《Long Live My Republic》


 Chapter 1

    "Long live the new republic!" chanted the crowd in unison, their voices merging into a singular roar that seemed to shake the very ground beneath us. The chant echoed across the square, swelling with fervor, fueled by the promise of something new¡ªsomething better.


    I watched this nation¡¯s first proclaimed chancellor stare at himself in the mirror for an hour. His eyes were hard, as if searching for something within his own reflection, something he wasn''t quite sure he possessed. Every few minutes, he''d fidget with his tie, pulling it loose and retightening it, trying and failing to make it sit perfectly.


    It was almost pitiful, watching a man who had once stormed the front lines now struggling against a piece of silk. An old warhorse like him stumbling over civilian clothes was to be expected, but he would have to learn¡ªhe had to adapt. War was a different beast, simpler, more direct. This was something else entirely.


    We had fought side by side in the civil war for six long years. We bled, we lost comrades, we forged alliances in the smoke and grit of battle. Now, we were here, victorious. But deep down, I couldn¡¯t help but wonder if we had really changed anything. Power, as I knew it, had simply shifted hands. We had knocked a few pieces off the board, reworded the rules¡ªbut the game itself remained the same.


    Power was like an invisible spirit, hovering over everything¡ªever-present, always waiting. It chose its champions not by their nobility but by their ambition and cunning. And it always demanded a price. A different one each time, but a price nonetheless. Today, it had chosen this man, the one standing in front of me, fiddling with his tie and staring into the mirror as if he could see into the future.


    I prayed the chancellor would realize the truth sooner rather than later¡ªthat he was no longer a revolutionary, no longer a symbol of defiance. He was a governor now, a ruler of the people, and he had to learn to play that role with skill and tact. It was a different kind of battle, one fought with rhetoric and compromise rather than rifles and blood. It required grace and deception in equal measure, a careful hand that would guide and manipulate, all while appearing benevolent.


    Perhaps I backed the wrong horse. Only time will tell.


    "Sir, the crowd has become very fiery. Now would be the best time to begin," I reminded him, my voice deliberately neutral as I stepped closer. The roar of the crowd outside had reached a fevered pitch. They were hungry to see the man who had promised them freedom.


    He let out a long sigh, his broad shoulders visibly relaxing, the weight of the moment settling upon him. "Six years," he murmured, almost to himself. "Six years of fighting, putting our lives on the line. But here we are. We finally did it."


    ¡°Yes, we did.¡± I allowed a faint smile to curl my lips as I stepped closer, lowering my voice. ¡°And now we have the people¡¯s support by the bullhorns. This is our chance to finally set things in stone, Chancellor.¡± My eyes bore into his reflection in the mirror, my voice taking on a firmer tone. ¡°Have confidence, but remember¡ªyou absolutely cannot afford to mess this up.¡±


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    He chuckled, a short, gruff sound that betrayed his unease. ¡°Oh ye of little faith¡­¡± He finished with his tie, smoothing it one last time before turning away from the mirror.


    He walked out of the room, his boots thudding against the polished wooden floor, and we followed behind him like shadows. As soon as we stepped outside, we were enveloped in a wave of sound¡ªthunderous applause, cheers, and the deafening chants of "Long live the new republic!" The faces of the crowd blurred together into a sea of fervent, expectant expressions. To them, the man beside me was more than just a leader; he was a legend, a hero who had delivered them from the clutches of oppression.


    The chancellor paused at the podium, waving to the people with a broad smile, basking in their adulation. He let it stretch for a full minute, letting the moment sink in, the crowd¡¯s energy bolstering him before he began his speech.


    "Six years ago," he began, his voice strong and resonant, carrying over the sea of eager faces. "You. Me. Every man, woman, and child were victims of absolute tyranny under the monarchy. But one day, I had a dream¡ªa dream considered radical for its time. A dream for our great nation of Valendia to be prosperous, and most importantly, free. A nation governed strictly by the people, for the people..."


    Blah, blah, blah. Did you really think I would make you listen to all that? I hope you weren¡¯t actually buying into that rubbish idealism.


    A nation by the people, for the people? When half our population cannot even read? When they had lived their entire lives with someone else¡¯s boot on their necks? It was laughable. I had to suppress the urge to smirk.


    Take a closer look at the crowd. What do you see?


    Gratitude? Relief? Devotion? No. What I see is confusion, desperation, and blind faith. These people were not here for the cause. They didn¡¯t even understand the cause. They were here for the man, the hero¡ªthe one who had cast down the king and promised them freedom. They saw him as a godsend, a fairy tale come to life, a man of action who had somehow made the impossible happen. And yes, I admire him too. But that doesn¡¯t mean I will swallow his lofty ideals as easily as they have.


    If this crowd truly understood what this so-called democracy meant, they would be revolting in disgust. They would see that the chains had only been loosened, not broken, and that they would be made to wear them still, albeit of their own making.


    But don¡¯t worry¡ªthat will never happen. Not while I am here to guide them, to ensure that this delicate illusion remains intact.


    Have I rambled too much? Forgive me, I was merely passing the time. It¡¯s not the speech that matters, nor the roaring crowd, nor even the promise of change. What matters to me are those photographers, positioned eagerly across the square, their cameras capturing every angle of this historic moment. The chancellor, standing tall, victorious, the embodiment of a new era¡ªand beside him, there I was, standing not behind him, but at his side.


    It was deliberate, of course. One simple trick, positioning myself just so, ensuring the cameras saw me beside the beloved chancellor. Not some forgotten subordinate trailing behind, but a partner, a figure in my own right. The symbolism was powerful, and it would linger. Coincidentally, our similar hair tones were a nice touch¡ªit made me look almost like a younger version of him. A natural successor, perhaps.


    With that subtle move, I¡¯ve solidified my place in the history books for future generations to see. Today, I¡¯m a shadow. But in the days to come, I will be far more than that. I will be in many more pages before this story is through.


    Long live our glorious new republic.

 Chapter 2

    [WARNING: Strong Language, Violence]


    ¡°Damn brat.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you ever fucking talk back to me again!¡±


    I¡¯m choking on my own blood. I gasp, struggling for air, my vision blurring as a searing pressure builds in my chest. The sensation of suffocation wraps its fingers around my throat, and my face flushes red from the lack of oxygen. Panic swells, and I thrash, trying to pull each breath into my lungs, clawing desperately at something that isn¡¯t there.


    Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stops. I wake up, jerking upright, my heart hammering against my ribcage. The world around me snaps into focus, a dimly lit room with pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. For a few moments, the terror lingers. Then I remember. It was just a dream. No, not just a dream¡ªit was the past. The dream is finally over.


    Some might call it a nightmare, a vision conjured only to torment me, but they misunderstand. Yes, these dreams are painful, suffocating, but they are necessary reminders of where I came from. They keep me grounded, force me to remember who I once was and the promises I made to myself. Without those experiences, how could I understand who I am now? They also serve as a warning¡ªa stark reminder of what awaits me if I ever stray from my path. A reminder that even in peace, the shadow of my past is never far behind.


    This was my first night in a real room¡ªone with walls, a ceiling that seemed to soar above me, and no trace of wind sneaking through the seams of a tattered tent. I had grown accustomed to the cold embrace of canvas shelters, with makeshift beds pressed against damp earth. This room felt like heaven compared to those days. The bed was large, with thick, soft blankets that swallowed me whole, as if trying to protect me from the horrors I faced within my own mind. There was a desk with polished wood, and beside it, a chair made of sturdy oak that didn¡¯t creak with every movement. A wardrobe stood in the corner, filled with clothes that had been neatly folded and pressed, waiting for me like old friends.


    Across from the bed was a large mirror, its surface reflecting the faintest glint of moonlight. I stood before it, studying my reflection¡ªskin still pale and clammy, hair in disarray from restless sleep. Yet it was me, standing tall. I was still here. I was alive. The ceiling above, so high I could stretch my arms without fear of bumping my head, seemed to promise me freedom.


    I slipped into my uniform, the fabric stiff but comforting, a symbol of duty that kept me focused, and then poured myself a cup of freshly brewed coffee. The rich scent filled my senses, awakening me further, and I stepped out onto the balcony to greet the dawn. I wasn¡¯t greeted by gunfire or the deep rumble of artillery shells, but by the crisp air and a scene of life and vitality. Below, a group of recruits was running¡ªyoung, energetic, the future. They moved with a mix of determination and exhaustion, their faces flushed, sweat trickling down their foreheads as the morning sun slowly crept over the horizon.


    I watched them closely, my eyes catching on a young boy near the back of the group. His face was streaked with tears, and his hands were raised above his head in a pose of pure endurance. His legs pumped forward, driven by something deeper than mere training. His comrades, sensing his struggle, cheered him on, and he responded, raising one trembling arm in a victory salute as he reached the end of his route. He collapsed to the ground, gasping, his tears now mixed with laughter as his fellow soldiers gathered around, clapping him on the back.


    A round of applause followed, and a flicker of emotion touched me. Strength of spirit like his is rare, and it''s a shame that we don¡¯t hold our leaders¡ªthe ones who send these young men to war¡ªto the same expectations of perseverance and sacrifice. These recruits reminded me of our ragtag days, when we were merely a rebellion¡ªa group of desperate souls bound by a shared need for survival. We had no real training, no discipline, just a fire that refused to be extinguished.


    ¡°Outstanding!¡± I called down, my voice cutting through the morning air, commanding yet filled with pride. My applause echoed across the courtyard.


    For a moment, the drill instructor paused, staring up at the balcony to identify me. I was too far away, a vague silhouette wrapped in the uniform of a superior officer, or perhaps just someone unhinged enough to demand their respect.


    ¡°Platoon, fall in!¡± the instructor barked, choosing to err on the side of caution.


    The recruits snapped to attention, their backs straightening as they formed a perfect line. A synchronized salute followed, their hands rising with precision. I returned the gesture, then motioned for them to resume their training. The scene stirred something within me¡ªenvy, perhaps. They were learning honor, discipline, the values we had never been able to teach ourselves back when we fought like starving wolves over scraps. I looked forward to what these young soldiers would become¡ªour future leaders, ones forged with steel and principle rather than desperation.


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    ***


    Today, I was to accompany the chancellor as one of his military advisors at the first press conference of this new era. Democratization had flooded our country with newly independent news outlets, each one hungry for a story, hoping to capture the essence of our fragile rebirth. The carriage ride to the congress building was long, and the city unfolded around me through the window. I let my gaze wander, taking in the architecture¡ªbuildings pressed close, their walls unique in their designs, a patchwork of colors and shapes that created a vivid tapestry of life.


    Not all streets were lucky enough to be untouched by the war¡¯s cruelty. We passed through areas still marred by destruction¡ªrubble piled along the streets, and the remnants of old lives waiting to be cleared. I saw people working, their faces tired but determined, hauling stones and shattered wood, trying to rebuild some semblance of normalcy.


    At a large intersection, shops lined the street, their windows filled with goods¡ªbooks, magazines, snacks, and even used armor, anything that might tempt someone to buy and help them keep their livelihoods. The economy bore the scars of the empire''s ambition, and many of these small businesses were on the brink of collapse. Unemployment was rising, and now the people looked to the new government for a miracle. It felt as though we were all balancing on a knife¡¯s edge¡ªone wrong step, and everything would fall apart. Another revolution, another round of suffering, loomed if we couldn¡¯t find our footing.


    ***


    The congress building loomed ahead¡ªan imposing stone structure, its dome towering over the rest of the city. Despite its size, there was something warm about it, a sense of hope emanating from its walls. Inside, the reception hall buzzed with activity, journalists and their assistants bustling about, preparing for what was to come.


    My eyes were drawn to one journalist standing alone, apart from the crowd. She seemed different¡ªnot because of her appearance, but because of her posture, her focus. She wasn''t rehearsing questions or fixing her hair for the cameras. She stood ready, alert, like someone looking for an opportunity to seize.


    ¡°Excuse me, sir, are you attending the press conference?¡± she asked, her voice direct and clear, without any hesitation or introduction.


    I glanced at her, my expression hardening. ¡°No comment.¡±


    To my surprise, she didn¡¯t falter. Her gaze remained steady, her expression unchanging¡ªno fear, no sign of being intimidated. Just a raw determination that matched my own.


    ¡°Do you know what the chancellor will discuss in his opening statement?¡± she pressed on.


    ¡°No comment,¡± I repeated, more forcefully this time.


    She nodded, as if expecting my answer, then extended a small business card. ¡°I understand. Still, if you have anything you want to share, please reach out to me.¡±


    I took the card, more intrigued than I wanted to admit. I walked away without another word.


    ***


    I took the card, more intrigued than I wanted to admit. I walked away without another word.


    The briefing room was a cacophony of muttering voices, each advisor giving the chancellor updates, their respective fields summarized in quick bursts. I found my place at the long table, opening my briefcase and pretending to review my documents. In truth, my presence here was mostly symbolic. The chancellor would face questions on economic policy, on reconstruction¡ªtopics that had little to do with my expertise. Yet I remained, because security, especially in our current state, was more fragile than anyone cared to admit. Neighboring countries were watching, their militaries arming up, their leaders sensing our vulnerability.


    When the chancellor rose to head to the podium, I noticed the exhaustion etched into his face. He mumbled to himself, rehearsing answers, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped his brow. The doors swung open, and the room filled with journalists, photographers, and more people than expected. There were too many¡ªstanding at the back, crowding the walls. The chancellor began to speak, his voice steady, but I could feel a tension in the air.


    My gaze drifted to the corner of the room, and there she was¡ªthe journalist from earlier, scribbling notes with a ferocity that almost made me smile. My fingers played with the business card she had given me. "Aurora Snow: Political Journalist"¡ªa name that spoke of boldness, a desire to carve a place for herself.


    But something felt wrong. My instincts, honed by years of war, began to scream at me. I scanned the room, and my eyes fell on a group near the back¡ªfour, maybe five of them. They held notebooks and pens, but none were writing. Their eyes shifted from the chancellor to the guards, watching their movements, calculating.


    I hesitated. Was I imagining things? Acting out of paranoia could cost me my reputation, make me look foolish.


    ¡°Traitorous demons!¡± a voice suddenly bellowed from the back.


    ¡°Nothing but rebel dogs in fancy clothing!¡± Another voice joined in.


    The head of security moved, a desperate rush toward the chancellor, but time seemed to slow as a deafening pop shattered the air. A gunshot, then another, and another. The crowd erupted in chaos¡ªshouts, screams, the sounds of people scrambling for cover. The head of security hit the ground, and I dropped behind my seat, instinct taking over as a bullet whizzed by, striking the wall where I¡¯d been a moment before.


    Now behind a pillar, I peered out. The shooters were gone, blending into the panicked crowd as they surged for the exits. The guards hesitated, their rifles ready but unable to shoot without risking civilian lives. My eyes swept the room, desperately searching.


    And then I saw it. The podium.


    There was the chancellor, slumped to the ground, his blood spreading across the marble floor.


    ¡°Hey... hey! Get a medic!¡± I shouted, my voice cracking with urgency. ¡°The chancellor has fallen!¡±


    Time seemed to freeze. The fear that had haunted me since the beginning¡ªthe fragility of all we''d built¡ªhad materialized before my eyes. The dream was over, and reality was now a nightmare.

 Chapter 3

    Just when I thought things couldn¡¯t get any worse, reality found a way to prove me wrong. We were now facing the worst possible situation. Our head of state lay incapacitated, and even after consulting the country¡¯s best medical experts, none could give us a definitive answer. They said he could wake up in months, maybe years. Some even warned us to prepare for the worst: he might never wake up.


    To make matters worse, there were no clear protocols on who would temporarily assume his role. No contingency plans for an incapacitated leader. We were left adrift in a sea of uncertainty, and the sharks were already circling. Political rivals, foreign powers, and even members within our own government were all watching, waiting for a moment of weakness to exploit. It wasn¡¯t just the fate of the government on the line¡ªit was the future of the entire nation.


    With all our existing problems piled on top of this, I had to wonder¡ªwould we even have a country left a week from now?


    I was in a typical planning room, the walls adorned with dusty maps and old portraits, relics of the empire that came before us. On one side sat various agency directors and military officials, including myself. Across from us, the eight governors representing each province sat in uneasy silence. Most of them twiddled their thumbs, waiting for someone else to take the lead. The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on all of us.


    These governors were mostly aristocrats and lords of the old empire. Sure, they were corrupt as hell, and fighting so hard just to keep the same people in power left a bitter taste¡ªbut it was a necessary evil, and meant to be temporary. They knew their lands and their people well, and cooperating with them was the wise choice. It bought us time to carefully implement elections, to teach people how to govern themselves without slipping back into chaos.


    This room was divided in every sense. We represented the new order, while they were remnants of the old¡ªan old regime whose time had long passed. Naturally, many of them feared and resented us. And, frankly, the feeling was mutual.


    The murmur of quiet conversations echoed across the room, growing louder until Governor Valois cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to him. He wore a tailored suit, finer than most could afford, and his gray eyes glinted with barely concealed hostility.


    ¡°Martial law will only make things worse!¡± Valois shouted, his voice laced with fury.


    Like sheep, the other governors muttered their soft agreements, some nodding emphatically, others too fearful to meet my gaze.


    ¡°Please understand that this situation is undeniably a national security emergency," I explained calmly, clasping my hands on the table. "We are well within our authority to invoke martial law under these circumstances.¡±


    ¡°So typical of you military simpletons," Governor Valois sneered. He leaned forward, his voice dripping with contempt. "Suddenly, you¡¯re all so hungry for power. Imagine the fear you¡¯d bring by marching soldiers down every street and treating our citizens like criminals! What would your Chancellor think if he were here to see this¡ª¡±


    ¡°Our Chancellor,¡± Eliza interrupted, her voice cutting through the governor''s rant like a knife.


    ¡°What?¡± Governor Valois blinked, caught off guard.


    Eliza is my closest ally here, once an assassin renowned for controlling a vast network of spies during the war. Now, she serves as Director of the Protective Surveillance Agency¡ªa classified institution, its existence hidden from the public eye.


    Eliza is tall, with an imposing presence that seems to fill the room when she enters. Her long, dark hair often falls loosely over her shoulders, framing her sharp, angular face. Her hazelnut eyes are always watchful, glinting with intelligence and a hint of something dangerous¡ªan echo of her former life. There''s a grace to her movements, the kind that comes from years of training, each step deliberate and smooth, exuding a confidence earned through countless missions.


    The previous regime had a secret police force that served a similar purpose, though on a lesser scale. When the capital finally surrendered, we gained access to dozens of classified documents detailing the brutality of that force. We publicized much of it, albeit in the form of propaganda illustrations, which proved highly effective in rallying the people to our side.


    The chancellor wanted to disband the force immediately, but Eliza was adamantly opposed. I can still see her standing there, her tall frame rigid, her eyes blazing as she spoke. Instead of dissolving it, she proposed reform¡ªtransforming it into an agency focused solely on surveillance. She argued that any existing members involved in acts of cruelty would, of course, be expelled and imprisoned. Her voice, while calm, carried the weight of her convictions, and her gaze never wavered from the chancellor''s as she presented her case.


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    They debated for half an hour that day, each growing more agitated, their voices rising with every counterargument. I was present in that meeting, watching as the chancellor''s idealism clashed against Eliza¡¯s cold pragmatism. After hearing her reasoning, I chose to back her in front of the chancellor. Her stance was clear, unflinching, and logical¡ªrooted in the belief that intelligence and control were essential to ensure our new government''s survival.


    How could I not support her? Eliza''s approach was practical, her understanding of power unclouded by sentiment. The chancellor, on the other hand, argued from a place of ethical idealism, but we all knew that ideals alone couldn¡¯t sustain us. If our fragile new government was to survive, we needed internal unity, which meant knowing the sentiments of our beloved citizens and regional leaders, and identifying the anti-revolutionaries hidden in their midst.


    Her loyalty, her unshakable sense of duty, and that piercing gaze that seemed to strip away all pretenses¡ªEliza was a force of nature. She may have set aside her assassin¡¯s blades, but she still wielded power, only now it was the power of information, the power to see and to know. And in this new era, that was a weapon more vital than any knife.


    ¡°I was simply correcting you, Governor," she said with a thin smile. "Still can''t let go of the past?¡±


    Her comment was pointed, a deliberate reference to Governor Valois''s past as a noble of the old empire.


    ¡°Y-you! How dare you!¡± Governor Valois sputtered, his face flushing a deep shade of red.


    ¡°Please, everyone, we need to get back on topic,¡± I reminded them, trying to regain control of the meeting. The situation was hanging by a thread, and every word exchanged only seemed to fray it further.


    ¡°No!¡± Governor Valois shouted, standing up abruptly. His face was flushed with anger. ¡°This meeting is a joke! You all spout hypocrisy¡ªclaiming we should work together, yet you still treat us like old dogs.¡± He was huffing and puffing now, his anger boiling over. ¡°We don¡¯t need any of you.¡±


    ¡°Governor, plea¡ª¡± I began, but it was already too late.


    ¡°Me and every other governor here can handle our regions just fine. There will be no military intervention. We have the public on our side. Try anything, and I swear, we will denounce you.¡±


    With that, he stormed out, followed closely by the other governors, their footsteps echoing through the hall as they left the room.


    ¡°Well. That went well,¡± Eliza remarked dryly, her expression unreadable as ever.


    I remained silent for a moment, the weight of the situation settling heavily on my shoulders. It was futile. I got up, my face expressionless, but not before giving her a disapproving glance. That could not have gone any worse. We had appeared weak, fractured¡ªexactly what Valois wanted.


    ***


    It had been two days, and Governor Valois had finally made his move.


    A freshly printed newspaper sat on my desk, its ink barely dry. The headline was bold, almost taunting: "Governor Valois Raises Local Guardsmen in Lorianne Province; Questions Authority of Federal Military."


    ¡°He¡¯s testing us. If we keep doing nothing, we¡¯re looking at total secession before long,¡± Eliza said, her tone as sharp as ever. She leaned against the corner of my desk, her eyes focused intently on the map hanging on the wall¡ªLorianne Province marked prominently.


    I couldn¡¯t help but look down, feeling a wave of hopelessness wash over me. ¡°Can¡¯t you¡­ can¡¯t you find something to turn this to our favor?¡± I asked, my voice betraying a hint of desperation.


    Eliza tilted her head, considering. ¡°Hm¡­ Well, I have people in place. The problem is that he¡¯s too beloved by the locals. Many are already flocking to join his new toy militia as we speak. The good news? They¡¯re under-equipped and poorly trained.¡±


    That wasn''t much comfort. If we went in with force, guns drawn, we¡¯d be giving him exactly what he wanted. We would look like the oppressive government that everyone feared we were becoming¡ªa new tyranny rising from the ashes of the old.


    ¡°Everything is at stake. Sacrifices are inevitable,¡± she said, her voice oddly calm.


    A chill ran down my spine at her words, and I looked at her carefully. There was a darkness in her eyes, something calculating and cold, a reflection of the past she had tried to put behind her. "What are you trying to say?" I asked, a sense of unease creeping in. A faint, dark thought was growing louder in my mind. Did she know what I was considering? Could she read my thoughts?


    Eliza¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly, and her lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile. ¡°I¡¯m saying time isn¡¯t on our side. It¡¯s better to act now than to sit here and wait for things to fall apart. At least stop the bleeding, y¡¯know?¡±


    The silence between us stretched out, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. I could almost hear the gears turning in her mind, the strategies forming, the plans unspoken.


    She set her half-empty cup of tea on the desk, the clink of porcelain echoing in the room.


    ¡°Whatever it is you¡¯re thinking right now¡ªdo it. No matter the cost.¡±


    Her words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Valois wasn¡¯t just a threat to our authority¡ªhe was a threat to our entire vision for the future. And Eliza was right: sacrifices were inevitable.


    The question was, how far are we willing to go to protect what we¡¯d built?

 Chapter 4

    I stood on the airfield, a chill wind cutting through the open expanse, flanked by a group of armed escorts, ready to greet our new interim chancellor. The decision had been made that the role should go to none other than Oskar Steinhardt, who had served as the vice commander of the rebellion and was also the half-brother of the old chancellor, Ludvig Steinhardt. It was a choice that balanced the need for continuity with the demands of the current political void. Oskar, however, was not a man who sought power or influence. When the war ended, he was among those who believed that their mission was over, that the hard part was done. He had returned to his hometown, setting aside his uniform for the humble life of a farmer.


    With no telephone line, reaching him had taken far longer than it should have¡ªrunners were sent, messages delivered by hand. But in the end, Oskar agreed, albeit reluctantly, to step into his brother''s shoes, at least for the time being.


    I would not classify Oskar as the sharpest tool in the shed compared to his brother. During the war, many had looked down on his appointment as vice commander, dismissing it as mere nepotism¡ªan unearned honor given simply because of blood relations. But, to the surprise of many, Oskar had proved them wrong. Despite lacking his brother''s sharp wit or strategic genius, Oskar possessed a different kind of strength: a steadfast reliability, a natural charisma that allowed him to connect with the troops in a way few leaders could.


    Under pressure, Oskar acted decisively, without hesitation, and that made all the difference in the chaos of battle. When morale flagged, he rallied the men with fiery speeches, weaving humor into his words with an ease that lifted spirits. I had seen battle-hardened veterans, men with hollow eyes and broken wills, straighten their backs and laugh when Oskar spoke. It wasn''t because his jokes were particularly good¡ªthey were often crude or overly simple¡ªbut because he made them feel like they were part of something greater, something worth fighting for.


    Still, his lack of skill in the political arena was worrying. War had its own brutal logic, but politics was a different beast altogether¡ªa world of whispered deals, hidden daggers, and delicate power plays. Oskar was too straightforward, too trusting, and I knew that the sharks circling our fledgling government would see him as an easy target. Yet, despite my reservations, I also knew that his appointment was precisely what we needed right now.


    It wasn''t about policy or strategy; it was about symbolism. Oskar, like his brother, had become a key figure of the revolution. To the people, he was a hero¡ªa living embodiment of their struggle, their hope for a future unbound from tyranny. His rugged features, broad shoulders, and easy smile made him a figure that the common folk could see themselves in. He was the face of the revolution, standing beside his brother, a beacon that promised that their fight had not been in vain.


    And that was why he was here now. It served as a reminder to the public that just because Ludvig was no longer with us, his spirit, his ideals, still burned fiercely within the veins of our new government. Oskar¡¯s presence was a message¡ªone that spoke directly to the hearts of the people. It said that the ideals of the revolution were not dying in a smoke-filled room of political schemers; they were still alive, still strong, carried by the same hands that had helped win their freedom.


    As the airship touched down, its engines humming against the cool morning air, I could already imagine the reaction of Valois and the other governors. They would be fuming, indignant at this new appointment¡ªa farmer, an unpolished soldier elevated to the highest post in the land, even if temporarily. Imagining their frustration, their carefully laid plans unraveling, was delightful in my mind.


    I watched as Oskar stepped out of the airship, his broad frame silhouetted against the rising sun, his boots hitting the tarmac with a solid thud. He looked over at us, his face breaking into a familiar grin, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of the old rebellion in his eyes¡ªthe fire that had carried us through the darkest of days. As much as he might wish otherwise, he belonged here, for now.


    Government officials and department heads stood in a long line, shoulder to shoulder, each waiting their turn to introduce themselves and shake hands with the new interim chancellor. There was a palpable sense of formality hanging in the air, every person taking extra care to perfect their demeanor¡ªa stiff posture, a firm handshake, a polite greeting.


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    When Oskar reached me, I quickly stood at my best posture, smoothing my uniform, ready to deliver my greeting just like all the others.


    ¡°It¡¯s good to see you again, sir¡ª¡±


    But before I could finish my sentence, without a single word of acknowledgment, Oskar pulled me into a tight bear hug, shattering every bit of professionalism I had tried to maintain.


    ¡°Hahaha! Visha! Good to see you as well, boy!¡± he exclaimed, his voice booming across the tarmac.


    I had to stifle a sigh, biting back the urge to roll my eyes. Of course. I had forgotten how Oskar operated¡ªthis man still treated me like a child.


    I joined the rebellion when I was just a young boy, barely old enough to hold a rifle, and as a result, I had grown close to many of its key members over the years. Especially Oskar and Ludvig, who, I suspect, saw me as their own child. Admittedly, I had felt the same¡ªLudvig was the closest thing to a father-figure I¡¯d ever known, while Oskar was more like a beloved, somewhat irresponsible uncle.


    And no, Viktor is my real name. "Visha" was just a nickname, one I had grown increasingly annoyed by over the years, although, for reasons I could never quite articulate, I never truly hated it. There was something about it¡ªan echo of simpler, more innocent times¡ªthat stopped me from completely rejecting it.


    Oskar kept his arm draped around my shoulders, oblivious to the line of officials still waiting to greet him. He launched into a series of remarks, firing off questions in quick succession as if completely forgetting the situation we were in, seemingly only interested in making small talk.


    "Wow! Look at you! That uniform looks great on you, kid!" His eyes crinkled in genuine delight, and he gave my shoulder a squeeze, ruffling the perfectly pressed fabric of my jacket.


    I forced a smile. "Thank you, sir."


    "Say, you still look thin. Too thin." He stepped back to look me over, frowning. "Are you eating well? I thought the capital had plenty of food."


    I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but I nodded curtly. "I''m eating just fine, sir."


    ¡°Wait. Do you have a girlfriend yet?" Oskar continued, his voice rising in enthusiasm. "How are you gonna get married at this rate? You¡¯re in the famed capital, with your looks and status, you have no excuse, boy!¡±


    He laughed loudly, clearly enjoying himself, while I tried not to cringe at the incredulous stares from the line of officials. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Eliza standing beside me, her lips pressed tightly together as she fought to keep her laughter contained. I caught the faintest sound of her muffled giggle, and I shot her a sideways glare. She gave me a wink, her eyes dancing with amusement.


    This was Oskar for you. A man of big gestures and little regard for decorum¡ªindeed, he often needed a little nudge to remember where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. It was a trait that endeared him to the soldiers, who loved his relaxed, down-to-earth nature, but at times like these, it was more of a liability.


    "Sir Oskar," I finally interrupted, doing my best to inject authority into my voice. "I am also delighted to see you again." I stepped back slightly, putting some distance between us as I straightened my uniform. "However, I am afraid we do not have time for small talk, as we¡¯re extremely behind schedule."


    Oskar blinked, momentarily taken aback, and then, just as quickly, his expression shifted as if realizing where he was and what was expected of him. He cleared his throat, straightening his back, and gave me a sheepish smile.


    "Oh, yes. You''re right," he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly before turning his attention back to the waiting line of officials. "Of course. Let¡¯s get on with it."


    He gave me a final pat on the shoulder before stepping forward, his demeanor shifting into something closer to what one would expect of a man in his position. Still, I could see that irrepressible warmth in his eyes, a hint of the laughter that never strayed too far from his lips.


    I watched as Oskar moved down the line, shaking hands and offering polite, if somewhat hasty, greetings. He wasn''t like his brother¡ªhe lacked the sharpness, the gravitas¡ªbut that, in its own way, was a strength. He made people feel at ease, made them believe that they were in the presence of someone who genuinely cared. And that, I supposed, was what we needed now. Even if I had to endure being called "Visha" in front of every government official in the capital.

 Chapter 5

    We were all seated in the meeting room, the tension thick in the air as each of us took turns briefing the new chancellor on our respective areas of expertise. The justice minister spoke first, struggling to condense the dire state of crime in layman¡¯s terms for Oskar¡¯s benefit. It was already a grim situation, but ever since the assassination attempt on the previous minister, the crime rate had skyrocketed further. People had lost faith in the central government''s ability to maintain order. As fear spread, so did the chaos, and the streets had begun to resemble a battlefield of a different kind.


    The finance minister spoke next, his tone urgent as he reported on the economy. Two of the country''s largest banks had experienced a bank run¡ªa disastrous chain reaction as panicked citizens rushed to withdraw their savings. The minister was pushing hard for a bailout, which meant dipping into the royal treasury we had seized during the war.


    I glanced at Oskar as the minister presented the request. He looked worn, his brow furrowed deeply, a hint of sadness and fatigue in his eyes. He had only returned a short while ago, and I wondered if he had ever truly grasped just how dire the situation had become. Perhaps he felt guilty, ashamed even, for having abandoned these burdens to his brother. Ludvig had borne all this weight, trying to create something meaningful out of the rubble of war, while Oskar had been blissfully unaware on his farm.


    Any request put before him was met with the same cautious response: "I''ll put it under consideration." It was a stall, nothing more¡ªOskar buying time, trying to make sense of a situation that had spiraled far beyond his experience. His fingers drummed softly against the table, a subtle, unconscious expression of his anxiety.


    When the spotlight turned to Eliza and me, we presented our findings, our primary concern being the growing instability surrounding Governor Valois. We explained his increasing dissent, the provocative measures he¡¯d been taking, and what that might mean for our already fragile government. Just as we were wrapping up, the timing could not have been more coincidental¡ªa messenger rushed into the room, breathless, a letter in hand.


    The letter was addressed to most of us here, its wax seal bearing the distinctive crest of Governor Valois. As I took it and began to skim through it, I could already sense the contents from the elaborate formality of the language. It was written in the style of the pre-war royal family, bloated with flowery jargon and archaic phrasing. But underneath all that, the message was simple and dangerous.


    I read aloud to the room:


    "To the Esteemed Members of the Provisional Council,


    It is with deep concern and a sense of solemn duty that I write to you, as the appointment of one Oskar Steinhardt to the role of interim chancellor has raised a most troubling issue. The governors of these united provinces, among whom I count myself, have not approved this decision. Such oversight undermines the traditions we have long upheld, even in these turbulent times. Therefore, I must declare that the Province of Lorianne will refuse to recognize the authority of this new chancellor until due and proper deliberation has taken place.


    I hereby demand that Oskar Steinhardt present himself at my estate within five days, that I may determine his worthiness for this esteemed office. Should he prove satisfactory, I will then consider recognizing his leadership. Should he refuse or fail to demonstrate his capability, I shall have no choice but to prohibit all activities, persons, and facilities officially sponsored by the central government within the boundaries of Lorianne Province until such a time as a mutually acceptable agreement on the new chancellor is reached.


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    May wisdom guide our actions, for the future of our people depends upon it.


    With the utmost sincerity, Governor Henri Valois"


    If the stakes weren¡¯t so high, the situation would almost be laughable. Valois¡ªdraped in his outdated arrogance, still fancying himself as an untouchable noble from the pre-war days¡ªdemanding the chancellor present himself for evaluation. It was ridiculous, a power play that should have been scoffed at, dismissed entirely. But we were in no position to ignore it. We were in a precarious position, one where Valois had the audacity to issue such a "damned if we do, damned if we don¡¯t" ultimatum.


    If Oskar agreed to meet with Valois, it would be a public act of submission, an acknowledgment of Valois''s power over the central government, making Oskar look utterly weak in the eyes of the public. It would validate the notion that a provincial governor could dictate terms to the head of state. If Oskar refused, however, Valois¡¯s vaguely worded threat was clear enough: a potential move towards secession. While such an act would be blatantly illegal, it wouldn¡¯t stop Valois¡ªnot when he had the support of his people behind him.


    And that was the crux of the problem. The province of Lorianne was not like the others. It was a border region, its people forged by the constant threat of invasion and conflict, having suffered first-hand from the ravages of many wars. A culture of self-defense had developed there, one of fierce independence, and nearly every citizen was armed. They were not just civilians¡ªthey were fighters, battle-hardened and fiercely loyal to their land and their leader. If Valois called on them to resist the central government, they would rise, and it would not be an empty gesture.


    Eliza leaned closer, her eyes narrowed as she reread the letter, her expression darkening. ¡°He¡¯s playing a dangerous game,¡± she murmured, her voice barely audible. ¡°And he knows we can''t afford to call his bluff.¡±


    Oskar had remained silent as the letter was read aloud, his face growing increasingly somber. He rubbed at his temples, eyes closing for a moment as he processed the situation. It was clear he was out of his depth, and I couldn''t help but feel a twinge of pity. This was not the straightforward world of battles and orders that he knew. This was politics¡ªa battlefield where words were weapons, and appearances could mean the difference between loyalty and rebellion.


    ¡°Do you and Eliza have a plan?¡± Oskar asked at last, his voice quiet, weighed down by exhaustion.


    I hesitated for a moment before replying. ¡°Nothing finalized at the moment.¡±


    ¡°We had not anticipated the situation to devolve so fast, so soon,¡± I continued, choosing my words carefully. The truth was, we hadn¡¯t expected Valois to act so aggressively, not this quickly. The tension was rising faster than we could manage, and we needed a solution before things slipped completely out of our control.


    ¡°Come up with something fast,¡± Oskar said, his voice firmer now. ¡°Whatever you decide, I give you full approval for it.¡±


    I exchanged a quick glance with Eliza, whose expression mirrored my own surprise. This was a significant show of trust¡ªan enormous responsibility that I hadn¡¯t expected him to delegate so completely.


    Oskar must have noticed our expressions because he continued, scanning the room with a deliberate, steady gaze, making sure everyone heard him loud and clear.


    ¡°Pertaining to this issue, whatever these two requests of you, you are all expected to fulfill to the highest effort possible. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Chancellor,¡± came the near-unison reply from around the table, the words curt and obedient, though I could sense the undercurrent of unease from some of the officials.


    ¡°If it¡¯s you two¡ªVish¡ªViktor and Eliza,¡± Oskar continued, stumbling briefly over my nickname before correcting himself, ¡°I am certain we can get through this.¡±


    His eyes softened as they settled on me, his voice carrying a trust I had not expected, a belief that felt almost overwhelming. It was the sort of look Ludvig had often given me¡ªa belief that, even in the darkest moments, I could do what needed to be done. There was warmth in his tone, the kind of faith one gives to family.


    Eliza met Oskar''s gaze and gave a sharp nod, her eyes steady, unflinching. "You can count on us, Chancellor."


    I followed suit, standing straighter, giving Oskar the strongest, most assured look I could muster. "We won¡¯t let you down, sir."

 Chapter 6

    I moved through the crowded streets, eyes flicking to the business card Miss Snow had given me, searching for the right address. She was a journalist, sharp and determined, with a willingness to pursue a good story even if it meant danger. She was key to the first phase of my plans with Valois, and I needed her cooperation.


    Dressed in a plain gray coat and worn trousers, I blended in easily with the bustling crowd. The city''s crime was worsening by the day, and anything refined could make me a target. Most security had been reassigned following the assassination attempt on Ludvig. I could have asked Oskar for protection, but I needed autonomy¡ªthis plan required absolute discretion.


    After several side streets, I found the unit¡ªa small space wedged between a pawn shop and a narrow, grimy alley. The peeling door and dingy window looked unimpressive. I double-checked the address before pushing the door open.


    The bell above chimed as I entered. The room was cramped, stacked with papers, half-empty bookshelves, and a desk barely visible under a mess of open folders and notebooks. The air smelled of ink and dust¡ªa space that felt alive with words. For a moment, I hesitated. Was this really the place?


    A voice called from behind the mess, startling me slightly. "Who¡¯s there? I don''t do walk-ins. If you want to sell a story, take a number and wait."


    "Miss Snow?" I called, stepping forward.


    Her head popped up from behind the desk, her eyes narrowing at first, then widening in recognition. She stood straighter, her voice edged with amusement. ¡°Well, well, look who decided to show up.¡±


    We sat in creaking chairs, barely fitting between stacks of books and papers. She poured us tea from a chipped ceramic pot, her eyes never leaving mine. I took a sip, glancing at the clutter. Noticing my gaze, her cheeks flushed slightly.


    ¡°Please ignore it," she said, embarrassed. "I just moved here.¡±


    ¡°Where from?¡± I asked casually.


    She smiled, sharp and knowing. ¡°A small town in Lorianne. But you already knew that, didn¡¯t you?¡±


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    I tensed, masking my reaction quickly. It was true¡ªI had investigated her. We needed allies in the local press, and Miss Snow stood out. She wasn''t just any journalist; she was an ex-leader of Lorianne''s writers'' guild, an underground organization that had defied the empire''s censorship.


    The writers'' guilds had been havens for those challenging the status quo, publishing everything from subversive fiction to expos¨¦s on corruption among the elite. During the monarchy, only writings that exposed scandals among the ruling class were truly feared and suppressed. With our rise to power and the declaration of freedom of the press, these guilds began emerging from the shadows. Many members left to work independently, tasting freedom without the need for secrecy. Miss Snow was one of them¡ªsomeone whose voice still carried weight, even outside the guild''s confines.


    She studied me, her gaze unrelenting. ¡°Is that why you¡¯re here?¡± she asked directly.


    I set my teacup down. No point in lying. ¡°Yes. I know your influence in Lorianne. Valois is a threat to the freedom we fought for¡ªincluding the press. We need your help to counter his narrative.¡±


    She leaned back, skepticism etched on her face. ¡°And you want me to spread your version of the truth?¡± There was disdain in her voice, but also curiosity.


    ¡°To a certain extent, yes,¡± I admitted. ¡°The central government is making difficult decisions regarding Valois. When that happens, the right story needs to be told.¡±


    Her expression hardened. ¡°If you¡¯re planning war, then this meeting is over.¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°No war. Our actions will be peaceful and for the people of Lorianne. I can¡¯t share more details, but I assure you of our intentions.¡±


    She scrutinized me, then nodded, though tension remained. ¡°Some writers support Valois. But I¡¯ll see if I can get the guild to stay neutral.¡±


    Relief washed over me, but her gaze sharpened. ¡°However,¡± she said, her tone cutting through the momentary relief, ¡°if this turns into anything resembling the old ways, the guild won¡¯t stand by. We serve the people. Don¡¯t expect propaganda.¡±


    I nodded. ¡°I understand.¡±


    She moved on briskly. "Alright, let''s talk compensation."


    I leaned back, prepared for this. ¡°I can provide exclusive information¡ªfirst-hand, before anyone else. You¡¯ll have the inside track on all developments with Valois.¡±


    She considered this, then spoke. ¡°I want access¡ªdirect insight into your activities. Not everything, but enough for exclusive coverage. My assistant is a photographer; he¡¯ll need access too. And I want frequent interviews with you.¡±


    I admired her boldness. ¡°That can be arranged,¡± I said.


    We concluded our terms with a handshake, her eyes locked onto mine.


    Securing influence from the press was merely a requirement¡ªa necessary cog in the larger machine I was building. Now that this piece was in place, I could finally put my plan in motion.


    The real work was about to begin.

 Chapter 7

    Central Army Barracks, on the outskirts of Lorraine Central City


    A large supply convoy moved slowly through the streets, its contents hidden beneath a massive tarp. Curious murmurs rose from the gathering crowd as citizens watched, some even trailing behind in fascination, wondering what lay within. Each carriage had at least two armed guards dressed in plain clothes.


    ¡°Maybe merchants?¡± one citizen muttered, eyeing the convoy with interest.


    The convoy halted at the gate of the barracks, where a sentry stood, visibly tense.


    ¡°State your purpose!¡± the sentry barked, his hand hovering near his weapon.


    A hooded figure hopped down from the lead carriage, stepping forward until he stood face-to-face with the soldier. His voice dropped low, barely audible over the rustling whispers of the nearby crowd.


    ¡°We¡¯re here to deliver supplies and orders from central,¡± he said, pulling back his sleeve just enough to reveal a small, gleaming crest¡ªthe insignia of the Republic Commission.


    The sentry''s brow furrowed in confusion, and he hesitated. But before he could respond, the lieutenant standing behind him caught sight of the emblem and stiffened in recognition.


    ¡°Let them through!¡± the lieutenant ordered, waving the convoy inside.


    The carriages rolled into the front yard of the barracks, and the convoy members immediately began unloading the crates, working with a quiet urgency.


    ¡°Wait, hold on!¡± the lieutenant called after them, his unease still evident despite giving the clearance. The situation didn''t feel right, and his instinct urged him to press for answers.


    Before he could continue, the main building¡¯s door swung open, and a man stepped out. He carried himself with an air of authority, and the soldiers in the vicinity quickly snapped to attention, saluting as he approached.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on here?¡± the man demanded, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. His voice carried the unmistakable weight of command.


    ¡°Captain Moreau?¡± the hooded figure asked, turning to face him.


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s me. Now answer my question¡ªwhat¡¯s all this about?¡± Captain Moreau''s voice was sharp, his suspicion evident.


    ¡°My apologies, Sir. I carry orders from the central government, but I must discuss the details in a more private setting,¡± the hooded man replied, once again flashing the crest, its polished surface catching the afternoon light.


    Captain Moreau scrutinized the man for a moment, his eyes scanning the hidden features beneath the hood. Though mistrust still simmered in his gaze, the crest bore enough authority that he couldn''t ignore it. He finally gave a curt nod. ¡°Fine. But tell your men to hold off unloading whatever it is you¡¯ve brought until I give my permission.¡±


    Turning, he gestured for the hooded man to follow. ¡°Come with me,¡± he said.


    As Moreau led the hooded man towards his office, his thoughts raced, trying to piece together what was happening. If this man truly was from central, then what could these mysterious orders entail? And what, exactly, was inside those crates? His mind flickered through the possibilities, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. Could it be... weapons? Ammunition?


    He couldn''t dismiss the thought. Moreau was all too aware of the simmering conflict between the Central Government and Governor Valois. The tension had been escalating, but his worst fear was that the central government had decided to topple Valois by force¡ªand that they intended to use his men to do it.


    Are they seriously going so far? Moreau wondered, the uncertainty gnawing at his sense of duty.


    The hooded man lifted his hood, revealing his face. To Moreau¡¯s surprise, he was young, with a demeanor far less imposing than expected.


    "My name is Lieutenant Ritter, sir. I serve as a supply officer out of central. Apologies for not saluting you earlier¡ªI hope you understand," the young man said, and then snapped into a proper salute before Captain Moreau, his expression earnest.


    "Supplies, huh?" Moreau muttered, his gaze narrowing slightly. His thoughts immediately returned to the crates. "Then those crates you brought... could they be¡ª" He paused, swallowing hard as the implication formed in his mind.


    Before Moreau could complete his question, a sudden eruption of noise from outside interrupted him, shouts filled with unmistakable joy.


    "Whoohoo!" came the yell of one of his men.


    "No way!" exclaimed another voice.


    Alarmed, Moreau grabbed his binoculars from the desk and moved quickly to the window. Peering through the lenses, he watched as some of his men surrounded an open crate, one of them lifting a tin can high in the air, grinning ear to ear. Food cans?


    He shifted his view to another group opening a different crate. They pulled out bundles of blankets and neatly folded civilian clothing, the mood around them clearly one of excitement and disbelief.


    ¡°Perhaps it would make more sense if you read this.¡± Lieutenant Ritter spoke, pulling an envelope from his coat. It bore the official seal of the central government, pristine and undeniable. He handed it to Moreau, who took it without a word, his eyes still flicking back towards the cheering men outside.


    Moreau opened the envelope and read the letter inside, the formal language detailing their orders. He read it once, then paused, brows knitted, before reading it again to be sure.


    A long sigh escaped his lips, the tension melting from his shoulders. He even managed a small, weary smile. His worst fear¡ªthat central intended to coerce Valois with brute force, and use his soldiers to do it¡ªhad not come to pass. Instead, they were bringing provisions: food, supplies, and comforts for civilians. Relief flooded through him.


    Yet beneath the relief, a flicker of confusion remained. The central government, typically so focused on consolidating power, had sent humanitarian supplies instead of armaments.


    Just what in the world is central thinking? He wondered.


    ***


    It was the first day of Moreau''s company carrying out their newly delivered orders. The directive required them to completely disarm while conducting their activities in the front yard, a command that left all the senior leadership at the barracks feeling deeply uneasy. To mitigate the risk, they stationed an armed platoon hidden inside the buildings¡ªready to act as a rapid response force should anything go wrong.


    In the front yard, they had set up three stands: one for food, another for clothing, and the third for medicine. Each stand was neatly organized, staffed by soldiers now stripped of their weapons, their uniforms intended to appear less threatening.


    The sentries at the gate took turns shouting to attract the crowd that had started to gather at a distance. ¡°We¡¯re giving away food, clothing, and medicine! Come and take what you need!¡± one sentry called out, his voice carrying over the rustling breeze.


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    Despite the enticing offer, the citizens remained wary, hanging back from the entrance. They watched, whispering among themselves, yet none dared to cross the threshold. Distrust was etched on their faces, a distrust born from years of seeing the central government as an outsider force, often at odds with their provincial lives. This barracks was nothing less than a symbol of that government¡ªa reminder of distant, disconnected power. The idea of stepping inside its gates, even for free supplies, seemed a risk too great.


    There was a heavy, invisible line between the soldiers and the townspeople. Stepping into the barracks meant more than accepting aid¡ªit meant entering territory owned by the central government. Here, federal law held sway, not provincial rules, and that simple difference kept the citizens rooted in place. They knew that once inside, they would be subject to central regulations, not the familiar norms enforced by Governor Valois. It meant, despite the Governor''s rejection of central authority, the men in uniform would retain the final say as long as they were within those gates.


    Moreau watched from an upper window, observing the hesitant crowd below. He could feel the weight of the invisible barrier that kept them apart¡ªthe distrust, the uncertainty. His men had done everything they could to soften their presence, but he knew this was about more than appearances. Trust was a delicate thing, and these people had learned to be suspicious of anything coming from central.


    Lorraine was suffering from one of the worst food shortages and poverty crises in the entire country. The situation had deteriorated even further after Governor Valois raised his own guardsmen militia. Public rations had been slashed by a quarter to feed his growing forces, leaving many families to face hunger with little hope of relief. The desperation was palpable; it was there in the gaunt faces and hollowed eyes of the townspeople, in the way they clutched their children close and eyed the supply stands like a distant mirage.


    From his vantage point, Moreau could see the despair etched into their expressions. He could feel the weight of it, like an invisible fog that settled over the barracks. Hunger had a way of stripping away dignity, leaving only raw, unyielding need. Surely, he thought, surely there must be a few desperate enough to give us a chance?


    Moreau''s gaze lingered on the crowd, his heart heavy with a mix of hope and doubt. They needed someone to step forward, to break the wall of suspicion that separated them. If even one person took a step across the threshold, it might be enough to inspire others, to let them see that the offer was genuine. The provisions were here, the soldiers were standing down, and yet the distance between them felt insurmountable.


    He let out a slow breath, the corners of his mouth tightening. "Come on," he whispered to no one in particular, his voice barely audible over the murmurs from outside. "Just one of you."


    The sight of a young boy and girl, thin and frail, shifting on their feet caught Moreau''s attention. They looked like they had come straight from the slums, their clothes worn and their faces marked by hunger. Slowly, they edged closer to the entrance, just a meter away from the sentry. It was the closest anyone had dared to come. The little girl hid behind her brother, her eyes wide with fear, while the boy stood protectively in front of her, though his trembling betrayed his nerves.


    The sentry noticed them and lowered himself to their level, offering a gentle smile. ¡°Would you be interested in some food?¡± he asked, his voice as soft as he could make it.


    The boy opened his mouth, but no words came. He swallowed hard, trying to mask the fear in his eyes, as if afraid that showing weakness might make the offer vanish. The girl peeked out from behind him, her small hand clutching his tattered sleeve. She looked at the sentry, then at the cans stacked on the stand, and finally gave a slight nod.


    ¡°Right this way,¡± the sentry said, motioning them forward.


    The boy hesitated, glancing back at the crowd as if seeking reassurance, then turned his gaze forward. He took a deep breath, letting out a shaky gulp, before he decided to take the risk. Slowly, they followed the sentry inside the gate, the crowd watching in hushed silence, curiosity and disbelief flickering across their faces.


    At the stand, a uniformed man smiled and handed each of them a can of food. The girl took hers carefully, lifting it up as though it was a precious treasure, her eyes widening at the colorful picture of food on the label¡ªa promise of a meal she could only dream about. She turned it over in her small hands, almost as if she couldn¡¯t believe it was real.


    Just as they were about to leave, the man at the stand called out to them again. ¡°Just two?¡± he asked, an amused warmth in his voice. He looked at the boy, sizing up his scrawny frame. ¡°You¡¯re a growing young man, aren¡¯t you? Think you can carry one more?¡±


    The boy¡¯s eyes widened, his face lighting up with a mix of surprise and joy. He nodded eagerly, his fear momentarily forgotten, and extended his arms. The soldier handed him another can, and the boy held it close, his expression brightening in a way that seemed to erase the gauntness of his cheeks, if only for a moment.


    Slowly, the two children made their way back out of the barracks, each holding their cans tightly as though they were holding onto hope itself. The crowd watched, a ripple of astonished murmurs passing through as the children crossed the invisible threshold, re-entering provincial territory with their newfound treasure.


    Then, an elderly couple appeared, frail and stooped with age, supporting each other as they took tentative steps towards the entrance. Their eyes held the same uncertainty as the children¡¯s, but the sight of the young boy and girl walking out with food seemed to be enough to push them forward. Slowly, they crossed the line, each leaning on the other for courage as much as for balance.


    The sentries welcomed them with gentle smiles. One of the sentries bent down slightly to meet the elderly couple¡¯s eyes. ¡°We have food, clothing, and medicine,¡± he said warmly, extending his arm to guide them.


    The old man glanced at his wife before nodding, his voice raspy, ¡°We... we could use some bread, if you have it.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got some canned goods for you,¡± the sentry replied. ¡°Come on, this way. We¡¯ll make sure you¡¯re taken care of.¡±


    As the elderly couple made their way inside, the crowd shifted, murmurs growing louder. A pair of young men, who had been standing towards the back, exchanged glances.


    ¡°Should we try?¡± one of them asked, hesitance clear in his voice.


    The other shrugged, but there was a glint of resolve in his eyes. ¡°It doesn¡¯t look like a trick...¡±


    They stepped forward, slowly at first, then more surely, moving past the gate. Soon, another group of three cautiously followed, their curiosity overpowering their hesitation.


    One by one, people began to move, until eventually half of the onlookers had crossed the threshold, stepping inside the barracks to receive the aid that was being offered. A mother holding her child approached the food stand, her eyes still filled with mistrust.


    ¡°What do you want from us?¡± she asked, her voice quivering.


    A soldier, young and clean-shaven, shook his head, holding up a can of food. ¡°We don¡¯t want anything. Just take this. For you and your child.¡±


    The mother hesitated for a moment, then slowly reached out, taking the can from the soldier¡¯s hands. ¡°Thank you,¡± she whispered, her eyes widening as she looked down at the label. She held her child closer, her expression a blend of confusion and gratitude.


    Moreau watched the scene unfold, his heart pounding with a mix of relief and cautious optimism. The shift in the crowd was like the breaking of a dam¡ªslow at first, but gathering momentum with each step. The soldiers at the stands worked quickly, handing out cans of food, bundles of clothing, and packets of medicine, their faces softening as they saw the impact their efforts were having.


    ***


    Nightfall had finally settled over the barracks, and the day''s operations were winding down. The supply stands, which had been bustling just hours ago, were now nearly empty. Lieutenant Ritter was already making arrangements, ensuring that tomorrow¡¯s resupply would be ready at the same time.


    From his window, Moreau watched the scene below. His men moved with a lightness that hadn¡¯t been there in weeks, smiles breaking out as they worked to clean up the remains of the day¡¯s activity. Laughter echoed across the yard as a few soldiers exchanged stories about the grateful citizens they had helped. It had been a long time since Moreau had seen them in such high spirits, genuinely eager to repeat the work the next day.


    Yet, as he watched, an ominous feeling began to stir within him. There was something unsettling about the entire operation. As the day unfolded, Moreau had found himself starting to understand the true intent behind central¡¯s orders. The food, the blankets, the kindness¡ªall of it was an effort to win over the people of Lorraine, to undermine Valois without a single shot fired. It was subtle, clever even, and Moreau couldn¡¯t deny the effectiveness.


    But there was a cost, a risk that hung over them like a dark cloud. Valois won¡¯t stand for this once he figures out their intentions, right? Moreau thought, his brows knitting in concern.


    He shook his head, trying to dislodge the dark thoughts that seemed to cling to his mind. He didn¡¯t want to dwell on what could go wrong, not tonight, not when the day had ended with hope for once. He focused on his men again, watching them as they packed away the empty crates and closed up the stands. Their laughter, their genuine smiles¡ªit was worth something.


    I hope things keep staying this way, he thought to himself, leaning against the windowsill. He allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, a scenario where Valois did not interfere, where peace could be maintained by gestures of goodwill instead of brute force.


    The wind carried the sound of a soldier calling out, ¡°Hey, make sure those cans get secured for tomorrow!¡± followed by the affirmative response of another. Moreau smiled faintly, savoring the simple moment of camaraderie.


    But deep down, he knew the near future would be far from simple. The tension that had defined their relationship with the people, with Valois, still lingered¡ªjust hidden under the surface. Tonight was a victory, but tomorrow could bring something entirely different.

 Chapter 8

    It was another early morning, and Moreau watched as his men eagerly set up the stands once more, preparing for the arrival of the new supply delivery. There was a sense of pride in the air, fueled by the news that had spread across Lorraine overnight.


    The writers'' guild had been churning out story after story about the previous day''s aid effort, praising the soldiers for their kindness and exemplary conduct. Even those who couldn''t read had heard of it by word of mouth¡ªgood news spreading like wildfire across the province.


    ¡°Captain! We have a problem!¡± a voice suddenly shouted, breaking the early morning calm.


    Moreau spun around, his heart leaping into his throat, and sprinted towards the gates. There, he saw Lieutenant Ritter''s convoy stopped about a hundred meters away, surrounded by five of Valois¡¯ militiamen¡ªeach one armed, and their expressions grim.


    ¡°Hey! Move out of the way!¡± Ritter''s voice carried across the distance, tense and frustrated.


    ¡°I order you to dismount!¡± one of the militiamen yelled back, his rifle trained on the lead carriage.


    ¡°Central spies!¡± another militiaman sneered, eyes narrowed.


    Ritter tried to think quickly, adopting a tone of mock innocence. ¡°We¡¯re just merchants looking to sell to that base just ahead!¡± he shouted, trying to talk his way out of the confrontation.


    But it was clear the militiamen weren¡¯t buying it. Their faces hardened, and the one at the front raised his voice even louder, his finger inching dangerously close to the trigger. ¡°This is your final warning. Dismount and leave your cargo, or we will fire!¡±


    From where he stood at the barracks gate, Moreau watched in horror. His heart pounded as he realized there was nothing he could do; his men had no jurisdiction outside the base, and the militiamen knew it.


    ¡°Bastards!¡± one of the sentries beside Moreau spat, fury in his voice as he began to move forward, his face a mask of defiance.


    ¡°Hey, quit it! Are you crazy?¡± Another sentry grabbed his arm, yanking him back. The frustration was palpable, but they all knew the reality: stepping outside those gates would be stepping into Valois'' domain. They could only watch as the tension escalated.


    Then, just when things seemed about to spiral out of control, a voice rang out.


    ¡°Let them through!¡± It came from one of the apartment building windows that faced the street, neither one of Moreau¡¯s nor Ritter¡¯s men. It was a local.


    The militiamen looked around, confusion flickering across their faces as they tried to locate the source. Before they could react, another voice joined in.


    ¡°Vultures! Have you no shame?¡± someone shouted from another window.


    In moments, the entire block seemed to come alive. People leaned out of their windows, shouting down at the militiamen. Some were even bold enough to come out into the street, raising their voices in anger. The militiamen, visibly shaken, tightened their grips on their weapons, their eyes darting nervously from one angry face to another.


    Suddenly, a nervous militiaman fired a warning shot into the air. The loud crack echoed through the street, causing several onlookers to flinch. His superior spun towards him, eyes blazing.


    ¡°Cease fire! Are you an idiot?¡± he snapped. The tension in the air was thick, and the poorly trained militiamen were visibly starting to crack under the pressure of the growing mob.


    And then, in the midst of the chaos, it happened. A large thud echoed, followed by a shout of pain. One of the militiamen staggered backward, a large rock having struck his head. He lost his balance and fell, his rifle clattering to the ground beside him.


    A stunned silence fell over the scene for a brief moment, and then it broke¡ªpeople began throwing whatever they could find. Rubble, rocks, broken bits of brick¡ªall hurled towards the militiamen. Panic spread among them, and their lines faltered, the shouts of the crowd growing louder and more forceful.


    Lieutenant Ritter seized the opportunity, his instincts kicking in. ¡°Go! Go! Go!¡± he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.


    The convoy drivers snapped their reins, the horses surging forward. The carriages barreled towards the gate, moving at full speed as the militiamen struggled to maintain control. Moreau''s men quickly opened the gates wider, waving the convoy in. One of the carriages couldn''t stop in time, crashing into the stands that had just been set up, sending crates and supplies scattering.


    Moreau winced as the crash echoed through the yard, but there was no time for regret. The important thing was that Ritter and the convoy had made it. The militiamen, seeing the rising fury of the crowd and realizing they had lost control, began to retreat, backing away with weapons raised defensively, the fear evident in their eyes.


    Moreau turned to his men, who were already rushing to secure the yard and check on the damage. ¡°Get those supplies sorted!¡± he barked.


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    Moreau and his lieutenants gathered in a tight circle, their voices hushed but tense as they debated their next move. The militiamen had retreated for now, but the threat was far from over. Moreau knew they were likely regrouping, maybe even on their way back with reinforcements. The situation was a powder keg waiting to explode.


    "We can''t keep the gates shut forever," one of the lieutenants argued, his brow furrowed. "The people are expecting us to open up."


    "But if Valois¡¯ men return, we could be in serious trouble," countered another, shaking his head. "We¡¯re outnumbered and have orders not to engage. We''re putting everyone¡ªsoldiers and civilians¡ªat risk by keeping this going."


    Moreau rubbed a hand over his face, glancing towards the gate where the crowd was still gathered, waiting with growing impatience. The voices outside were rising, carrying through the air like an insistent chorus.


    He turned to Ritter, his expression serious, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. ¡°Were there any orders from central on how to deal with these situations?¡± he asked, his voice edged with frustration.


    Ritter shrugged, his brow furrowing slightly. ¡°They told me all the orders you needed were in that letter,¡± he replied, his tone uncertain.


    Moreau clenched his jaw, staring at Ritter for a long moment. Did central really not anticipate something like this happening? He wondered, a surge of frustration boiling within him.


    ¡°The militiamen are coming back!¡± shouted one of the sentries from the gate, his voice strained. ¡°You all should go home where it¡¯s safe!¡±


    But the crowd wasn¡¯t budging. A man near the front, his face flushed with stubborn resolve, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back, "Let them come!" His defiant call was met with laughter and cheers from others in the crowd, a strange mix of courage and recklessness.


    Moreau exchanged glances with his lieutenants, seeing the uncertainty in their eyes mirrored in his own. The people outside weren¡¯t going anywhere, no matter what they said. They had taken a risk coming here, defying Valois¡¯ authority, and now they were committed. They weren¡¯t about to let fear drive them away.


    In the end, the decision was clear, even if it wasn''t easy. Moreau took a deep breath, then nodded. "If they won¡¯t leave, we can¡¯t abandon them," he said, his voice resolute. "Open the gates."


    ***


    The gates opened, and the soldiers continued handing out aid for hours. The lines were twice as long as before, stretching well beyond the confines of the base. People queued outside, eager to receive the provisions that had become their lifeline. Spirits were high. Maybe the militiamen wouldn¡¯t come back after all, some whispered, cautiously hopeful.


    But suddenly, the hopeful murmur of the crowd was interrupted by the sound of frantic footsteps echoing outside the base.


    ¡°They¡¯re here!¡± a young boy yelled, his voice breathless, face flushed from running.


    Heads turned sharply, eyes widening with fear as a group of militiamen appeared in the distance, their numbers much larger than before¡ªthirty men or more, marching with a purpose. They moved in a tight line, their rifles prominently displayed, their expressions set and hostile.


    They halted just before the gate, and their leader bellowed an order. ¡°Disperse! Disperse immediately!¡±


    The militiamen wasted no time. They began pushing through the crowd, shoving people out of the way with the barrels of their rifles, hard enough to send some stumbling to the ground. Those who resisted were met with violence¡ªthe buttstocks of rifles swinging down mercilessly. Cries of pain broke through the shouting, and the line began to break apart in chaos.


    Quick thinkers dashed towards the base, sprinting past the gate to find refuge inside. They knew once they crossed that line, they were untouchable¡ªthe jurisdiction of the central government held sway here, not Valois. But for many, there was no such escape; they were beaten or forced to flee, leaving their places in line behind.


    Within minutes, the front of the gate became a standoff. The militiamen formed a barrier just outside, blocking anyone else from entering. Some turned towards the gates, shouting demands. ¡°Hand over the locals currently inside! Now!¡± they barked, their eyes blazing with anger.


    The civilians who had managed to get inside the base grounds gathered together, staring out at the militia with fury in their eyes. It didn¡¯t take long before their own shouting started up, defiant voices rising to meet the threats of the militiamen. Insults were traded back and forth, and Moreau¡¯s men found themselves in the middle of it, trying desperately to keep the situation from spiraling further out of control.


    ¡°Stay back!¡± a soldier yelled, holding out his arm to keep an angry local from moving any closer to the gate. ¡°Do not provoke them!¡±


    But tempers were flaring, and the shouting from both sides only seemed to grow louder. The sentries at the gate stood stiffly, just inches away from the militiamen, their arms held behind their backs in forced restraint. It had become a staredown, the sentries enduring the barrage of insults and taunts from the unprofessional militiamen, who were now practically spitting in their faces.


    Moreau clenched his fists as he watched from a distance, the situation hanging by a thread. His men were doing their best, but the agitation on both sides was palpable, and it was clear they were losing control.


    Then, the inevitable happened.


    Thud! A rock flew through the air, striking one of the militiamen square in the face. He staggered back, a look of shock turning quickly to fury. Blood dripped from a cut above his eyebrow, and he turned, his eyes searching for the source. It wasn¡¯t long before he found it¡ªa young boy, standing defiantly near the gate. It was the same boy who had come from the slums with his sister.


    ¡°That little bastard!¡± the militiaman snarled, pointing at the boy. ¡°Hand him over!¡± He stepped towards the gate, his fellow militiamen joining in, their voices raised in furious agreement.


    One of the sentries snapped. He stepped forward, his voice rising above the chaos. ¡°We will do no such thing. Step back. Now!¡±


    But without their weapons, the sentries were at a disadvantage. The command, instead of intimidating the militiamen, seemed only to fan the flames of their anger. The militiaman who had been hit with the rock advanced on the sentry, his face twisted with rage, and before he knew it, his foot crossed over the line, stepping into the base.


    The sentry¡¯s reaction was immediate. He shoved the militiaman back with all his strength. ¡°I said get back!¡± he shouted, his voice echoing.


    The militiaman stumbled, then repositioned himself, pure hatred burning in his eyes. The moment felt frozen, time suspended as the world held its breath.


    ¡°No, don¡¯t!¡± another militiaman beside him called out, seeing the danger¡ªbut it was too late.


    Bang!

 Chapter 9

    The shot rang out, echoing as if the entire nation¡ªno, the entire world¡ªcould hear. For a split second, everything seemed suspended in time, as if all present were still processing the impossible reality of what had just happened.


    Then, Captain Moreau''s voice shattered the stunned silence. ¡°Everyone, get down!¡± he bellowed, his voice raw with urgency.


    The words were like a spark, igniting movement in every direction. Civilians dropped to the ground, fear flashing across their faces. Unarmed soldiers ducked behind whatever cover they could find.


    The shot alerted the quick reaction force stationed behind closed doors, every one of them springing into action, weapons ready as they burst from the barracks in full force. They emerged into a scene of chaos, trying to make sense of what had happened. Their eyes fell on their comrade¡ªcrumpled on the ground, blood pooling around his uniform, the wound too deep, too fatal.


    And in that moment, it was as if something primal awoke within them. They moved as one, driven by instinct, by rage. They raised their weapons, their fingers curling around triggers, and fired back at the formation of militiamen just beyond the gate.


    The sharp crack of rifles filled the air. The first shots were answered by panic¡ªsome of the militiamen raised their own rifles, returning fire in the wild, a desperate shot or two. Others turned and fled, their fear overtaking their orders. The poorly trained formation broke apart in seconds, scattering as bullets tore through the air.


    ***


    The press was relentless. Reporters swarmed the scene in the aftermath, many of them present in person, some even inside the base grounds, capturing every detail they could. They were hungry for the story, eager to show the nation what had transpired. But it wasn¡¯t the written words that carried the most weight against Valois¡ªit was the photograph.


    One lucky photographer had managed to capture the exact moment when the militiaman fired his weapon. The image was sharp and damning: the muzzle flash illuminated the militiaman¡¯s face, twisted in rage. The shot was frozen in time, the rifle aimed squarely at an unarmed sentry. In the background, a second soldier, his face filled with terror and determination, shielded a young boy with his body, as if ready to take the bullet himself.


    The photograph spread like wildfire, plastered across newspapers, printed in bold headlines, and passed hand to hand throughout the province. It was impossible to look at the image without feeling a deep sense of grief and outrage. Here was the proof of Valois¡¯ brutality, his militia targeting those who had only come to offer aid.


    Even if you were Valois¡¯ staunchest supporter, the photo struck at the heart. It was no longer about rhetoric or political maneuvering¡ªthis was about humanity. About the bravery of those who stood unarmed, trying to shield the innocent. About the cruelty of a shot fired at close range, aimed at a soldier whose only weapon had been his courage.


    The impact of the photograph was undeniable. It evoked a visceral reaction in anyone who saw it¡ªa mix of sorrow, anger, and a new sense of solidarity with the soldiers of the republic.


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    Moreau¡¯s men were now heroes in the eyes of many¡ªbrave defenders who, against impossible odds, had held their ground to protect the vulnerable. And with each copy of that photograph, Valois'' grip seemed to weaken, the carefully constructed image of his authority crumbling beneath the weight of undeniable proof.


    ***


    Meanwhile, the entire province of Lorraine looked to Valois, demanding answers. The outrage was palpable, and a growing number of angry citizens had gathered in front of his estate, their chants echoing against the high stone walls. The tension was at a breaking point, and Valois knew it. In a desperate attempt to salvage his image, he decided to address the people¡ªa final speech meant to quell the rising unrest.


    Valois stood on the steps of his grand estate, carefully positioned behind the safety of the fortified gates, ensuring no rioters could get close enough to lay a hand on him. The air was thick with fury, the crowd restless, many with clenched fists, ready to tear him apart should they get the chance. Reporters lined the front, cameras and notebooks ready, capturing every word and expression, transmitting them to the whole nation.


    The people wanted answers, but what they got was a stream of utter nonsense. Valois, true to his upbringing, had been molded in the rigid traditions of nobility¡ªwhere admitting fault to the common folk was seen as a sin, a degradation of his supposed authority. Pride and ego drove him to deflect responsibility, and his words only served to widen the chasm between him and the people he claimed to lead.


    "Citizens of Lorraine," he began, his voice ringing out over the restless crowd. "You have been deceived. What happened was nothing more than a calculated scheme¡ªa plot to divide us, to make us weak and compliant under their rule!"


    He spoke of conspiracies, of hidden motives behind the aid, trying to paint the events as a trap laid by the republic to sow discord and tear Lorraine apart from within. He tried to twist the narrative, to make himself the defender against an unseen enemy. But the crowd was not buying it. The image of an unarmed sentry being shot, of soldiers shielding children, was seared into their minds. No amount of rhetoric could undo what they had seen with their own eyes.


    Valois'' words grew more fervent, his voice rising as he attempted to rally the crowd against a supposed common enemy. "The soldiers of the republic, the schemers! They aimed to provoke us, to show our strength as brutality, to turn you against your own protectors!"


    But even as he spoke, there was a growing murmur of disbelief among the crowd. He sounded delusional, like a man grasping at straws, his words reeking of desperation rather than conviction. The more he tried to spin the story, the more he seemed like a paranoid noble, detached from reality, peddling theories that held no weight under the scrutiny of the people who had witnessed the truth.


    And then, in the ultimate misstep, Valois praised his militiamen. "These brave men, these defenders of our land, had the courage to stand against the scheming forces of the central government," he declared, his chest puffed out in misplaced pride.


    The crowd erupted, but not in support. The people wanted justice, they wanted accountability for the violence that had been unleashed upon them. They wanted Valois to denounce the actions of his militia, to admit that what had happened was wrong. Instead, he praised the very men who had beaten and shot at their neighbors. The sheer audacity of his praise only fueled their anger.


    "Liars! Murderers!" someone shouted from the crowd, the words followed by a chorus of boos. The flames of rebellion that had been kindled now roared, fanned by Valois¡¯ refusal to acknowledge the truth, by his arrogance and utter disregard for the pain of his people.


    The reporters captured every word, every angry shout, every incredulous look among the crowd. As Valois finished his speech and retreated back behind the walls of his estate, it was clear to everyone¡ªhe had failed. The gap between the people of Lorraine and their supposed leader had become an unbridgeable chasm, and the embers of dissent were quickly growing into a blaze.

 Chapter 10

    I watched as soldiers in ceremonial uniforms carried the casket with the utmost reverence, their steps slow and measured. The silence of the gathering was broken only by the soft, shuffling movements of the procession and the heart-wrenching sounds of cries and weeping that echoed through the air. The most audible, the most haunting, came from the mother of Private ¨¦mile Fontaine¡ªthe young soldier who, as the press so vividly described, had bravely sacrificed himself to protect a child.


    Everything about this funeral had been hastily arranged, but it was easily the largest in the country today. Despite the hurried preparations, it carried an unmistakable weight. We had convinced Private Fontaine¡¯s family to hold the service here in the capital, arguing that Lorraine was too unstable to host such a solemn event. They had agreed, albeit reluctantly, and now here they were¡ªgrieving in a place far from home, surrounded by strangers, but also by those who understood the significance of their loss.


    Hundreds of sympathetic onlookers stood about a hundred meters away, straining to catch a glimpse of the proceedings through fences and bushes. They were hushed, respectful, their faces a mix of sorrow and admiration for the fallen soldier. Dozens of guards were posted around the perimeter, their expressions stern, maintaining order and ensuring the privacy of the grieving family.


    Beside the family of the deceased, Captain Moreau''s entire company stood in formation, their faces a blend of grief and solemnity. The men held themselves with rigid precision, but even from my position, I could see the wetness in their eyes, the way they blinked back tears as they watched their comrade being laid to rest. They had seen him fall. They had heard the shot, seen the chaos, and now, they were here to honor the man who had fought and died beside them.


    Under the defense minister¡¯s borrowed authority, I had issued the order for Captain Moreau to abandon his barracks in Lorraine entirely, and to be temporarily reassigned. The risk of staying had grown too great, and after all, we had achieved what was necessary. There was no point in risking further bloodshed, no reason to keep pushing when the flames of rebellion had already been lit.


    As the casket was lowered, the cries of Private Fontaine¡¯s mother grew louder, her voice breaking in a way that seemed to pierce the air itself. The father stood beside her, his face a mask of grief, his arm around her shoulders as she leaned against him, her body shaking with sobs. It was a scene that spoke of a loss deeper than words, a pain that no amount of honor or tribute could truly ease.


    ***


    Everyone was encouraged to step up to the podium and share their thoughts and memories of Private ¨¦mile Fontaine. It was meant to be a tribute, a way to honor his life and the impact he had on those who knew him. The order began with those who were closest to him, each one taking a deep breath before facing the assembled crowd.


    His mother went first, her frame trembling as she approached the podium. She wept as she spoke, her voice breaking frequently over the fifteen minutes she stood there. She shared stories from his childhood¡ªof his laughter, his kindness, the dreams he had of making a difference. She spoke of the boy who had always wanted to help others, who would bring home stray animals, who stood up for the weaker children at school. ¡°He always wanted to be someone who protected others,¡± she said, her voice choking with tears. ¡°That was ¨¦mile. That was my boy.¡±


    Next, his father took the stand. His voice was strong at first, full of pride as he described his son¡¯s bravery, how even before joining the army, ¨¦mile had shown the qualities of a true hero. ¡°He was always fearless,¡± his father said, his eyes glassy but determined. ¡°He stood up for what was right, no matter the cost. I saw it in him when he was just a boy¡ªthat strength, that courage.¡±


    But as he continued, his voice began to shift, his words growing heavy, a fire starting to burn in his eyes. ¡°But that courage¡ª" his voice cracked, anger seeping into each word¡ª"was taken advantage of. Taken away by those bastards who fired on him. By Valois, who protects these criminals.¡± His voice rose, trembling with rage. ¡°They took my boy¡ªmy son!¡± he shouted, his fists clenching at the podium. He began to curse those responsible, his words becoming increasingly incoherent, drowned by his grief and fury. His shoulders heaved, his face red with rage, until finally, his wife had to come up, gently guiding him away, her own tears flowing as she held him close. The crowd was silent, the weight of his despair hanging heavily in the air.


    After a moment, the next to speak were ¨¦mile¡¯s friends and comrades. One by one, they came forward, each sharing a memory of Private Fontaine that brought a smile or a laugh. One soldier, with a faint smile, recounted the time ¨¦mile had accidentally spilled an entire pot of coffee on a lieutenant¡¯s paperwork, and how they¡¯d all scrambled to clean it up before anyone noticed.


    Their stories were light, and for a moment, the weight of grief lifted just a little, replaced by the warmth of shared memories, by laughter that was as much an expression of sorrow as it was of joy. They wanted people to remember not just how ¨¦mile had died, but how he had lived¡ªfull of courage, humor, and a sense of loyalty that touched everyone around him.


    Finally, Captain Moreau stepped forward, his face solemn. He approached the podium, taking a deep breath before he began. ¡°I wish I could tell you that I knew Private Fontaine well,¡± he admitted, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. ¡°I didn''t know him as long as his family, or as well as his friends here. But I can tell you this: he was one of the finest soldiers I have had the honor to serve with.¡±


    He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd, then continued. ¡°He was selfless. Brave. He acted without hesitation to protect the innocent, even when it meant risking everything. That is the kind of man he was¡ªa man willing to give all he had for others.¡±


    Moreau''s voice grew softer, and he looked down for a moment, his expression clouded with grief. ¡°I can¡¯t help but feel a deep sense of guilt,¡± he said, his voice trembling just slightly. ¡°I think about that day often¡ªabout what I could have done differently. How I could have changed the outcome, somehow. And maybe that thought will haunt me for the rest of my life.¡±


    He looked back up, his eyes glistening. ¡°But I know one thing. Private ¨¦mile Fontaine¡¯s sacrifice was not in vain. He showed us all what true courage looks like. He reminded us of what we are fighting for¡ªthe innocent, the vulnerable, the ones who need someone to stand up for them. And for that, I will always be grateful.¡±


    Moreau stepped away from the podium, his head bowed, and returned to his place beside his men. The silence that followed was profound, filled with the echoes of love, loss, and respect for a young man who had given everything for others.


    Then, when it seemed that everyone who had something to say had already gone up, I stood from my seat and made my way to the podium. The air was heavy, and I could feel the weight of the moment pressing on my shoulders. As I walked, I caught sight of Miss Snow¡¯s eyes widening in shock, her expression a mixture of confusion and alarm. She stared at me, as if her eyes were shouting, "Get down! What the hell are you doing up there?"


    But I kept moving, each step deliberate until I reached the podium. I cleared my throat, adjusting the microphone slightly. The crowd was silent, their eyes on me, curiosity and weariness mingling in their expressions.


    ¡°Hello everyone,¡± I began, my voice steady, though my heart was pounding. ¡°My name is Viktor. You may not know me, but I work in the Ministry of Defense. Upon hearing of Private Fontaine¡¯s story, I felt compelled to offer my utmost help in organizing this funeral¡ªone that would be fitting of a hero such as him.¡±


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    I paused, letting my gaze move across the audience. I could see his parents, his comrades, the people who had known and loved him. Their faces were marked by grief, but also by something deeper¡ªa quiet pride.


    ¡°On my way here,¡± I continued, ¡°I found myself imagining Private Fontaine¡¯s heroic act over and over in my mind, as if playing on a loop. And I often asked myself: Would I have had the courage to do what he did? Would I be brave enough to stare down the barrel of a gun, with no hesitation, to save a child?¡±


    Actually, the shot had been fired so quickly that there was likely no time for Fontaine to even react. But that detail wasn¡¯t important now.


    ¡°And each time I ask myself that question, I reach the same answer: No. No, I would not.¡±


    A murmur ran through the crowd, a soft stirring of unease. I could see people exchanging glances, a mixture of agreement and discomfort. I pressed on.


    ¡°And I believe many of you here, if you are honest with yourselves, would also admit the same.¡± I let the words hang for a moment, letting their truth settle in the silence. ¡°It¡¯s a difficult thing to confront, but it¡¯s also what makes what Private Fontaine did so extraordinary. He did what 99% of us could not do. He stood up in the face of death, and he chose to protect.¡±


    I looked down for a moment, collecting my thoughts, then back at the audience. ¡°That means if you were to make a friend, there would only be a 1% chance they would be someone like Private Fontaine. In other words, he was a rare treasure¡ªa human being of immeasurable value. And I wish, truly, that I had been as fortunate as many of you to have known him.¡±


    I turned my gaze to his parents, who sat in the front row, his mother still dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ¡°And to you, Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine,¡± I said, my voice softening, ¡°I want to praise you for raising such a remarkable young man. You instilled in him a character so strong, so selfless, that he became the kind of person we can all only hope to be.¡±


    For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, the audience began to clap, softly at first, a gentle murmur of applause that filled the quiet space. I waited for the claps to die down, feeling the intensity of the moment settle back into stillness.


    ¡°However,¡± I began, my voice growing quieter. I let the pause linger, feeling the weight of every gaze on me.


    ¡°After listening to Mr. Fontaine¡¯s words, frustrating thoughts and realizations have entered my mind, and I¡¯m sure they did for all of you as well,¡± I continued, my tone grave, my words deliberate.


    ¡°Such a great young man was robbed of his future, his potential. If this terrible tragedy had not happened, he would have gone on to affect the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of those around him for the better. But that terrible event did happen, and what makes it worse is this: not only is the perpetrator roaming free without consequence, but they are also being supported¡ªshielded.¡±


    I could feel the air grow thick, tension mounting as I spoke. ¡°Just thinking of that... the feelings it stirs in me right now¡­ I''m not quite sure how to describe them. What is the best word for it...?¡±


    ¡°Injustice!¡± Fontaine''s father shouted, his voice raw with emotion, cutting through the silence.


    ¡°Injustice... Yes, that is exactly right,¡± I echoed, my voice rising as my eyes grew visibly watery. ¡°There is no justice in this!¡± I shouted, my words carrying my own grief and rage.


    ¡°So I have decided,¡± I said, letting my voice soften. Slowly, I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.


    ¡°This,¡± I said, holding the paper high, ¡°is a warrant. Signed by the Justice Minister for the arrest of Governor Valois and the militiamen responsible for these traitorous acts. To delay its execution even a moment longer would be a further injustice!¡±


    ¡°But the question now is,¡± I said, scanning the audience, my gaze moving slowly across the sea of faces, ¡°who should be given the honor of serving this warrant?¡±


    I allowed the question to hang in the air, feeling the anticipation grow. Finally, my eyes found Captain Moreau, standing stiffly beside his men, his face unreadable. As my gaze locked with his, the rest of the audience followed, all eyes turning to him.


    For a brief moment, Moreau looked directly into my eyes, and the coldness of his stare hit me like a sharp blade¡ªhis anger and resentment unmistakable.


    But I pressed on. ¡°I believe it should be none other than those who have served alongside Private Fontaine,¡± I finished, my voice steady, my gaze never wavering from Moreau¡¯s.


    There was a pause, a moment of silence, before Fontaine''s father stood, his face a mixture of grief and fervor. ¡°Yes! Oh, yes! It should be none other than you, Captain!¡± he cried, his voice cracking. ¡°Give those damn criminals a piece of your mind. My son will be watching you from above!¡±


    The crowd murmured their agreement, voices rising in support. Moreau stood there, unmoving, cornered by the weight of expectation and the emotional plea of a grieving father. His men looked at him, their expressions mixed¡ªsome resolute, some anxious, others still processing the enormity of the task being thrust upon them.


    Slowly, Moreau turned towards Mr. Fontaine. A tight, strained smile formed on his lips. ¡°Yes, sir,¡± he said, his voice carefully measured. ¡°We will do this honor to the best of our efforts.¡±


    A cheer rose from the audience, a mix of applause and fervent cries. But I could see the strain in Moreau¡¯s face, the tension in his shoulders. He had accepted the duty, but it was clear it came at a cost. The look in his eyes as he glanced at me once more spoke of resentment, perhaps even betrayal.


    ***


    Miss Snow had been complaining all day, her voice a constant buzz in my ear about how the outcomes of our arrangement had barely benefitted her. Well, I mean, no one told her to stick by my side all the time. I never promised she¡¯d get any groundbreaking material by following me like a shadow. If she was so hungry for a story, she should have gone to Lorraine herself, like the rest of those desperate journalists. Still, it wasn''t a total loss for her, I suppose. She does have the privilege of accompanying me on the big arrest of Valois tomorrow. A big day ahead, no doubt.


    I washed my face thoroughly before bed, the cool water running down my skin, rinsing away the exhaustion of the day. As I dried my face with a towel, I paused, staring into the mirror, checking my reflection one last time before calling it a night.


    And then... Ah.


    Did you think I had forgotten you?


    Yes, you¡ªthe one who always watches, observes, judges even, yet never speaks, never shares a word. The silent critic in the shadows.


    Do you think I¡¯m heartless, after the stunt I pulled at the funeral? I bet you do. You probably think of me as a monster, and maybe you''re right. After all, what kind of person turns a moment of pure grief¡ªof raw human loss¡ªinto a tool for their own purpose? What kind of person incites rage at a funeral, weaponizes the pain of a grieving father just to push his agenda forward?


    Yes, I admit it. Monster is a fitting title.


    But here¡¯s the thing: you¡¯re still here, aren¡¯t you? And that tells me something important. You might loathe me, be disgusted by the choices I''ve made, by the lengths to which I''ve gone. But still, you stay. You watch. Why is that?


    I think it¡¯s because, deep down, you don¡¯t really care about the morality of it all. Not as much as you want to believe you do. You¡¯re here because you¡¯re fascinated, because you want to see what happens next. You¡¯re here for the outcome, the triumph¡ªhowever it comes. And as long as I win, as long as I deliver results, that''s all that really matters to you, isn''t it?


    And let¡¯s be honest, put yourself in my shoes. Could you have done anything better? Really think about it. Could you have resolved the situation in Lorraine faster, without shedding more blood, without igniting yet another war that would cost thousands of lives?


    You don¡¯t have to like me. You don¡¯t have to approve of my methods. But you need people like me¡ªpeople who are willing to wade into the darkness, who are willing to do the things no one else will. Because without people like me, you wouldn¡¯t stand a chance against people like Valois. Or against the ones even worse¡ªthe ones who loom in the shadows beyond him.


    So, yes, call me what you will. Monster, manipulator, opportunist. I accept it all, because I know what I¡¯ve done and why I¡¯ve done it. And at the end of the day, the truth is, I can live with it. Can you?


    Anyway, I¡¯m going to bed now. I¡¯m glad we could clear things up between us. And if I could ask just one favor¡ªdon¡¯t judge me too harshly from here on out. Or at least, judge me fairly. Because when all is said and done, we¡¯re both here for the same thing: to win.


    Goodnight.