Catherine remembered.
Not all at once, but slowly, like something long buried rising through layers of time, each fragment slipping into place with a clarity that made her breath catch.
It had been evening.
Autumn.
The kind of evening where the air turned sharp, where the light softened into gold just before it disappeared entirely. She had been in Dorian's barracks then, standing beside him as she always did, her place fixed at his side whether she wished it or not.
She remembered the map spread before them, the general's voice filled with certainty as he spoke of the mountain pass, of the perfect ambush they had laid out, of how Maximilian's army would have no choice but to walk straight into it.
And she had disagreed, quietly, carefully, but firmly, and privately… to Dorian at dinner.
Maximilian wouldn't be that careless. Wouldn't walk blindly into something so obvious. She had known that much, even then.
