

She stepped closer.

“I’ve removed the wanderer’s corruption from you,” she whispered. “You will no longer know victory.”

And she drove a dagger into his heart.

He shuddered as the cold blade entered his heart.

He bolted up right on his cot, grasping his chest, breathing heavily the hot humid air washed over him sticky and uncomfortable. His pajamas clung to him as if a second skin.

A dream, just a horrible dream nothing more.

He stood only to fall back onto the cot, eyes wide in fear. A silver dagger was buried in the desk nearly to the hilt next to a torn blacken map.