The morning mist clung to the vineyards of Saint-Étienne, curling around the twisted vines like the ghost of a forgotten season. Pierre Fournier stood at the threshold of his stone farmhouse, watching the pale sun rise over the Burgundy hills. The air smelled of damp earth and the faint, lingering sweetness of grapes left too long on the vine.

This would be his last harvest. He felt it in his bones.

Pierre Fournier was twenty-six years old, but already his hands bore the calluses of a man twice his age. The vineyard had shaped him as surely as the sun shaped the vines—his skin bronzed from long days in the fields, his shoulders broad from years of labor, his fingers stained with the ghost of crushed grapes.

It seemed like the Republic had declared that all men were free, that the land belonged to the people. Though truth revealed, it only belonged to tyrants who were willing to take it by force.

Pierre walked the rows of his vineyard, running his fingers over the swollen grapes. A cool autumn had left them larger than usual, their skins tight, their juice thick with concentrated sweetness. ‘It will be a good vintage,’ he thought absentmindedly. If there is anyone left to drink it.

By midday, the workers arrived—men and women from the village, whispering anxiously amongst themselves. They picked quickly, their hands swift and nervous, as if afraid of lingering too long in one place. Pierre noticed the absence of a few familiar faces. Had they fled? Had they been arrested? No one spoke of it. These days, people disappeared like autumn leaves in the wind.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Alexandre, whose hearty laugh filled the open sky with its infectious sound, or even Elise who would come every two days with a fresh basket of eggs. Now, there was nothing but memories to reminisce with.

By evening, the last baskets were loaded onto carts bound for the press. Pierre watched the sun bleed into the horizon, staining the sky the color of old wine. He felt an ache in his chest—not just from the labor of the day, but from something deeper, a grief that had no name.

“Monsieur Fournier,” the officer called, his voice carrying across the distance. “We have some business to discuss.”

Pierre stiffened, knowing full well what was coming. Rumors had reached him—of the Republic’s men visiting other farms, seizing land, stripping it from those who had worked it for generations in the name of the ‘people’. His stomach twisted at the thought. But as the officer’s gaze fixed on him, Pierre knew there was no escape, no way to resist.

With a deep, almost imperceptible breath, Pierre spoke, his voice measured but heavy with trepidation. “Come, let us speak in the comforts of my home. I happened to open one of my father’s vintages recently. I believe you are a man of... fine taste.”

The officer’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Why, yes. Lead the way, Monsieur Fournier.” He signaled to his men, who spread out across the farm, their presence a silent threat. “Don’t worry, Monsieur, we are simply surveying the land. No need for alarm.”

Pierre gave a strained smile, trying to maintain his composure. “Of course. I would expect nothing less from the diligent men of the Republic.” His tone, though polite, carried the sharp edge of forced civility. “My house is just a few more feet away.”

As they walked toward the house, Pierre kept his gaze straight ahead, but the weight of what was happening hung over him. He could feel the eyes of his workers on him, but none of them moved, none of them spoke. They were all too afraid.

As Pierre led the officer toward the house, he forced his shoulders to relax, schooling his face into something resembling hospitality. He had to play this carefully—show too much defiance, and the officer might dispense with pleasantries altogether.

Inside, the farmhouse was modest but well-kept. A large wooden table dominated the center of the room, its surface worn smooth from generations of meals, conversation, and quiet labor. Pierre gestured toward a chair.

“Please, sit,” he said, his voice measured. “A fine vintage deserves to be enjoyed properly.”

The officer smiled thinly, unbuckling his saber and placing it carefully against the table before lowering himself onto the chair. Pierre moved to the cabinet, retrieving a bottle of deep crimson wine. His father’s finest—one of the few that remained.

As he poured, the officer studied the room, his sharp gaze catching on the small personal touches—a wooden carving by the hearth, a faded portrait of Pierre’s parents. “You have a lovely home,” he remarked. “It is a shame, really.”

Pierre set the glass in front of him, carefully lowering the bottle before looking up. “A shame?”

The officer swirled the wine, inhaling its aroma before taking a measured sip. “That men like you—men of skill, of tradition—are so unwilling to see the future. You are an educated man, Monsieur Fournier. Surely you know that clinging to the past will only bring you suffering.”

Pierre forced a small smile. “I am not opposed to change, Monsieur. I only wish to understand why it must come at the expense of everything we have built.”

The officer exhaled, placing the glass down gently. “Because what you have built was never meant for the people. It was built for men like you—landowners, aristocrats in all but name.”

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Pierre’s jaw tightened. “I have worked this land with my own hands since I was a boy.”

The officer tilted his head. “And yet, your name is the one on the deeds. Not your workers. Not the peasants who break their backs in your fields.” He took another sip, savoring the wine. “This is excellent. A pity the Republic will have to redistribute it.”

Pierre’s stomach twisted, but he refused to give the man the satisfaction of seeing his anger. Instead, he took the seat across from him, lacing his fingers together. “Tell me, Monsieur… how does the Republic intend to run a vineyard without vintners?”

The officer chuckled, setting the glass down. “We will find a way. Or perhaps we will burn the fields and ensure no one profits from the old ways.”

Pierre felt his breath slow, measured, calculated. “You have already decided, then.”

The officer leaned forward. “I was merely sent to assess the situation. But I must admit, your cooperation makes things easier.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded parchment. “By order of the Republic, your land is to be seized in the name of the people.”

Pierre swallowed, his hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Je suis le peuple—I am the people,” he said, his voice low but firm. “This land has been in my family for generations.”

The officer’s expression remained impassive. “The Republic has no need for landowners.” He gestured toward the window. Pierre turned his head just in time to see the officer’s men pulling his workers away, their shouts mixing with the frantic cries of their families.

Pierre surged to his feet. “What are your men doing?”

The officer remained seated, watching him calmly. “They just need to have a conversation with the locals. Some of them will be given the opportunity to work the land under new management. Others… well.” He lifted his glass again. “That depends on how much trouble they cause.”

Pierre’s breath came hard and fast, his nails biting into his palms. He looked to the fireplace, where his father’s old musket still rested on its mount. A weapon too old, too unreliable—but better than nothing.

The officer caught the flicker of his gaze and smiled. “I wouldn’t,” he said quietly. “It would be such a waste.”

Pierre slowly turned back to him, his chest rising and falling with controlled restraint. The officer exhaled, shaking his head as he stood. “Monsieur Fournier, I know you are a proud man. I understand that.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But pride will get you killed.”

Pierre did not respond.

The officer sighed, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “You will remain here under watch while the transition is completed. Your workers will be dealt with accordingly. If you cooperate, you may yet have a place in the new order.”

Pierre stared at him, his mind racing, his heart thundering with silent rage.

The officer picked up his saber, fastening it to his belt. “Enjoy your evening, Monsieur Fournier.” He paused, smirking. “And thank you for the wine.”

With that, he turned and strode from the house, leaving Pierre standing in the silence of a home that no longer belonged to him.

—

With that, the officer turned away, calling to his men. “Burn it, and make the landowner watch.”

Pierre’s breath came sharp and ragged. No. He would not let them take everything without a fight.

Before the soldiers could seize him, he lunged toward the nearest man, driving his fist into the soldier’s jaw. The crack of impact sent the young revolutionary sprawling into the dirt. Pierre snatched for the musket slung over the man’s shoulder, yanking it free before spinning toward the officer.

Gasps rippled through the gathered workers and soldiers alike. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the torch in the soldier’s hand, its flame dancing dangerously close to the dry wood of the farmhouse.

Pierre leveled the musket at the officer’s chest, his hands steady despite the fury coursing through him. “Call them off,” he said, his voice hoarse but firm. “You can leave. Take your men, take your orders, but you will not take my home.”

The officer exhaled slowly, tilting his head as if Pierre had just done something vaguely amusing. “Monsieur Fournier,” he murmured, “you mistake defiance for power.”

A sharp whistle split the air. Pierre barely had time to react before something struck him from behind—a rifle stock slammed hard into his ribs. He gasped, stumbling forward, and in the next instant, rough hands wrenched the musket from his grip.

Another blow—this time to the back of his knees—sent him crashing to the dirt. He struggled, but more hands grabbed his arms, forcing him down.

The officer sighed, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “I had hoped you would be more pragmatic.” He nodded to his men. “Proceed.”

A torch was thrown. Fire blossomed against the wooden walls of the farmhouse, climbing hungrily as the scent of burning thatch filled the night air.

Pierre thrashed against his captors, but they held him firm. He could do nothing but watch as the flames devoured everything—his home, his father’s legacy, the vineyard that had been his world.

Pierre clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. “You cannot take what I have bled for,” he growled.

The officer paused, glancing over his shoulder. A glint of amusement—cruel and knowing—played in his sharp eyes. “Blood?” he mused. “Yes. The Republic knows much blood.”

The musket butt struck him before he could retort. Pain exploded through his skull, stars bursting in his vision. He tasted iron as he crumpled to the ground.

The fire roared louder. The heat seared his skin.

Through the ringing in his ears, Pierre heard the officer’s voice, calm, almost gentle.

“The Republic does not need landowners, Monsieur Fournier. Only loyal citizens.”

Pierre could only watch as his farmhouse, his press, his carts—his life— were swallowed by fire. The air filled with the acrid scent of burning wood and crushed grapes, the harvest turning to smoke before his eyes.

The soldiers left Pierre alone after taking away his most prized vintages—his lifeblood. The bottles he had cradled like a father holding his child, the wine that had taken years to perfect, stolen by men who neither knew nor cared for its worth. It was not just drinks they had taken, but the labor of his ancestors, the legacy he had spent his life preserving.

He lay there, his own blood seeping into the dirt, mixing with the crushed remnants of fallen grapes. The vineyard burned before him, flames twisting through the vines like hungry fingers, consuming the past with reckless hunger. Smoke choked the sky, blotting out the stars that he had once shared with his parents.

Pierre did not cry out. There was no point. The land could not answer him, nor could the dead rise to reclaim what was lost. But still, salty tears formed at the tips of his eyes threatening to pour out. Threatening to swallow him into a pit of despair. But soon came peace as the sweet release of exhaustion let his consciousness sink into the darkness of the night.

—

By morning, the vines were nothing but blackened skeletons, twisting toward the sky like charred fingers. The rest of the farm, nothing but charred ruins. Looking up into the smoky sky Pierre felt like his heart had been taken out and replaced with nothing.

He had always known the land would outlast him. But now, he wondered if there would be anything left to remember.