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—the 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—what’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—and 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—I 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—" 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—that central intended to coerce Valois with brute force, and use his soldiers to do it—had 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—ready 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—a 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—it 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—the 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—a 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—slow 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—all 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—it 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—just hidden under the surface. Tonight was a victory, but tomorrow could bring something entirely different.