Chapter 3 - Chapter 3: The Broken Genius

The Dubois estate hummed with the quiet rhythm of morning, the distant clatter of servants' footsteps blending with the chirp of sparrows outside Julien's window. He sat at his desk, the air thick with the scent of ink and old paper, his quill scratching furiously as he refined the rifle schematic. The semi-automatic design—sleek, efficient, a far cry from the clunky Lebel rifles of 1911—felt like a lifeline, a way to claw back the future he'd lost. Patrick Arnaud's knowledge pulsed in his mind, guiding his hand: a faster firing mechanism, a lighter frame, a magazine that wouldn't jam under pressure. But as his quill danced, memories of his past life clawed at him— Antoine's blood-soaked shirt, Élise's tear-streaked face, his own leg shattered by shrapnel. He gripped the quill tighter, forcing the ghosts away. A soft creak from the hallway lingered in his ears, the sound from moments ago when he'd caught someone eavesdropping. He stood, moving silently to the door, his bare feet cool against the oak floor. The hallway was empty, but the scent of tobacco—faint, acrid—hung in the air. Not his father's brand. Not a servant's either. His pulse quickened. In his past life, he'd been a fool, blind to threats until they struck. Not this time. He closed the door, wedging a chair under the handle for good measure, and returned to his desk. The rifle would wait; he needed to ground himself in this new reality first. A knock, sharp and impatient, broke his thoughts. "Julien, enough hiding!" It was Antoine Lefèvre, his voice bright but edged with the playful mockery they'd shared since childhood. Julien's chest tightened. Antoine—alive, unstabbed, his hazel eyes and easy grin untouched by death. Julien flung open the door, the chair clattering aside, and there he stood: tall, broad­shouldered, his tailored coat immaculate, a stark reminder of the wealth his family wielded compared to the declining Dubois estate. "You look like you've seen a corpse," Antoine said, leaning against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips. "Or are you just plotting to outshine me at cards tonight?" His grin was infectious, but Julien saw the flicker of concern in his friend's eyes. "Corpses don't bother me," Julien shot back, forcing a smirk. "But your card skills might. Ready to lose again?" The banter felt like slipping into an old coat, comfortable yet heavy with the weight of what he knew. He gestured Antoine inside, closing the door behind him. No more eavesdroppers. Antoine flopped onto the bed, tossing the cigarette onto the bedside table. "You're off today, mon ami. What's got you so serious? Another mad invention?" He nodded at the desk, where Julien's sketches lay in disarray. Julien hesitated. Antoine deserved the truth—his death had broken Julien once—but how could he explain a life not yet lived? Instead, he sat beside him, the mattress creaking under their weight. "Remember when we were kids, dreaming of changing the world? You wanted to be a poet, and I was going to build machines to touch the stars." Antoine laughed, a rich sound that filled the room. "You still can, genius. Paris hasn't forgotten you, even if you've been dodging lectures for parties lately." His tone turned sly. "Speaking of, Claire was asking about you. My sister thinks you're avoiding her." Julien's heart skipped. Claire Lefèvre, Antoine's older sister, with her sharp wit and quiet strength, had been a flicker of light in his past life, a love he'd never dared pursue after Antoine's death. "Avoiding her? Never," he said, keeping his voice light. "She's too terrifying for that." "Terrifying? She's a kitten," Antoine said, then paused, studying Julien. "You're dodging. Spill it. What's this about?" He tapped the sketches, his fingers brushing the rifle design. Julien took a breath, choosing his words carefully. "I'm done wasting time, Antoine. The family's falling apart—Papa's tractors aren't enough to keep us afloat. I've got an idea, something big. Weapons, not machines for fields. Something to make France untouchable." Antoine's brow furrowed, his usual levity fading. "Weapons? You mean like guns? Julien, you're an engineer, not a soldier. And France is fine—Papa says the government's got everything under control." "France isn't fine," Julien snapped, then softened, catching himself. "Trust me, Antoine. I… I know things. Things I can't explain yet. But I need you with me. Not just as a friend, but as a partner. Your family's connections, your charm—I can't do this alone." Antoine leaned back, his gaze piercing. "You sound like a man possessed. What's really going on? You're not just talking about saving the family, are you?" Julien's throat tightened. He saw Antoine's body in that alley, the knife, the blood. He saw the war—trenches, screams, millions dead. "I lost you once," he said, barely a whisper. "I won't again." Antoine froze, his eyes narrowing. "Lost me? Julien, you're not making sense. I'm right here." Julien forced a laugh, shaking off the moment. "Forget it. Too much coffee, not enough sleep. Just… promise you'll stick with me, yeah? We'll make history." Antoine studied him, then grinned, clapping Julien's shoulder. "History, huh? Fine, I'm in. But if we're making history, I get to name the first gun. Something poetic, like 'Étoile de Guerre.'" "Star of War? Terrible," Julien said, grinning back. "We'll call it the Dubois. Catchy, no?" "Egoist," Antoine teased, standing. "Come on, your mother's expecting us for breakfast. And Claire's there. Don't make me drag you." As they headed downstairs, the scent of fresh croissants and coffee wafting up, Julien's mind raced. Antoine was alive, Claire was near, and his family was whole. But the creak in the hallway nagged at him. Someone was watching, and in this new life, enemies would come sooner than he'd like. He glanced at Antoine, laughing as he mimicked a fencer's stance in the hall, and vowed: no knife would touch him this time. Not if Julien could help it. But as they reached the dining room, a shadow moved in the corner of his vision—a servant, or something more? The game was already afoot.