In her eyes, he was dangerously idealistic. A smart, capable commander to be sure, but naïve. Filled with the childlike belief that he could somehow change the world.

Olivia Armstrong hated few things more than wasted ambition.

So the next time they were called to war, she brought Mustang with her.

He was at her side when they waded through the bodies of the dead, when they encountered bands of rebels and tore them apart with gunfire, when they cauterized limbs and sewed shut wounds, when men died screaming. The fires burned as she kicked up the ashes of the dead, charred bone mingled with the stone and mortar of the walls. He had done this, her idealist; he had brought about this armageddon.

She found him in the ruins of a house, kneeling before the burnt and blackened body of a child. He looked up at her, and she could see the anguish in his eyes, the realization that he could never make this better, that no matter what rank he gained, no matter what laws he passed, no matter what he hoped or dreamed, this child would still be dead, dead, dead and he would hear its screams for the rest of his life.

"Come," she said brusquely. "The rebels are moving north."

He rose and went with her, a young man stricken with an old man's eyes.

He sat alone that night while the others laughed and joked, his clothes smelling of burned flesh and shattered dreams. The fire reflected in his eyes.

Little by little, she watched the idealist die.

She should have been satisfied. But all she felt now was regret.