Captain Jean-Baptiste Marchand stumbled along the dirt road, his breath ragged, his once-pristine uniform hanging in tattered strips from his shoulders. His exile had been swift and merciless—one moment, he was the Republic’s enforcer, the next, a fugitive cast into the wilderness like a stray dog.

  The hunger clawing at his stomach was nothing compared to the rage smoldering within him. These peasants—these deluded, self-righteous vermin—had dared to defy the Republic and humiliate him in the process. But they had made one mistake.

  They had let him live.

  As he trudged through the cold night, the distant toll of church bells echoed through the valley. Saint-étienne. His hands curled into fists at the sound. The rebels might have cast him out, but they had only sent him back to the one man who might still listen.

  The one man who, despite his gentle words, had never been blind to the dangers of unchecked revolt.

  Father Beno?t.

  —

  The chapel stood on the village outskirts, its stone walls streaked with damp, the wooden doors slightly ajar. A dim glow flickered from within, the scent of wax and incense mingling with the cold air.

  Jean-Baptiste stepped inside, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. At the altar, Father Beno?t stood with his back to him, adjusting the cloth of a simple, unadorned cross.

  “You look worse than when they cast you out,” the priest said without turning.

  Jean-Baptiste scoffed. “And you look the same as ever—meddling where you do not belong.”

  Beno?t sighed and finally faced him. His weathered face bore no surprise, only the quiet patience of a man who had long resigned himself to difficult choices.

  “I assume you haven’t come for confession.”

  Jean-Baptiste shook his head. “I need to send a message to the Republic.”

  The priest studied him. “A plea for revenge?”

  “A warning.”

  Beno?t’s expression darkened. “And why should I help you?”

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  Jean-Baptiste stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Because you know as well as I do that this cannot last. These people think they are free. They think they are building something ‘new’.” He scoffed. “But all they are doing is condemning themselves to bloodshed.”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  Jean-Baptiste pressed on. “You have always been a man of peace, Beno?t. You speak of forgiveness, of balance. But look around you. They are arming themselves. They are ‘choosing’ war.”

  Father Beno?t’s gaze flickered toward the chapel door, as if expecting someone to burst in at any moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

  “I have spent my life trying to keep this village from being crushed,” he murmured. “First under the crown, then under the Republic. I have seen the cost of rebellion, Captain. You think I do not know what happens to those who defy the tides of history?”

  Jean-Baptiste watched him carefully.

  “You still believe in the Republic,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  The priest closed his eyes for a moment, his breath heavy. “I believe in the people,” he corrected. “But I also know the Republic will not stand idly by. They will come, and when they do…” He exhaled sharply. “I would rather be the one to temper their wrath than to witness another slaughter.”

  Jean-Baptiste nodded. That was all he needed to hear.

  Without another word, the priest turned to the altar. From beneath a stack of old ledgers, he retrieved a roll of parchment and a wax seal—the insignia of the Republic.

  “You will not be the author of this message,” Beno?t said firmly. “I will write it.”

  Jean-Baptiste’s lips curled into a knowing smile, but he did not argue.

  The priest dipped the quill into ink and began.

  The words were measured, deliberate.

  The village of Saint-étienne has fallen into revolt.

  The people have turned to arms, believing themselves beyond your reach.

  They are emboldened, and they have sent envoys to neighboring villages to spread their cause.

  Beno?t hesitated, then added:

  I ask not for destruction, but for order.

  If this rebellion is to be quelled, let it be done swiftly and with mercy.

  Spare those who would yet return to reason.

  But act before it is too late.

  The final words were an attempt to temper the Republic’s response, but both men knew the truth. The moment this letter reached the right hands, Saint-étienne’s days were numbered.

  Beno?t pressed the seal into the hot wax, his hand trembling only slightly.

  “You will not see mercy from them,” he murmured, staring at the letter as if it were a weight upon his soul.

  Jean-Baptiste took it carefully, tucking it into the folds of his ragged coat. He met the priest’s weary gaze with a cold, satisfied certainty.

  “No,” he agreed. “But neither will they.”

  Without another word, he turned and stepped into the night.

  Behind him, the priest whispered a quiet prayer—for his people, for the Republic, and for the ruin that was surely coming.