The shot rang out, echoing as if the entire nation—no, the entire world—could 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—crumpled 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—some 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—it 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—this 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—a 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—brave 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—a 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—where 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—a 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—he 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.