In the late afternoon, Pierre stood amidst the ruins, his heart heavy with grief and burgeoning resolve—he knew he needed to move on. Kneeling in the ashes, he scooped up a handful of scorched earth, letting it trickle through his fingers, savoring the feel of the soil one last time. This vineyard, once his life's work, was now nothing more than cinders and memory. He burned the sight into his oak-colored eyes, knowing it might be the last time he ever saw it, before turning away and stepping back towards the village.

  The village of Saint-étienne came into view through the golden haze of the late afternoon. The narrow dirt paths wound between stone cottages, their roofs bowed under years of neglect. Wooden shutters, some hanging loose from rusted hinges, rattled faintly in the breeze. The scent of earth, hay, and distant hearth smoke mingled with the sharper tang of burnt wood still clinging to Pierre’s clothes.

  Saint-étienne had once been a thriving village, nestled between fertile fields and lush vineyards that stretched as far as the eye could see. Before the Revolution, it had been a place of quiet industry—farmers tending their crops, vintners perfecting their craft, and craftsmen shaping iron and wood into the tools of daily life. Now, the weight of war and shifting regimes had left its mark.

  The central square, which had once hosted lively markets and celebrations, now bore an air of watchful unease. The old stone fountain, cracked from neglect, barely trickled with water. The wooden stalls that had once been stacked with fresh produce and barrels of wine stood half-empty, their merchants wary of taxation and seizure by revolutionary patrols. A tattered banner bearing the Republic’s insignia fluttered limply from the town hall, its edges darkened by soot.

  Despite the hardships, life persisted. Women in faded skirts moved between homes, baskets of grain or meager vegetables balanced against their hips. Blacksmiths hammered iron at the forge, shaping tools and weapons in equal measure. Children, their laughter subdued, played a cautious game of chase along the muddy road, their eyes darting toward the occasional revolutionary soldier passing through.

  But beneath the routine, tension simmered. Pierre could see it in the wary glances exchanged between villagers, the way conversations hushed when outsiders approached. Like Pierre, the villagers had endured exploitation from both the old aristocracy and the emerging revolutionary despots. They had waited, endured, and suffered in silence. But silence had its limits.

  Pierre made his way toward the church where a town meeting would take place to discuss the recent events but as he walked he noticed how the villagers whispered among themselves, eyes following him with something new—something beyond sympathy. They had seen what had become of his vineyard, knew the cruelty of those who claimed to fight for liberty but wielded the same oppressive hand as the kings before them. His loss was their loss, and the embers of their resentment were beginning to glow.

  By the time Pierre reached the church, a small crowd had already begun to gather. The wooden doors, weathered by time and countless prayers, creaked as he stepped inside. The candlelit interior was humble, the scent of melting wax mixing with old incense. Wooden pews, worn smooth by generations, were half-filled with villagers—farmers, laborers, widows, and tradesmen, their faces lined with hardship but set with quiet resolve.

  As the last rays of sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, the gathering grew. Among them was Lucien, a blacksmith with arms hardened by years of labor; Marie, her face pale but resolute, mourning her brother, Charles, who had died trying to save one more person from the fire; Alain, a young man whose brother had been conscripted and lost to the revolutionary wars; and Father Beno?t, the old but wise priest who had become the spiritual pillar of the community.

  Their faces bore the marks of hardship, but their eyes gleamed with determination. Grief and anger wove through the air like incense, thick and unshakable. Tonight was not just a night of mourning—it was the birth of something greater.

  “This tyranny must end,” Lucien declared, his voice tight with suppressed fury.

  “They preach liberty, yet they crush our freedoms beneath their boots.” Marie added, her hands clenched into fists.

  Pierre looked at his fellow villagers, feeling a spark of hope amidst his sorrow. “What do you propose?” he asked quietly.

  “We fight back,” Alain said, his youthful face set with resolve. “We show them that Saint-étienne does not bow—we break our chains tonight.”

  Father Beno?t exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the faces of those gathered. The candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows like specters of the past.

  "And where does it end?" he asked, his voice low but firm. "If we answer fire with fire, if we avenge every injustice with another, what will be left of us? A land of ashes and tears?"

  His eyes lingered on Alain, the fire of youth burning bright in the young man’s face. Father Beno?t exhaled slowly, his voice steady but laden with sorrow. “I understand your anger, my son. But vengeance is like wildfire—it spreads, it devours, and in the end, it leaves nothing but ash. An eye for an eye, and soon the whole world is blind.”

  Alain’s fists clenched at his sides. “And how many more villagers must burn before we act?” he shot back, his voice raw with frustration. “You speak of caution, but caution has cost us too much already. I refuse to wait for doubt—who stands with me?”

  A murmur rippled through the gathered villagers. Some exchanged uneasy glances, while others tightened their grips on whatever tools or weapons they had brought. The grief in the room was thick, the weight of loss pressing against them all. Some hesitated, torn between fear and fury. Others, like Lucien, nodded grimly, their expressions hard with resolve.

  Pierre stood in the center, silent, feeling the weight of both arguments pressing down on him. He had lost everything—his home, his vineyard, his past. But what of the future? Could they truly reclaim their freedom without drowning themselves in blood?

  Beno?t sighed, his shoulders heavy with age and sorrow. “No, we must act,” he admitted. “But with wisdom. Justice and vengeance are sisters too often mistaken for one another. Do not let this hunger for retribution consume you, Alain, or you will become what you fight against.”

  A heavy silence stretched between them. The candlelight flickered against the old stone walls, casting shifting shadows over the faces of the villagers.

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  Then, slowly, Father Beno?t stepped back, bowing his head. “If this is the path you have chosen, then may God light your way… for I fear we walk into an endless night.”

  The villagers of Saint-étienne, long pushed to the brink by food shortages, forced conscriptions, and the ever-present threat of execution, began to organize in the dim glow of their cottages. Fear had kept them compliant for too long, but now desperation gave them courage.

  They scoured their homes and barns, collecting anything that could serve as a weapon—scythes sharpened to a deadly edge, hammers heavy with unspoken fury, pitchforks repurposed for war. Even the simplest tools—hoes, sickles, carving knives—became instruments of rebellion in their calloused hands.

  Each clang of metal against metal, each hurried step on packed earth, marked the point of no return. By the time the clandestine meeting was called, a crude but formidable arsenal had been assembled. Their uprising would begin tonight.

  Their plan was simple but daring. Under the cover of darkness, they would ambush the revolutionary garrison stationed in the old governor’s house, where the soldiers slept off their excesses from the night before. They had counted their enemies—no more than twenty, some barely older than boys, yet armed and ruthless. The villagers knew they would have only one chance to strike before the alarm was raised.

  “We wait for the bell,” Alain said, his voice low but firm. “When the church bell rings twice, we move. No shouting, no hesitation. We take the weapons first, then the men. If we fail—” He let the silence hang, the unspoken consequence clear.

  Eyes flickered with a mix of fear and resolve. They had seen neighbors dragged from their homes, their names scratched off the records, their bodies never found. They had heard the speeches about liberty, yet all they had known was the iron fist of those who claimed to be their liberators. Tonight everything will change.

  Cloaked in the darkness of the night, the villagers advanced the garrison’s outpost, a commandeered manor house on the outskirts of the village. All it took was someone to throw the first torch into the house before all hell broke loose. Fire sprang up with a vengeance as it hungrily devoured the rotting wood of the house. Smoke filled the night sky and Pierre, alongside Lucien and Alain, led the charge into the manor.

  Crash

  The window shard’s scattering across the bright red carpet of the foyer of the manor. With the fire now raging within the manor Pierre knew they only had a couple minutes before they would have to face the guards.

  “Gather what you can!” Lucien yelled over the crackling flames. “We move fast—if we dally here too long, we’ll be entrapped.”

  “It’s been minutes since the blaze started,” Alain said, suspicion creeping into his voice. “They should have come running by now.”

  “Yeah we should at least see them” grunted Pierre as he broke down an oak door. Smoke rushing out and blinding him. “Wait, I think I see them” responded Pierre as he glanced into the smoke filled room.

  It seemed to be the barracks of the guards garrisoned here and from the looks of it a majority of them would be staying here. Fifteen to fourteen men sprawled upon their beds seemingly dead.

  “Why would they just wait here to die,” questioned Lucien as he looked in. “They were complacent, not incompetent.”

  “I know why” remarked Pierre as his gaze fell on the sprawled bodies of the guards. They hadn’t woken up when the fire began—likely too drunk to stir. Empty bottles littered the floor, some of them Pierre’s own vintages. The guards had drunk themselves into a stupor, and now, the fire had claimed them in their sleep.

  Pierre swallowed hard, his heart heavy. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t wanted it. The fight wasn’t meant to be like this. But now there was no turning back.

  Pierre’s heart pounded in his chest as they moved through the smoke-filled corridors of the manor. The sight of the fallen guards had stunned him, but there was still work to be done. There was still vengeance to be claimed.

  “We continue our raid and look for the rest of them,” Alain rallied, his voice cutting through the thick air. He shut the door behind them with a deliberate thud. “We mustn’t stop now that we’ve seen death. We’re not just fighting for ourselves anymore. We fight for everything we’ve lost.”

  They pressed forward, moving like shadows in the dim, smoke-choked halls. The weight of their resolve hung heavy, their steps reverberating in the silence that followed the chaos. Pierre's hands trembled slightly, but the fire of rage burned hotter than any fear.

  Then they found him.

  The officer.

  He sat at a desk, papers scattered across the surface, his face illuminated by the flickering light of the flames outside. He looked up as they entered, his sneer immediately forming. Only for it to falter when he saw the look in their eyes—eyes that had seen too much suffering, too much injustice.

  “You,” the officer spat, standing slowly, his bravado now a brittle shell. “You dare defy the Republic? Do you think this will change anything?”

  “We defy tyrants,” Pierre replied coldly. “In whatever guise they come.”

  “Hah, defy tyrants you say,” he growled. “You’ll never be more than a pathetic man whose farm is nothing but ash.”

  “Say what you want,” Pierre’s voice was hard as stone, “For those will be your last words” His arms raised, the pitchfork gripped tightly, ready to strike with deadly precision.

  “No! This is not right or just!” Father Beno?t’s voice broke through the tension, his hand gripping Pierre’s arm. His weathered face appeared at the door frame just in time, his breath shallow as he moved closer. He had followed, worried about the cost of their revenge, but now he saw his fears realized. He knew this would not end well unless he intervened. “He is human, just like us. We mustn’t lose sight of that.”

  Pierre’s chest heaved with rage, his eyes flashing as he turned toward Father Beno?t. “My vineyard, my home, everything I’ve ever known is gone because of this man!” Tears burned at the edges of his eyes, but he swallowed them down, his voice a low growl. “He deserves to suffer.”

  Father Beno?t’s hand rested heavily on Pierre’s shoulder, his voice gentle but firm. “You can always forgive. Forgiveness is not weakness. Put down the pitchfork, son. There are other ways to make him pay.”

  Pierre’s breath hitched. He dropped to his knees, the pitchfork slipping from his hand. “How? How can I forgive when everything I’ve lost is because of him? How can I let him live after what he’s taken from me?”

  Father Beno?t knelt beside him, his rough hand comforting but steady. “We will spare him. We cast him out. We show the world that the people of Saint-étienne no longer bow to oppression. That will be our justice.”

  Pierre’s gaze locked on the officer, who now cowered on the floor. His sneer had dissolved, replaced by wide eyes that darted frantically between Pierre and Father Beno?t. The officer’s body trembled, the false bravado crumbling as he realized the truth: he was powerless, stripped of his rank, his authority, and now his life hung in the balance. His breath quickened, panic rising in his throat, and he stumbled back, pressing himself into the corner as if the walls could protect him.

  “Please, please...” the officer muttered, his voice cracking, his once imposing demeanor reduced to pitiful desperation. “You… you don’t understand. I was only following orders. I—I didn’t want this. You have no idea what they’ll do to me!

  Pierre's fists clenched, but he could see the fear in the officer’s eyes, the realization of his fall from grace.

  “You better be right,” Pierre muttered, his voice hoarse as he turned his back. The officer, broken and humiliated, was cast out into the night, stripped of his authority and weapons, sent to spread the message that Saint-étienne had changed. No longer would they bow to tyranny.