Challenge Accepted

Angelique spent some time observing the workings of the camp. The soldiers moved through their tasks with efficiency—sharpening weapons, maintaining their armor, and setting perimeters with no need for commanding overlook. The reclamation team worked tirelessly, salvaging useful materials, clearing debris, and processing Malthisan corpses into usable materials and nutrient paste. The entire operation functioned like a machine, each man a cog in the relentless march of survival.

She offered what assistance she could, mostly tending to minor injuries, but it was clear her presence was an anomaly. She was treated as if she were made of glass. As if one wrong move would break her. The brothers would check on her, seeing how she was holding up, almost coddling. It left her feeling like an Unproven again. In an environment that valued function above all else, she wasn't a hindrance, but she was a chore. Something to be looked after. Even when she spoke, asking what she could do to help, her voice was drowned out by well-meaning and overly generous concern for her.

By the time evening fell, she had become completely rested, not allowed to lift a finger to help. The soldiers ushered her to a seat at a table they had set up for mealtime. They knelt in rows, murmuring their devotion in unison, their voices rising in solemnity to thank the Lord for his bounty. The sight should have been comforting, a reminder of the faith that bound them all together, yet Angelique found herself distracted when the meal was revealed—nutrient paste, a gray, unappetizing sludge she had watched the brothers process from Malthisans.

Disgust churned in her gut as the awful smell and appearance assaulted her senses. She was used to proper meals. Meat, vegetables, and bread, sweet fruit juices provided within the city, but this… this was deprivation. It wasn’t that she expected luxury, but surely, they could eat better than this. Especially Isaiah, one of the Seraphim. His position warranted more. A proper meal was not indulgence—it was necessity.

She wasn’t going to let this stand. Without hesitation, she marched toward Isaiah’s tent and pushed past the flaps without an announcement. The sight before her stopped her breath.

Isaiah stood near a basin, bare from the waist up, his skin slick with water as he wiped away the blood from the day’s skirmish. The candlelight flickered against the deep lines of his muscles, a large bruising on his ribs from the blow he had taken earlier. He moved with the ease of someone who had long stopped questioning pain, long stopped believing in the permanence of his own death.

Angelique’s throat went dry. It wasn't often that brothers or sisters would see the opposite in a state of undress. This sight was new and it ignited something she wasn’t prepared for. She was having thoughts of sin.

"What's up, Angel?" He finally looked up, eyes narrowing as he realized she was staring. “Is there a problem?”

“Do you make it a habit to eat vile substances when you have access to proper food?” She said straightening her posture.

"I take it that you don't like nutrient paste?" Isaiah said, squirting a tube into his mouth as she gagged at the sight.

"I used to work in military meal prep. I know we send prepared meals for the Seraphim and their Silver Sisters." Angelique said, glancing away from him.

"The Unproven are eating them now." Isaiah said. "I don't eat them in the first place."

“That’s ridiculous,” she snapped. “You're a Seraphim. Why wouldn't you take advantage of the merits afforded to you?”

"I eat what my brothers eat. Why should I get better than them?" Isaiah said, licking the paste from his fingers.

"Because you are better than them..." She muttered quietly.

"No, I'm not." His expression darkened, but instead of anger, there was amusement lurking behind his eyes. "Look, I don't need your help. You can just sit on your pedestal. We'll keep you safe, make you as comfortable as possible, and you can go back to the city, head held high, knowing you did your job."

"I haven't done anything yet! I haven't been allowed." Angelique folded her arms, searching for a different angle. "If I'm so useless, why assign Silver Sisters at all? If we aren’t needed, why do we exist?"

Isaiah exhaled sharply through his nose, as if the question itself was tedious. "Because sisters aren't brothers. The military is exclusive to men. A woman makes us fight harder; gets our protective instincts up. Your presence is designed to awaken our primal, evolutionary instincts as men to kill any threat to you. That’s your real purpose. And I don’t need the reminder."

Angelique stiffened, stung by his words. “You think a Silver Sister's presence is just an icon to protect?”

“I think it’s an unnecessary test from the Lord.” He stepped closer, presence overwhelming, his damp skin still glistening. “Also the fact that you aren't a real Silver Sister.”

She lifted her chin. “And what if I should report this to Father Moses?”

Isaiah scoffed, his smirk deepening. “I take orders from the Lord, not a mouthpiece.”

He advanced, and before she could react, her back met the canvas wall of the tent. He loomed over her, his proximity suffocating, the heat of his body nearly touching hers. The air grew thick, her pulse quickening despite herself. His scent was assaulting, clouding her mind.

“If you want to threaten me,” he murmured, his voice dangerously soft, “you’ll have to try harder.”

Angelique’s gaze flickered downward, her mind betraying her with a dozen impure thoughts. She swallowed hard. “So many thoughts…” she muttered under her breath, unable to stop herself.

With a frustrated huff, she shoved past him, her cheeks burning as she exited the tent. Once outside, she exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against her chest as if to steady her hammering heart. She had to admit it. It was law.

"Your appearance..." She turned, pointing an accusatory finger toward him. "Inspires so many thoughts of sin!"

As she stormed away, a plan was already forming in her mind. If Isaiah refused to eat anything his men didn’t, then she would make sure all of them had a proper meal. She would cook for the entire regiment, proving her worth and ensuring that Isaiah had no excuse. It would take effort, persuasion, and careful planning, but she wasn’t about to let something as fundamental as food become a battlefield she lost.

This would be her first victory against him—one that would force him to acknowledge her usefulness, to see that she was more than a symbol or a burden. And if it meant winning just a little ground in their ongoing war of wills, then it would be worth every ounce of effort she had to give.

Challenge Accepted!