As the influence of the Vinekeepers spread, so did the brutality of the government’s response. Reports of skirmishes between government troops and peasant militias became more frequent, and the once-peaceful vineyards of Burgundy echoed with the sounds of conflict. Villages that had once quietly suffered under the Republic’s rule now found themselves caught in a war they had never asked for.

  Pierre called a council meeting within the reclaimed monastery. The stone walls, which had once absorbed whispered prayers, now bore witness to urgent discussions of strategy and survival.

  “The Republic’s forces are increasing in number and aggression,” Lucien reported, his brow furrowed. “They’ve begun targeting our supply lines and intimidating villages that support us. If they isolate us, they’ll bleed us dry.”

  “We cannot withstand a prolonged siege,” Marie added. “Our resources are finite, and the people are growing weary.”

  Alain, ever the optimist, leaned forward. “Perhaps it’s time to seek alliances beyond our immediate region. There are others like us—rural factions resisting the Republic’s overreach. If we unite, we stand a better chance.”

  Pierre nodded thoughtfully. “Alain is right. We’ve heard of resistance movements in the northwest, where rural communities are rising against the same oppression. If we can coordinate, we can turn scattered defiance into a true rebellion.”

  “Peace is always an option,” muttered Father Beno?t as he knelt beside one of the old stone statues. “We are doing good for the community, but I can’t help but notice the decrease in attendance at my services.”

  He sighed, brushing dust from the statue’s base. “People are dying, and the time will come when we have to decide what is more important.”

  Rising to his feet, he straightened his robes. “I’ll take my leave now. I have to preside over a funeral.”

  As Father Beno?t rose to leave, Pierre watched him carefully. The priest’s words were measured, but there was something beneath them—a weight, a hesitation that unsettled him.

  Lucien scoffed, crossing his arms. “Peace? With those who would see us hang? With those who burned our fields and stole our harvest?”

  Beno?t sighed, smoothing his robes. “Peace is not surrender, Lucien. It is wisdom. Every battle leaves scars, and I fear we are creating wounds that will never heal.”

  Pierre remained silent, his gaze unreadable. He had known Beno?t his entire life, and had trusted him for guidance in his youth. But now, in these times, trust was a fragile thing.

  Marie leaned forward, voice sharp. “And what would you have us do, Father? Lay down our arms? Let them march through Saint-étienne uncontested?”

  Beno?t shook his head. “I only ask that you remember what we are fighting for. If we destroy everything in our path, what will be left to save?”

  Pierre exhaled, rubbing his temple. “You have a funeral to tend to, Father. We have a war to fight.”

  The priest held his gaze for a long moment, then bowed his head. “May God grant you clarity, Pierre.”

  As the heavy wooden doors closed behind him, Alain frowned. “I don’t like it.”

  Pierre nodded, his jaw tight. “Neither do I, we send messengers out at first light”

  —

  A week passed before word of the messengers returned—but it was not Pierre’s men who brought it.

  It was Father Beno?t.

  “I found this on the altar this morning,” the priest said, his voice measured as he passed a sealed parchment to Pierre. “Not a soul in sight. But it’s addressed to the head of the rebellion.”

  Pierre’s fingers tightened around the letter as a cold weight settled in his chest. The wax seal bore the insignia of the Republic, stark against the rough parchment.

  “What’s the meaning of this? Have they found us?” yelled Alain, his voice sharp with panic. He snatched the letter from Pierre’s hands, his eyes scanning the words before his face darkened. “Merde… this isn’t just a warning.”

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  Pierre swallowed hard. “What does it say?”

  Alain hesitated before reading aloud. “Your envoys have been intercepted and tried as traitors. Let this serve as a lesson—resistance is futile. Surrender, and the Republic may yet show mercy.”

  A heavy silence settled over the council. Marie’s breath caught, and Lucien clenched his fists, his knuckles white.

  Pierre exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. “They didn’t just intercept them,” he said, his voice cold. “They made sure we’d know.”

  Father Beno?t sighed, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps… this is a sign that negotiation is still possible.”

  Pierre shot him a sharp look. “Or a sign that the Republic wants us afraid.”

  “How do we ensure that the message is delivered,” questioned Marie as she looked towards the parchment

  “We’ll just have to send even more people,” Lucien uttered, tossing the letter into the fire. “We just need one person to get the info through and the Republic can’t capture them all.”

  “But what about those who will get caught?” exclaimed Father Beno?t as he turned towards Lucien with disbelief in his eyes.

  “It’s a necessary sacrifice,” Pierre said with doubt creeping into his voice.

  —

  As dawn broke, the messengers departed, cloaked in the mist. Each carried a sealed message beneath their tunics, their routes carefully planned. The Republic’s grip tightened, and any stranger was a target.

  The journey was perilous. The Republic had checkpoints at every crossing, and deserters hanged from gallows as grim warnings. The messengers traveled in silence, knowing their fates could be the same if they faltered.

  Among them was étienne, Marie’s seventeen-year-old brother. Who, despite her protests, insisted on joining. “I can’t stand by while others fight,” he said, his fear hidden behind a mask of determination. “Charles would want this too.”

  On the second night, they took shelter in an abandoned chapel. Its stained glass was shattered, its altar desecrated. Once a place of refuge, it was now just a hollow shell. étienne warmed his hands by the dying embers of the fire. Jacques, a former scholar turned rebel, recited poetry under his breath.

  “Why poetry?” étienne asked.

  “Because words outlive kings. Empires fall, but stories remain,” Jacques replied with a faint smile.

  They continued at first light, their journey growing more treacherous. The Republic’s soldiers ambushed a trio of messengers at a local inn. A merchant had betrayed them, selling their route for gold. Captured and dragged back to the nearest garrison, their fate was sealed before the sun set.

  étienne and his remaining companions pressed on, their silence heavy with the loss of those they could not save.

  But étienne would never make it to his goal and his letter would never be read. Two-thirds of the messengers never returned. Some were caught at river crossings, their bodies dragged by horses to be paraded around the villages. Others were taken in their sleep, their captors striking in the dead of night. étienne was among them. He had left Saint-étienne with fire in his eyes, convinced that the world could still be bent toward justice.

  The news of his capture arrived days later, not as a report from a survivor, but as a silent truth written across the faces of the Republic’s soldiers when they rode through a nearby village. They did not need to say what had become of him; the blood on their boots, the way the townspeople averted their eyes, and the exclaims of horror spoke plainly enough. Marie felt the loss before the murmurs reached her.

  The Republic did not waste words on the dead. They left their messages in the scorched remains of farms, in the silent houses abandoned by families too afraid to stay. The land itself bore the scars of their rule, blackened fields stretching for miles, the bones of the fallen sinking into the soil. These were not just deaths. They were reminders.

  And yet, for all the bodies left to the crows, one messenger had made it through. The message had been delivered, just as the council had hoped. It had been a simple calculation: send enough people, and someone would survive. But war had a way of stripping the weight from those numbers, turning lives into strategy, into probabilities measured in breath and blood. And with it hope. Yet success came at a terrible cost. The Republic’s reprisals were swift and brutal, as if to remind them all of a truth too often forgotten—men were fragile things, and death cared nothing for ideals.

  étienne was so young, and now he was gone. And soon, others would follow. The Republic would keep killing. The rebellion would keep fighting. And in the end, the only certainty was that the earth would take them all, one by one, until no one remained to remember the cause that had set them down this path in the first place.

  —

  One evening, Pierre stood atop a hill, overlooking what had once been fertile vineyards. The sight of blackened earth and broken vines weighed on him. Alain approached, his usual optimism dimmed.

  “We’ve achieved much,” he said quietly, “but at what cost?”

  Pierre exhaled heavily. “The line between protector and oppressor grows thin. We must remember why we started this—to defend our way of life, not to destroy it.”

  Determined to find another way, Pierre sought dialogue within the government. Through clandestine meetings, he argued for the autonomy of rural communities, insisting that their loyalty could be won through respect and fair treatment rather than force.

  In time, these efforts bore fruit. The Republic, weary of endless internal conflict, agreed to a series of concessions—easing oppressive policies and granting local governance more authority over their land. It was not a perfect peace, but it was a beginning.

  The scars of battle remained, but the vineyards of Saint-étienne endured. And as the vines slowly regrew, so did hope. But yet in the back of everyone’s minds they knew this was but temporary.