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—good 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—each 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—people began throwing whatever they could find. Rubble, rocks, broken bits of brick—all 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—soldiers and civilians—at 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—thirty 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—the 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—the 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—a 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—but it was too late.

Bang!