#native american reader

Reader’s POV

The world returned in fragments—heat, pressure, then a suffocating darkness pressing down on your ribs like a stone slab. For a moment you couldn’t tell if you were alive or buried somewhere between earth and afterlife.

Then the pain came.

A sharp, dragging ache along your side. Dust in your throat. The taste of smoke thick on your tongue.

You opened your eyes to darkness. Not night—something heavier. A collapsed beam pinned across your legs, the remnants of the stables groaning faintly overhead as the last of the fire crackled out.

You sucked in a breath against the ache.

Alive. Barely.

You pushed at the beam, teeth gritted. It shifted just enough for you to pull free, the splinters scraping your skin. When you finally dragged yourself out into open air, the world tilted, blurring red and black at the edges.

The homestead was gone.

Not damaged. Not broken.

Gone.

Smoke rose in slow spirals where homes and workshops once stood. Ash drifted through the dawn like snow—ghostly, weightless, too quiet for the violence that had birthed it.

Connor.

The name shot through your mind like an arrow.

You stumbled forward, knees weak beneath you. Panic built with every breath, cold and fierce.

“Connor?” you called, voice hoarse and cracking. “Connor!”

Only the wind answered. Only the sound of dying embers and distant groans of burning wood.

You pushed on, searching—through rubble, bodies, the charred remains of walls. The smell of burnt earth stuck in your hair, your braids heavy with ash.

Your pouch was gone. Half your skirt torn. One boot nearly burnt through.

But you kept walking.

Because the only thing more unbearable than your injuries was the thought that Connor might be somewhere beneath the ashes.

You didn’t hear the patrol until cold iron jabbed sharply between your shoulder blades.

“Hold there!” a rough British voice barked. “Hands up!”

You froze, slowly raising your palms. Another soldier circled around you, his redcoat muddied and torn from the night’s fighting.

“This one’s alive,” he said, scanning you with narrowed eyes. “Native… and wounded. She must’ve been close to the blast.”

You glanced between them. They didn’t recognize you. Good.

“Orders?” the younger one asked.

“Bring her with the others,” the leader grunted. “The captain wants any survivors questioned. And this one—she looks important.”

Your chest tightened.

Not good.

If they identified you as Connor’s ally—worse, as the woman who’d been disrupting patrol routes and stealing intelligence—they wouldn’t think twice before dragging you to Boston or New York for a public hanging.

You lowered your eyes, feigning dizziness. “I… I need water…”

The younger soldier stepped closer, concern softening his features. “Easy now—”

You drove your knee up hard into his stomach.

He doubled over with a gasp. The leader swore, raising his musket, but you struck first—grabbing the fallen soldier’s bayonet and slashing upward. The blade caught the leader’s arm, making him drop his weapon with a curse.

You ran.

Branches tore at your arms as you hurtled into the woods, lungs burning, vision narrowing. Behind you, shouts erupted—men scrambling, muskets loading.

“AFTER HER!”

Gunfire cracked. Bark exploded beside your head. You ducked low, weaving around trees, ignoring the pounding in your skull.

You didn’t know where you were going. You only knew one thing:

If Connor thought you were dead, he’d tear the entire countryside apart to avenge you.

And the thought of him wandering alone through the ashes—searching for your face among the bodies—

That hurt worse than your wounds.

Hours passed with no sign of pursuit, but you kept moving until your legs nearly collapsed. Wounds throbbed. Smoke burned behind your eyes.

You finally stopped beside a small stream, the water reflecting the gray sky. Kneeling, you washed the soot from your skin, wincing as cold water stung the cuts along your ribs.

Only then did you catch your reflection—hair matted with ash, feathers bent, braids loose, the blue of your outfit darkened with soot and blood.

You barely recognized yourself.

But Connor would.

He always did.

The thought steadied your breathing—until the forest fell unnaturally silent.

No birds.

No insects.

Nothing.

You slowly turned.

A figure stepped from behind a birch tree.

A tall man in a long, weathered coat. Not British. Not Continental. His face was lined and stern, his cloak marked with a symbol you did not recognize—two crossed branches over a circular crest.

His voice was calm, too calm.

“You survived the raid,” he said. Not a question.

You reached for your blade—not there. Lost in the collapse.

The stranger lifted his hands slightly. “Peace. If I meant you harm, you would not be standing.”

Your stance tightened. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” he said. “Or, if you prefer—the only reason those redcoats haven’t already captured you.”

You didn’t trust him. You said nothing.

The man stepped closer, studying you with unsettling precision.

“You are the woman who fights beside Connor Kenway.”

Your heart skipped.

“How do you know him?” you demanded.

“I know many things.” His gaze softened, though it held no warmth. “Including that he searches desperately for you. He believes you lost in the fire.”

Your breath caught. A sharp ache bloomed in your chest.

Connor…

You imagined him—eyes wild, breath ragged—digging through ashes with his bare hands.

“Where is he?” you asked, voice trembling before you could stop it.

“Alive,” the man answered. “For now.”

Cold dread pooled in your stomach. “What do you mean ‘for now’?”

Before he could reply, the distant sound of a horn echoed through the forest. British. Searching. Getting closer.

The man’s expression shifted—impatience, frustration.

“We do not have time for explanations,” he said. “But if you wish to see Connor again, you must come with me.”

You backed away a step. “I’m not following a stranger.”

He gave a long sigh, as if expecting that answer.

“Then understand this,” he said, voice low and edged:

“Connor is walking into a trap. A large one. Set by men far more dangerous than the soldiers who burned your home.”

Your blood ran cold.

A trap.

And Connor—alone—driven half-mad with grief—

No. You couldn’t let that happen.

The stranger gestured toward a narrow deer trail disappearing into the pines.

“Choose,” he said. “Follow me, and save him. Or refuse, and watch him die.”

Your pulse hammered.

This could be a lie.

A trick.

Another enemy in disguise.

But the alternative—

Connor captured, wounded, or worse—

You couldn’t risk it.

Your decision formed in a single breath.

“Lead the way,” you said.

The man nodded once. “Good.”

You followed him into the deep woods, branches snapping under your boots.

But even as you walked, unease gnawed at your stomach—because the forest behind you felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

And you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—something—was watching you.

The trail wound deeper until the trees grew so thick the daylight barely touched the ground.

You were about to ask how much farther when the stranger suddenly stopped.

You collided lightly with his back. “What—?”

Too late.

A sharp crack split the air.

A rope jerked tight around your ankle.

And the world flipped upside down.

You were yanked into the air, swinging violently as the breath punched out of your chest. Pain shot through your leg, the rope cutting into your skin.

“What—?!” you choked, reaching for the ground—now several feet below.

The stranger didn’t move to help you.

In fact, the look on his face was infuriatingly calm.

“The trap was not for Connor,” he said softly.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“It was for you.”

End of Chapter Seven – “The Ashes Between Us”

Eddie sat on his bed and stared at the clock. The seconds ticked by and he found himself sighing of boredom. He wanted to go out and ride with Bill, or bird watch with Stan, hell, he was so desperate, he would’ve played video games at the arcade with Richie!

“Eddie, come here!” He heard his mom call. He sighed.

“Coming mommy!” He replied. He slowly walked to the bathroom to see his mom shuffling through the shelves.

“We’ve run out of band-aids. Do you think you could see if our neighbors have any? We need some just in case anything happens before I get my check.” She said. Eddie nodded silently and walked towards the door. He slipped on his shoes and walked outside. He looked at the house on the right. That was Mr. Fredrick’s house. Mr. Frederick was a dick. He looked to his left, although he knew what he would see. Yet, the big red FOR SALE sign was gone. Did someone move in? Only one way to find out. He swallowed and walked toward the house. Eddie looked at the door and knocked quietly. A few seconds passed and you opened the door. You were a lot taller than Eddie, but then again, who wasn’t? Eddie didn’t say anything for a while

“Um… Can I help you?” You asked. Eddie looked at his cast.

“Oh… Right. I’m Eddie Kaspbrak, I live next door. I was just wondering if you had any band-aids? I know that’s probably weird to ask but my mom, she’s kinda-”

“Aye, it’s cool.” You interrupted with a laugh. Eddie awkwardly laughed along.

“Come on in.” You said and moved aside slightly. Eddie swallowed and stepped inside. You began to walk down a hall and Eddie followed. You took a few turns and came to a door. You opened it for Eddie and walked in after. You looked through a cabinet and pulled out a large box.

“My names (Y/n), by the way.” You said and opened the lid. Eddie looked in the box and raised his eyebrows.

“And I thought my mom obsessed. No offense.” Eddie replied. You laughed and shrugged.

“None taken. So, how many do you need? Wanna just grab a handful?” You asked. Eddie nodded and reached his hand in. He took a decent amount and placed them in his pocket.

“Nice way to fix up loser. How’d that happen?” You asked and began closing up the box. Eddie’s eyes quickly dropped to the cast as his face reddened.

“Oh, I uh… This girl thought it would be funny to write-”

“Not the writing, how’d you break your arm?” You interrupted with a laugh. Eddie’s face grew even darker.

“Oh, right. I was riding my bike… And I… I fell into a… Wall?” He replied, it sounding more like a question than a statement. You laughed.

“Okay, dude. Whatever you say.” You replied and placed the box back in the cabinet.

“I see you have quite the assortment of medicine here,” Eddie said and gestured to the many shelves lined with everything from pills to herbs. You shrugged.

“Yeah. My (g/n)’s kind of a hypochondriac.” You said with a laugh. Eddie scoffed.

“Tell me about it.” He replied. Before you knew it, you and Eddie had been talking for almost an hour. He talked about his friends and what was recently happening in his life. Some things didn’t really fit together but you weren’t one to pry. He had become frantic when he realized how long he had stayed, saying his mother was going to murder him. You had smiled and told him to come by more often, and he happily complied, that is before he ran out hysterically.

>> timeskip <<

“Yeah, that’s why I stay away from kissing.” You concluded, telling Eddie about the time your cousin got aids.

“Wow. That’s so-” He was cut off by the phone ringing. Eddie quickly picked it up while muttering hello. His expression dropped from one of joy to fear.

“Okay, meet you there.” He said before hanging up the phone. He frowned and turned to you.

“C'mon.” He said. You raised your eyebrow but stood anyways. You both began to walk towards the door but his mom stepped in front of you.

“And just where do you think the two of you are going?” She asked. He stepped back slightly.

“Out with my friends.” He replied.

“But your friend is right here. She’s helping you get over your sickness, remember?”

“Okay wha… What sickness ma?” He asked and unzipped his first fanny pack and pulled out his bottle of pills.

“You know what these are? They’re gazebos! They’re bullshit!” He shouted and threw them on the floor. You suppressed a laugh as Eddie reached behind him and grabbed your hand. He pulled you out the door and began to walk quicker than you’d expect him to. Your face turned red as you looked at your intertwined hands. You knew it was nothing but still felt an odd turning in your stomach.

>> timeskip <<

“Holy shit!” You shouted as you watched the small boy’s limbs stretch out. You felt Eddie squeeze your hand in fear. Your heart sped up, whether from the clown that was now laying on the floor or the soft hand of the boy, you couldn’t tell. As It stood up in a horrifying way there were several screams of “Kill it, Bill!”. They were so loud that no one seemed to hear Mike say that the nail gun wasn’t loaded. Bill swallowed and pulled the gun back. He pulled the trigger and the clown’s forehead began to flake off, its head spurting blood soon after. It began to screech loudly and launched itself at Bill. He fell over as it clamped down on the gun.

“Leave him alone!” Beverly shouted and thrust a metal spear at It. It grabbed the spear and pushed her away. Mike soon replaced her and went to swing a pipe at it but was thrown off. Bill jumped on top of it and used a scrap piece of metal to put It in a choke hole, joined by Richie. Ben and Stan grabbed both of its arms and before you knew it, It had thrown them all off, one by one, until just Bill was left. It grabbed Bill by the neck and held him close.

“No. Don’t. Let him go.” Beverly said.

“No. I’ll take him. I’ll take all of you as I feast on your flesh and feed on your fear.” It replied. It stared for a few seconds and then held up a finger.

“Or, you will just leave us be. I will take him, only him, and I will have my long rest and you will all live to grow and thrive and lead happy lives until old age takes you back to the weeds.” It said.

“Leave. I’m the one who dragged you all into this. I’m s-s-s-s-sorry.” Bill muttered, his voice cracking with fear.

“S-s-s-s-sorry.” It mocked with a menacing laugh. Everyone stared.

“Go!” Bill shouted.

“Guys, w-we can’t,” Beverly said and looked at everyone. You swallowed. Yeah, you didn’t want this kid to die, but you barely even knew him.

“I’m s-s-s-s-sorry.” He said again. Richie stood slowly.

“I told you, Bill. I fucking told you. I don’t wanna die. It’s your fault. You punched me in the face, you made me walk through shitty water, you brought me to a fucking crackhead house, and now,” he said and grabbed a bat from the cluttered pile of objects, “I’m gonna have to kill this fucking clown. Welcome to the Loser’s Club asshole!” He shouted and swung the bat towards It.

Mike quickly ran towards It with the pipe but before he could reach Its face, small burnt hands sprouted from Its mouth, keeping the pipe a good length’s away. They began to multiply but before they could touch Mike, Stan grabbed something from the floor and sliced through them. It turned towards him and Richie swung at It from behind.

It’s face morphed from that of a clown to one of the painted lady. It ran towards Stan but he swung at Its face. Mike ran towards It and smacked It again, but he fell over while doing so. Its arms turned to insect claws and began to stab him. He rolled just out of reach as it continued to clamp down. Ben grabbed the metal piece from Bill and jammed it through Its chest, blood flowing to the ceiling.

Its head did a full 360 and turned into the leper. The bandages sprouted from Its face and began to wrap themselves around Ben’s, slowly pulling him closer. Bill grabbed a chain from the floor and hit It with all his might. He did it again and Richie swung his bat.

Seeing as everyone was having a go at It, you ran to the pile of bricks and picked up all that you could carry. You threw one with all your might and hit It. Feeling proud, you continued chucking them at it. Eddie was laying on the floor when It turned to him. It made a coughing sound before regurgitating what looked like fesses on him. You could see Eddie shake with anger.

“I’m gonna kill you!” He shouted and kicked It in the face, hurtling It right in front you. You watched in horror as the leper’s face turned into Eddie’s. Your heart sped up.

“What’s wrong, (Y/n)? I thought you loved me?” It asked, sounding like Eddie. Your breath caught in your throat as It advanced. You glanced at the others who were all staring. You glanced at Eddie, who looked even more horrified then you felt. You swallowed before screaming and throwing a brick at It. You threw brick after brick until you realized you were crying. It fell back and stared at Beverly, turning from Eddie to a man you had never seen before.

“Hey, Bevie. Are you still my little-” It was cut off by Beverly screaming and sticking the spear down Its throat. Its face began to turn back to the clown as it spat out the spear. It slowly crawled back to the well as you all advanced on it.

“That’s why you didn’t kill Beverly. Cause s-s-s-s-sh-she wasn’t afraid, and we aren’t either. Not anymore. Now your the one who’s afraid. Because you’re going to starve.” Bill said. It made a sort of choking sound before flipping back into the well. It held onto the edge tightly.

“He thrusts his fists against the post and still insists he sees the ghost. He thrusts his fists against the p-p-p-p-post” It stuttered out as Stan handed Bill a pipe. Bill held it up like he was going to swing and It dropped lower into the well. Its head slowly began to disintegrate.

“Fear.” It whispered and took Its final fall.

>> timeskip << 

“I can only remember parts, but I thought I was dead. That’s what it felt like. I saw us, all of us, together, back in the cistern, but we were older, like, our parents’ ages.” Beverley said as you all sat in the field, recalling the past events.

“W-W-What were we all doing there?” Bill asked.

“I just remember how we felt. How scared we were. I don’t think I could ever forget that.” She said. We all looked down. Bill picked something up and stood.

“Swear it. S-S-Swear. If It isn’t dead, if It ever comes back, we’ll come back to.” Bill said. Everyone looked up at him. Beverly was the first to stand, everyone else joining soon after. He cut his hand with the piece of glass and then moved on to Richie. Then it was you. You bit your lip as the sharp glass sliced through your skin. You fought back tears and put pressure on your hand to stop the bleeding as he went to Eddie. After going around the entire circle, he grabbed Beverly’s hand. Then she grabbed Ben’s and you found yourself reaching for Eddie’s, but never making eye contact. After a few seconds, you all let your hands drop. You could feel Eddie looking at you.

“I uh… I’m feeling kinda sick. I’m gonna go home now.” You said while scratching your neck, most likely getting blood there. A few of them muttered byes. Your feet slowly walked over the logs as made your way home. Before you could completely leave the field though, you heard a familiar voice shout your name. You turned and saw Eddie coming towards you.

“(Y/n), before you go I uh… I think we need to talk.” He said and stood in front of you. You let your eyes drop.

“There’s really nothing to talk about Eddie. I thought I could deny my feelings enough to where you wouldn’t find out but that didn’t work. You don’t like me and that’s fine. If everything works out well, we won’t have to see each other for another 27 years. Now I told you before that I felt sick, so I’m going home. Goodbye.” You replied, eyes closed and fists clenched. However, you didn’t make it very far before you felt a hand grasp your shoulder and turn you around. Your eyes flew open as you felt his lips touch yours. He was kissing you. Eddie Kaspbrak was actually kissing you. It didn’t last long but it was still such an amazing thing that you didn’t think you would ever get over.

The morning after your return from the British camp was quiet, the homestead washed in pale sunlight and the fresh smell of dew. Birds called from the treetops, their notes drifting through the air as though to remind you that you were far from the smoke and muskets of Boston.

You tied your braids back with practiced ease, feathers shifting against your shoulders as you stepped outside. The ground was damp beneath your soft boots, your layered skirt brushing your legs with each stride. Silver cuffs clinked softly at your wrists. Here, away from the need to disguise yourself as anything else, you moved with the proud ease of a woman who carried her culture openly.

Connor was already awake, of course. You found him near the edge of the homestead, practicing with his tomahawk, each strike against the wooden post clean and precise. His movements were measured, but his expression was distant, as if his mind still lingered in the shadows of the camp.

“You train even after a mission,” you said as you approached, voice carrying a note of teasing. “Do you ever rest?”

He lowered the tomahawk, turning to face you. His gaze lingered a moment longer than usual, traveling from the feathers in your hair to the patterns woven into your skirt. You thought you saw something soften in his eyes before he quickly looked away.

“I rest when I must,” he said simply.

You tilted your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You should try resting when you don’t have to. It might surprise you.”

He did not answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched as though he almost might.

Later, inside the homestead, you busied yourself in the kitchen hearth, preparing a small meal. You had gathered herbs from the edge of the forest earlier, their sharp fragrance filling the room as you crushed them into a clay bowl. The cropped sleeves of your top left your arms bare as you worked, the fringe brushing lightly against your skin.

Connor entered quietly, carrying a basket of firewood. He paused, watching you for a moment before setting it down by the hearth.

“You cook often?” he asked, tone curious but reserved.

“Not often,” you admitted. “But I know enough. Do you?”

His brow furrowed slightly, as if the question puzzled him. “I… have learned some. Out of necessity.”

You laughed softly, the sound breaking the stillness of the room. “There’s that word again.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours. This time, instead of looking away, he held your gaze. The air between you thickened, the unspoken weight of the camp pressing faintly at the edges. You broke it first, sliding the bowl toward him.

“Here. Crush the rest.”

He hesitated, then took the pestle from your hand. His fingers brushed yours in the exchange, a fleeting contact that still managed to spark warmth up your arm. You turned back to the hearth quickly, pretending not to notice.

By midday, Achilles sent you both outside to haul supplies from the dock. The sun was higher now, glinting off your silver jewelry as you worked, sweat dampening your brow. Connor carried crates with ease, but more than once you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as though to ensure you were not overburdened.

“Do you always watch so closely?” you asked at one point, balancing a sack on your hip.

He straightened, the tips of his ears faintly red. “It is only… to make sure you are safe.”

You smirked, lifting a brow. “Safe? Carrying sacks?”

“You were nearly discovered last night,” he said firmly, his tone more serious now. “You cannot expect me not to worry.”

The words lingered in the air, heavier than the crates stacked at your feet. You opened your mouth to answer but found none that felt right. Instead, you simply met his gaze, the honesty in it leaving your chest strangely tight.

That evening, the two of you sat near the fire. Achilles had long since retired, leaving the house cloaked in quiet. The flames cast a warm glow over the room, dancing across the patterns of your skirt and the beads at your throat.

Connor sat beside you, silent as always, yet the closeness was different now. Less a matter of necessity, more a matter of choice.

You leaned back, letting the crackle of the fire fill the silence. “You know,” you murmured, “if we are to keep playing husband and wife, you may have to practice smiling more. People will start to think you dislike me.”

He turned his head toward you, expression caught between exasperation and something else—something softer. “I do not dislike you,” he said quietly.

The words were simple. Plain. Yet they settled into you like an ember, glowing long after they were spoken.

You let a small smile slip. “Good. Because I don’t dislike you either.”

The fire popped, showering sparks upward. And in the hush of the homestead, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the flickering light, you felt the unspoken shift between you—subtle, but undeniable.

✨ End of Chapter Three ✨

Hope you enjoy chapter three and chapter four!

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@kashasenpai

Chapter Six – Smoke and Silence

The warning came with the sound of hurried feet pounding against the wooden floors of the Homestead. The door burst open and a young scout stumbled through, breathless, eyes wide with terror.

“They’re coming—British patrols—three detachments at least. They’ll be here before dawn.”

The air seemed to still, heavy as the storm clouds gathering above the valley. Connor straightened from where he’d been sharpening his tomahawk. Across the room, you froze mid-motion, one hand still clutching a map that fluttered faintly in the sudden silence.

There was no time for fear, only action.

“Gather what we can,” Connor ordered, voice low but firm. “Riflemen to the treeline. The rest—barricades along the ridge.”

The scout nodded and bolted out again. The sound of alarm spread like wildfire, echoing through the settlement—footsteps, shouted names, the sharp ring of steel.

You met his eyes, the dim firelight flickering across your face. Even beneath the rush of danger, that unspoken current between you lingered—something raw, almost tender, from the words neither of you had spoken after last night’s near-confession.

“Then it begins,” you murmured, already reaching for your weapons.

He gave a single, grim nod. “Aye.”

The storm rolled in fast, a sky bruised with thunderclouds, the air thick with tension and gunpowder. Connor moved among his men like a shadow, silent but commanding, ensuring the defenses were set. He caught glimpses of you near the palisade—hair braided tight, feathers trembling slightly in the wind, the blue of your patterned garment stark against the dull earth.

You were the calm in the chaos, issuing sharp orders, hands deft as you prepared your bow. Even now, amidst the storm’s approach, you carried yourself with that same unyielding grace—warrior and woman, strength and spirit bound into one.

Connor felt a pull in his chest he could not name. He had faced countless battles, but none unnerved him like the thought of losing sight of you in this one.

When the first shot cracked through the night, the world exploded into motion.

The British came from the north ridge, torches flaring through the mist like ghostly fireflies. Muskets blazed. The air filled with smoke and screams. Connor’s tomahawk struck first, clean and silent, before he ducked behind cover, reloading his pistol with practiced efficiency.

He found you at his side again—always, somehow, at his side.

“Left flank!” you shouted over the roar of musket fire, loosing an arrow that caught a redcoat in the throat.

Connor followed your lead, the two of you moving in rhythm as if the chaos around you were merely a dance you’d rehearsed a hundred times. He caught a glimpse of your profile in the glow of the flames—eyes sharp, determined, jaw set—and for a fleeting moment, he forgot the battle.

A cry shattered the rhythm.

“Fire! They’ve set the stables!”

Connor turned. The flames spread quickly, licking up the dry wood and throwing embers into the wind. The air turned thick, choking. Through the haze he saw you break away, sprinting toward the burning structure to cut off a flanking group.

“Wait—!”

His warning was lost to the roar of the inferno.

You were already gone.

He pushed through the smoke, lungs burning. The ground was slick with mud and blood, the night alive with gunfire. He could barely see more than a few feet ahead. Every sound was a ghost—every shadow, a threat.

“(Y/N)!” he called, voice raw.

No answer.

The fire’s glow illuminated glimpses—a fallen soldier, a discarded rifle, the outline of a body that wasn’t yours. He pressed on, each step heavier than the last.

Finally, he found the stables—or what was left of them. The roof had collapsed, sending a column of sparks into the night sky. He shielded his face against the heat and forced his way inside, scanning desperately.

“Where are you…”

Then he saw it—your pouch, lying half-buried in the dirt, the strap torn. Beside it, a single blue scrap from your skirt fluttered weakly in the heat’s draft.

His heart dropped.

“Connor!” a voice shouted behind him—one of the men. “We have to fall back! They’re surrounding the ridge!”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His fingers brushed over the fabric, still warm from the fire. For an instant, he imagined you standing there—smiling, alive, fierce as ever. But the image dissolved into smoke.

He clenched the scrap in his hand, jaw tight.

“Go,” he said quietly to the soldier. “I will find her.”

“Connor, you can’t—”

“I will find her.”

The command in his tone left no room for argument.

He turned back toward the blaze, eyes burning not from the smoke but from something deeper—something he’d never admit aloud. The battle roared around him, yet all he could hear was your voice echoing in his memory.

The smoke thickened, blotting out the moon. The British closed in.

Still, he stood there a moment longer, watching the fire devour what remained of their refuge, until the heat forced him to retreat into the forest.

By dawn, the homestead was nothing but ashes. The survivors regrouped by the river’s edge, battered and silent. Connor knelt beside the water, rinsing blood from his hands, his reflection ghosted by the fog.

He reached into his pocket and drew out the blue scrap of cloth. The edges were charred, but the color still held—vivid, defiant, like you.

For a long time, he stared at it.

“Wherever you are,” he murmured, voice barely above the river’s whisper, “I will not rest until I find you.”

The promise hung in the morning air, heavy with smoke and silence.

Behind him, the wind shifted, carrying faint traces of burnt wood and something else—something that almost sounded like your voice calling his name.

He turned sharply, scanning the treeline. Nothing.

Only the forest, breathing softly in the aftermath.

But Connor’s heart did not believe in silence.

He tucked the fabric safely against his chest, rose, and walked toward the horizon, the dawn light catching on the faint scars of battle that streaked his face.

Somewhere out there, you were alive. You had to be.

And he would find you.

Even if he had to tear the empire apart to do it.

End of Chapter Six

The homestead was quiet when you and Connor returned. Too quiet, almost. After the clash of musket fire, the shouting of redcoats, and the stink of gunpowder clinging to your hair, the stillness was almost suffocating.

You pushed the door closed behind you, sagging against it for a moment as your braids slipped over your shoulders, feathers brushing against the front of your chest. The faint chime of your jewelry followed the movement—silver cuffs at your wrists, the layered necklaces at your throat. Your cropped top and skirt were spattered with grime, streaks of mud marking the fabric in places where you had dropped to the earth for cover.

Connor had already stripped off his weapons, setting the tomahawk and bow against the wall by the hearth. He stood near the fire now, shoulders tense beneath the layers of his tunic. The orange glow limned the strong cut of his jaw, the furrow in his brow, the heaviness that always seemed to hang from his frame after battle.

“You are hurt,” he said without turning, his voice low but edged with command.

“No,” you answered, though your tone was softer than you meant it to be. “Not badly.”

His head tilted toward you, and in the firelight you saw his eyes sweep over your figure. The scrutiny was sharp, yet not unkind—searching for wounds you might be hiding. You lifted your arms slightly, letting the fringe of your sleeves shift as if to prove yourself unscathed.

“Sit,” he said after a moment, gesturing toward the table. “I will look.”

You raised a brow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “You’ll look? You sound more like Achilles every day.”

He turned fully at that, his expression as serious as ever—but the faintest twitch of his mouth betrayed him. “Sit,” he repeated, though his voice carried less command this time, more… concern.

With a quiet laugh, you obeyed, perching on the edge of the table. The wood was cool beneath your thighs, your skirt brushing against your boots. Connor fetched a small bowl of water and a cloth, and when he returned, he stood close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

He dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and pressed it lightly against a scrape along your arm. The touch was gentle, careful in a way that seemed at odds with the man who had cleaved through soldiers only hours before.

“You could have been killed,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on your arm.

“So could you,” you countered softly. “But here we are.”

His hand stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming its work. He said nothing more, but his silence was heavier than words.

You watched him, the way his dark hair fell loose around his face, the set of his mouth as though he carried every burden in the colonies on his shoulders. You wanted to say something—something light to break through the weight between you—but the words caught in your throat.

Later, when the wounds had been cleaned and the hearth’s warmth had softened the night’s chill, you found yourselves outside again. The moon was high, painting the homestead silver.

Connor handed you a wooden staff, its length smooth beneath your palms. “You need to train,” he said simply.

You arched a brow. “After what we just did? You think I need more?”

His gaze held yours, steady, unwavering. “You are skilled,” he admitted. “But there is always more to learn.”

Something in his tone—equal parts respect and challenge—made you smirk. You twirled the staff once, feathers shifting in your braids. “Very well. Show me.”

The sparring began slow, the thud of wood against wood echoing through the quiet night. You moved lightly, skirts swaying with each step, jewelry chiming faintly as you spun and blocked. Connor was precise, each strike measured, each parry controlled.

But as the minutes stretched on, the rhythm shifted. Your strikes grew sharper, your movements quicker. He matched you blow for blow, the clash of wood sparking something almost electric in the air.

When he swept low, you leapt back, laughter spilling from your lips. “You’re holding back.”

“I am not,” he said, though his tone betrayed the faintest hint of amusement.

“Yes, you are.” You lunged, the end of your staff grazing his shoulder. “You think I’ll break.”

He caught your next strike easily, the strength in his arms halting your momentum. For a moment, you were locked together, staff pressed between you, faces inches apart. His breath brushed against your cheek, warm against the night air.

“I do not think you will break,” he said quietly, his eyes locking onto yours. “I fear what will happen if you do not stop.”

Your chest tightened, your heartbeat thundering louder than the clash of staffs. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, with a sharp twist, he disarmed you, the staff clattering to the ground.

But he didn’t step back.

Instead, he stood there, chest heaving, eyes dark and unreadable. The silence stretched, heavy with something you couldn’t name.

Later still, the two of you sat by the fire inside, the silence softer now, less strained. Connor sat across from you, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes occasionally flicking to the flames, then back to you.

“You fight well,” he said finally, voice low.

You smiled faintly, tilting your head. “You sound almost surprised.”

“I am not surprised,” he corrected. “Only… reminded.”

“Reminded of what?” you asked, leaning forward.

His lips parted, as if he might actually answer—but the sharp rap of a knock at the door cut through the moment like a blade.

Connor was on his feet instantly, hand going to his tomahawk. You rose as well, your braids swaying as you crossed the room. When he opened the door, a scout stumbled in, face pale, breath ragged.

“British patrol,” the man gasped. “They found the bodies at the outpost. They’re moving this way. Dozens of them.”

The words dropped into the room like stones into water. The warmth of the fire, the almost-confession still hanging in the air—all of it shattered beneath the weight of the news.

Connor’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking to you for the briefest of moments. And in that single look, you saw everything: the tension of what had almost been said, the danger pressing down on you both, and the silent promise that whatever had just sparked between you would have to wait.

✨ End of Chapter Five ✨