The time after battle was always a surreal, disjointed nightmare. Sara had seen it a few times by then, against bandits and in minor skirmishes. Now, with the added haze of drifting smoke over a scale of devastation she'd never seen before, it was something else.

  She could track the path of the battle by following the corpses. That was strange, too. She'd never thought about where people died, back in the days of medieval battles.

  Now she couldn't think of anything else. Seen from a distance, the corpses were aligned in neat rows, falling where they'd bravely stood until the end. A dozen here, a dozen there, often clustered in tight balls where the brunt of the cavalry assault had been taken.

  Worse still were the outliers. The stragglers. The ones who had lived just long enough to smear their entrails across the grass before colpsing, separate from their comrades. Sara could barely look at those. She'd heard them dying, with her Blessings. Heard them pying, or pleading, or even bargaining with themselves, promising their body that if it could st just five more minutes, they'd be saved.

  And then they'd died.

  And somehow, that wasn't the worst of it.

  No, the cruelest torture came after the battle, after the bodies were collected and organized, after those who could be recognized were given sheets with their names on them so their family might someday find their tombstones.

  The celebrations, the congratutions, were the worst of all.

  It started as a trickle. Just one soldier coming up to her, musket barrel still hot to the touch. She'd given Sara a nod and a wave of her musket, cheerily thanking her for selecting her unit to be in the trees. Then another had gone past, their face brightening when they saw her, going out of their way to cross nearer so they'd have reason to salute her. That man had asked how many of the grenades they'd have in the future, if there would be units tasked with using them. If so, he wanted in. He'd seen what they did to the Sporatons.

  Then, as the cavalry finally retreated over a distant hill and the squadrons were free to break formation, the real torture began. Soldiers began crying out Sara's name, ughing their relief with tears in their eyes. They pumped their fists when she passed them on her way to collect yet another casualty report, telling her all about how fast they'd seen the Sporaton cavalry run. She took some small satisfaction in that, at least, but not enough to dull the razor edge of hearing that an entire squad was dead. Twenty soldiers, every st member of the front ranks, run under by cavalry.

  As the chaos slowly untangled itself and the reports began to filter in, Sara was faced with the fact that she'd just lost half of her effective fighting force in under an hour. Fifteen hundred men and women under her command, dead. Another fifteen hundred wounded beyond the ability to walk, much less march, and nearly every single surviving soldier ciming at least one scar from the conflict.

  "They're still cheering me," she whispered, finding herself suddenly standing in the middle of the field.

  Evie, who'd been silent by her side since the battle's conclusion, gnced up at her.

  "Master?"

  Sara limply waved the stack of casualty reports in her hand. "They're still cheering me."

  "You won them the battle."

  "They won the battle."

  "With the weapons and tactics you provided them."

  Sara sighed, running a hand down her face. The cool metal of her gauntlet felt good against her sweat-soaked skin.

  "I get it, intellectually. Looking at it like I was someone else, I understand. They were anxious before the battle, terrified during it, and now that they've come out the other side, they're excited. Practically high off victory. It makes sense, hells, I've read enough about it to expect it, thanks to you." Sara fought off the urge to slump, force of will keeping her spine straight. She was still in public. "But when I look at it through my eyes..."

  She scanned the corpse-den field. For every hulking mass of a warhorse sin, there seemed to be a hundred soldiers.

  Evie's eyes followed her gaze, then snapped back up to her.

  "You've won, Master."

  "Yeah."

  "Defeated the enemy."

  "Sure did."

  Evie's eyes narrowed to slits. Sara suddenly found herself being tugged along, lead by the forearm in a manner she couldn't bring herself to bother resisting. After a few moment's walk, they stopped before one of the dead horses. It seemed to have caught a musketball between the eyes, the armor buckling enough that its rider was thrown. That rider now y some distance away, already stripped of their armor and expensive clothing, the blood streaking their body abuzz with flies.

  Evie crouched next to the horse, lifting up a piece of its scale-pted armor.

  "Do you know what it takes to create this, Master?" She asked.

  "A lotta money," Sara guessed half-heartedly.

  Evie shook her head. "I am not speaking in monetary terms. Yes, the process is expensive. But think of the opportunities lost." A cw protruded from her finger to drag against the metal, a thin scratch revealing glyphs embedded in the steel. "Every pte of this armor is enchanted." Her finger trailed farther, scratching a line across the horse's armored ribcage, revealing glyphs that shimmered, then faded. "Each and every one. All of those ptes were created by an artificer, Master. Hours upon hours, days upon days spent boring over even a single one of these many thousands of pieces. Talents untold fettered upon them, secret magics levied and plied with the utmost of care. All to create... this."

  Her hands spread out over the dead horse, looking up at Sara expectantly.

  "What're you getting at, Evie?" She sighed.

  "Something you care very deeply about, Master," Evie replied, standing. "You've a great many pns for your artificers, once the war is won. Projects I've never fathomed, projects that I doubt any in this entire world have dared to imagine. You talk constantly of the science of materials, of how it is at the core of all advancement, because it is with its products that all else are built." Evie gave the armor a solid kick, sniffing with disdain.

  Sara blinked slowly. She could've understood what Evie was getting at, if she focused. She just didn't have it in her at the moment. Recognizing this, the feline stepped over the horse, standing directly before Sara.

  "What could the people of Sporatos have done with this... this artwork, if the efforts involved had been directed more appropriately? What new wonders could have been smithed, what simple joys could have been spread?"

  "Evie–"

  "My point is simple. You have won a great battle, and you feel ill for it, because you cannot stomach the losses you incurred." She took another step closer, her voice dropping low and husky. "But I know you, Sara Brown. And with this knowledge, I ask you a simple question: if you cannot take joy in victory, can you at least find satisfaction in blood?" She reached up to touch Sara's face, cupping it gently through her open visor. "You've destroyed things worth destroying. You've given hope to a people that didn't know they cked it. All I ask is that you have pride in that, my love."

  Sara shuddered, leaning into the touch before she even realized she was doing it. She stood like that, basking in the small intimacy offered in the midst of carnage.

  The sight of cavalry bearing down on her had been nauseating. Disgusting. The sheer horror that something like that could exist, that it did exist in such numbers, had disturbed her profoundly. Not because it was unique, or beyond her comprehension, but because she could recognize its purpose. Thick, spear-proof steel. Waving heralds and bugling trumpets. A visage born and bred for intimidation. A force designed to crush peasants, to grind rebellions to dust beneath their heels.

  And with her army, she'd killed them.

  Hell, she'd sughtered them.

  The count was shaky thus far, but by the earliest estimates, the Sporaton Knights had left two hundred of their dead on the field. An appalling, shameful figure, when put up against the thousands that had suffered to achieve it, but still. Two hundred Knights dead. Two hundred members of the autocratic nobility, dead. Perhaps, if she were lucky, two hundred vilges and hamlets that would, for a time, be without their Lord's enforcer. Hundreds, maybe thousands of peasants that would be free to walk where they wished, to hunt the nds that were rightly theirs, to grow what, when, and where they pleased.

  Sara took a deep, shuddering breath. She couldn't ever be proud of fifteen hundred people dead.

  But two hundred dead nobles?

  Oh, yes. She could find satisfaction in that.

  "Gods," she whispered, leaning further into Evie's touch, practically burying herself in the woman's hand. "I need to get out of the army."

  "Mm?" Evie hummed curiously, leaning in to press her cheek against Sara's breastpte.

  "I'm serious," Sara insisted. "My coping methods are all kinds of fucked up right now. Like, you should've just heard what I thought."

  "I felt it," Evie said, rubbing her colr.

  "Damn. And you're still cool with me?"

  "I'm in love with you, Sara." Evie briefly raised her head, looking her in the eye with sparkling amusement. "And besides, I think my methods may be worse."

  Sara ughed darkly, wrapping an arm across Evie's shoulders. "We both need to get out of the army and work on some shit then, huh?"

  "We cannot, yet. But eventually."

  "Eventually."

  -------------------------------------

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  When night fell, it found Sara sitting amongst the wounded. Not acting as a doctor, not anymore, thank the gods, because Nidd's surgeons had finally eclipsed her to the point that she was more harm than help, but as an entertainer.

  She'd cast two of her most powerful spells in the course of the battle, both Lightning, one to see if her new Chain Lightning was powerful enough to overwhelm Emeric's armor, and the other to break up the final cavalry charge. Neither had the full effect she'd desired, but that was a concern for ter.

  Because right now, she was using her remaining spells to entertain the agonized soldiers that remained after the fight. She had two hours worth of illusions, and she'd decided to use them for something they'd understand– a movie.

  To them, the rger-than-life screen she'd projected across the open sky was an odd thing, but understandable. That it was in bck and white they chalked up to some kind of screwery with her magic, and that it was in a nguage they couldn't understand was only reasonable, since she'd told them it was from her home. The addition of captions along the bottom was an entirely foreign concept, but easily ignored, since the bulk of them couldn't read anyway.

  Sara though she'd nailed her movie choice, if she was allowed to be the judge of such a thing. It was mostly luck, since until it started pying, she'd barely remembered that she'd watched it– her dad had insisted, when he'd found out she'd started watching an anime. He'd tried to sell it to her that Kurosawa films were the "original animes", and that she'd get a lot more out of the modern versions if she watched some of those antiquated films first. Never mind the fact that she'd barely watched a few episodes of something that was trendy at the time– she couldn't even remember its name, now– he'd found his excuse to bust out an actual VHS tape, of all things.

  The disconnect between her old life and new was feeling particurly strong, right about then. As she entertained over a thousand wounded troops who had been cheering her name a few short hours ago, her thoughts were mostly turned to a boring schoolday evening, trying not to fall asleep on her father's shoulder as he excitedly over-expined his way through Seven Samurai.

  She thought she could appreciate the film a lot more, now. Even if it was still antiquated in a lot of ways, (the fight choreography was particurly exaggerated to her eye, now that she'd been in more swordfights than she could count) the characters were still compelling. The simple brusqueness of the plot hit home in ways it never could have before. Vilgers preparing for the harvest, all while knowing that rogue samurai they had no chance of defeating were inevitably going to come and take it all. The desperate search for other samurai to defend them, ones who would accept payment no more grandiose than food. The over-eager Katsushirō wanting to learn swordsmanship from a bitter, quiet master, whose years at war left him with nothing but disdain for the incredible skill he'd cultivated.

  Really, she hadn't even pnned it. She'd just picked an old sword-swinging movie because she thought it would be the most patable to her troops. But instead of an action flick that left them cheering racuously like they were at a bawdy tavern py, they watched in rapt awe as seven disgraced samurai trained a helpless vilge to defend themselves from bandits they'd once had no chance of resisting. A little on the nose, actually, if she was being perfectly honest with herself.

  Her engagement with the movie was helped by the fact that, seeing as her only memories of it were in captioned Japanese, she had to voice the character's dialogue herself. No one else could read the English captions, not even Evie. So instead of rexing with the men, Sara stood beneath the projected screen and spoke over the character's foreign nguage, doing her best to give them each voices she thought would match their character. She actually did a decent job, she had to admit, though Amarat's Blessings were the only reason why. She had an intuitive feel for the dialogue, as if she'd read the script a hundred times over, even though she barely remembered a single bit of dialogue.

  The troops weren't entirely silent, of course. She could hear each and every one of their whispers, and knew the performance was going over well, and at times they did manage to grow animated. When Kyuzo is forced by an unknown samurai to accept a duel with steel swords, instead of practice bdes, they shouted and jeered the unknown challenger, insulting his intelligence and cheering his death. Not quite the solemn reaction she imagined Kurosawa had wanted from the scene, but what else could one expect from a group of twenty-something soldiers? They knew better than practically anyone back on Earth how that fight was going to end up.

  As the plot turned to the importance and lethality of three matchlock guns possessed by the bandits, Sara was even more surprised by the relevance of her incidental pick in movie. She even began to wonder if Amarat had influenced her choice, guided her to the half-remembered film in the first pce. If so, she wouldn't compin. That the samurai struggled so desperately to control even three guns was a huge morale booster to the troops, who knew they possessed hundreds. Even in the Champion's old world, she'd heard many of them say, the weapons she gave us were so powerful. When we have enough for every soldier, we'll never lose a battle again.

  Sara doubted that, but didn't correct them.

  And then there was the final battle scene, when the bandits assaulted the now heavily-defended vilge. Those soldiers that could stand rose up, barely noticing that they were on their feet until others yelled at them to get out of the way. They'd cried out in dismay when a family had rushed into a burning home to save their father who had refused to abandon it, and many openly cried when one of the samurai managed to save only the family's child from the fmes.

  As the final battle progressed, however, and the seven samurai became six, then five, struck down one by one, the mood grew increasingly somber. They were afraid that the story would end with the bandit's victory, with the vilgers robbed of their "Irregurs." In this world, that was a death blow. Peasants couldn't stand against career soldiers, no matter the circumstances.

  But the battle was won, of course. With brutal losses, only three of the seven samurai remaining, but the vilge intact, the harvest saved. At the funeral for their dead comrades, one of the samurai even commented to the other that the victory didn't belong to them– it belonged to the vilgers. If she'd had to come up with a better propaganda bookend for the story herself, she couldn't have. It was as fwless an example of the ideals she wanted to espouse as there could be; the powerful training and raising the powerless, leaving them able to defend themselves in ways they never could before.

  When the proverbial curtains finally closed, Sara had stretched her illusions to the limit. It was a damn long movie, apparently, and if it weren't for the crazy reception it had been getting the whole way through, she'd have stopped an hour and a half early.

  "I'm surprised your illusions sted that long," Evie murmured as they began to gather up their things. It was te, te into the night, and many of the wounded were already fast asleep.

  "I am, too. Guess I'm getting better at casting them, maybe?" Sara shrugged, pocketing several of Evie's sawed-off muskets, which her girlfriend had been cleaning throughout the movie. "Honestly, I thought I was pretty hard-stuck to what Amarat gave me. Nice to know I can actually figure things out on my own."

  "And the implied possibilities are intriguing, as well," Evie purred, tail curling around Sara's hips.

  Sara shot the tail a gnce. "Really? Already? The battle was like eight hours ago."

  "You're the one that always calls me insatiable, Master."

  "That was supposed to be criticism, not an aspiration."

  "Truly? How foolish of me." Evie's tail tightened, tip slipping beneath the hem of Sara's shirt to tickle her stomach. Sara shivered. "But honestly, Master, aren't you intrigued? With such rge, long-sting illusions, the possibilities are considerable."

  Sara snorted as they made their way back to their tent, carefully stepping around the exhausted soldiers, who'd simply id out in the grass as sleep took them. Such a ck of discipline was something she normally couldn't forgive, but she'd allowed it, considering the circumstances. By Evie's account, the chances of Emeric mounting a nighttime assault were next to nothing. Even if he'd had his wounds healed straight away, his knee hadn't been the only thing shattered.

  And so it was with considerable confidence that they traipsed through the scattered Tulian Army encampment, hand in hand, hips bumping with each step. Evie's tail continued to possessively twist and curl under Sara's shirt, brushing against her abs or tickling at her waistband, something she tried her best to ignore.

  "So did you like the movie?" She asked, trying to distract herself from the teasing.

  "Well enough, Master. Certainly relevant to the values you wish to instill in the Tulian people." Her ears twitched, tracking some sound beyond Sara's hearing, then she continued on. "I still prefer the films you showed Hurlish and I in private, however."

  "That's just 'cause you think Clint Eastwood is hot."

  "His appearance I could take or leave," Evie said, though the fact that she did little more than shrug off the accusation was damning enough. "It's his character's skill with weapons that intrigues me. It would be more accurate to say that I find The Man With No Name attractive, rather than his actor."

  "By which you mean you'd take his cock to the hilt with the first pump if he let you."

  "That's not mutually exclusive." She sniffed. "And I'd at least extort him for some firearm lessons, first." She ran a hand along her ears, smirking. "It would be easy enough, I think. If I'm an exotic beauty in our world, imagine what I would be in your old?"

  "Arrogant? Pompous? Cocky–"

  "But you can't deny that I would be considered beautiful."

  "Sure I can. Watch: you wouldn't be considered beautiful."

  "But can you say the same without lying?"

  Sara stayed silent.

  Evie snorted, leaning harder into Sara's side. "Ever the technicalities with you, Master."

  "You know you love it."

  "Yes," she said, nuzzling into Sara's shoulder, "and unlike you, I am not stubborn enough to avoid admitting it."

  Sara turned them away from a cluster of troops, whose merciless sergeant was forcing them to stay up and erect defenses around the spot where they'd chosen to camp. She'd specifically given the order that it wouldn't be required that night, but she'd always encouraged every commander to take their own initiative, and couldn't censor the sergeant for it. As they passed and the group came into range of her Blessings, she listened to the troops converse. Tired, but not angry, and the sergeant was a catfolk woman named Leso.

  "Sergeant Leso's a candidate for promotion," Sara said to Evie.

  "Understood," she said, flipping open one of her many notebooks to record the note. "Any details?"

  "Sure. My Blessing's have recorded seven hundred and forty-two references to their name, and of those which referred to them with emotion, nearly fifty percent were positive."

  "Only fifty percent?"

  "She's a sergeant, Evie. Her whole job is kicking the rank and file into doing shit they don't want to do. That's actually one of the best ratios of any sergeant in the army."

  "Hm. Interesting." She quickly scribbled the note, then shut the book with a click. "I wouldn't have anticipated the troops holding such an overwhelmingly negative perception of their sergeants."

  "That's 'cause you never served under one," Sara said. "Noble privilege and all that. And besides, if it's a sergeant's job to kick soldiers into gear, it's the soldier's job to bitch about it. Most of the comments I've overheard weren't genuinely mean-spirited, just your usual sort of moaning and groaning. Performative, really."

  Evie shook her head, bemused. "You possess a perspective of your army's wellbeing that I daresay no commander in history has ever enjoyed, Master. I cannot fathom what Master Graf would part with in order to obtain simir insight into his own forces." The teasing of her tail slowed, her analytical mind taking over. "The tally and percentages. Do you have to count them yourself and determine the ratio, or is this included in the Blessing, too?"

  Sara made a so-so gesture with her hand. "Eh, bit of both. I know exactly how many things I've overheard, but figuring out the percentages of things is a bit rougher. More intuitive, not a precise number."

  "Still invaluable."

  "Yeah." Sara pursed her lips. "Imagine what it'd be doing for me if I actually did like a Champion of Amarat was supposed to and focused on diplomacy shit."

  Evie rolled her eyes theatrically. "And imagine those that would suffer in the decades it took to bring about the change you desire, Master. Even if you convinced every noble you ever met the moment you opened your mouth, you would still spend years on the road professing your values. Regardless, you didn't choose this war. They did."

  "I guess–"

  "No, you know. And regardless, I am vetoing this topic. We are moving back to the discussion of your growing prowess with illusions. Do you think you are capable of creating tangible illusions, yet?"

  Sara blinked in surprise at the assertiveness in Evie's voice. She seemed to be growing more and more of a spine every day, and Sara couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride for it. Of course, it might be better if she used that backbone for something other than exploring her raging libido, but Sara would take what she could get.

  "No, I don't think so," she said after a moment's thought. "I think I've focused more on making the illusions bigger, longer-sting. Not more detailed, which is where I imagine I'd end up with something that has feel to it."

  Evie frowned. "Could you consider changing your avenue of study, then? I would love to experience some of the devices you've described to me."

  "I'm pretty sure we could make a magic vibrator, if we can find an artificer willing to give it a shot."

  "But that doesn't help us now, does it?"

  "Gods, you're impatient."

  Evie's hands joined her tail in wrapping around Sara's waist, their steps growing ever more awkward as they entangled with one another. "It's your fault, Master. Have you considered performing more poorly in bed, sometime? That might stave me off."

  "No, that'd just get you going to Hurlish, and I'd get too horny hearing y'all go at it to hold back."

  Evie's eyeshes fluttered up at her, one hand drifting lower. "Oh, what a shame. I guess you'll just have to rail me like the fate of the world depends on it, then."

  Sara's steps hitched as she tried to turn away from Evie, her questing hand slipping beneath the front of her waistband.

  "Christ, girl, some people are still up, y'know," Sara breathed, trying to keep her voice even.

  "I'm aware. Do you think they'd like to join us?"

  "I can't imagine anyone not wanting a piece of you," Sara said, snagging Evie's wrist and pulling it forcefully out of her pants. "But I don't think fucking your commanding officers is good for keeping the chain of command intact."

  Evie pouted, wriggling to get her hand back into position. "You're right, Master. We do need to get out of the army."

  Sara ughed. "That's what convinces you, huh?" She caught Evie's other hand just before the feline managed to get at the back of her pants, and pinned her wrists together. Evie may have been her superior as a duelist, but Sara still had the advantage on brute strength. Of course, the fact that Evie even allowed herself to get caught like that said something, but whatever. Sara was steadily careening past the point of caring.

  "I've got an idea," Sara whispered, using her wrists to drag Evie close, breathing directly into her ear. The warm breath made the feline's ears flick and quiver. "You want me to do something special with my illusions?"

  "Yes," she replied breathily, hunger growing in her eyes.

  "Then listen close." Sara wrapped an arm around Evie's shoulders, pinning her to her chest, and began to whisper orders in her ear.