Chapter 7 - Chapter 7: Antoine’s Trust

The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting a bronze glow over the Dubois estate's sprawling fields, where Julien and Antoine faced each other in a clearing near the old oak grove. The air was sharp with the scent of crushed grass and the faint musk of earth, stirred by their boots as they circled, fists raised in a mock spar. Julien's muscles burned, his body still adjusting to the youthful strength of his nineteen-year-old frame, but his movements were sharp, guided by the instincts of a soldier who'd survived the trenches. Antoine, taller and broader, grinned with the cocky ease of a man who'd never seen a battlefield, his knuckles wrapped in strips of cloth for their impromptu training. "You're slow today, Julien," Antoine teased, dodging a jab with a dancer's grace. "Too much time with your sketches? Or are you dreaming of my sister again?" His hazel eyes sparkled, but his jab was quick, grazing Julien's shoulder. Julien ducked, countering with a swift hook that Antoine barely blocked. "Keep dreaming, poet," he shot back, his breath steady despite the exertion. "Claire would eat me alive before I got close." The lie stung—Claire's quiet strength had haunted him in his past life, a love he'd buried under guilt. But this wasn't about romance. This was about keeping Antoine alive. The memory of that alley in 1911—Antoine's blood pooling under flickering gaslights— flashed in Julien's mind, tightening his grip. He'd lost his friend to his own arrogance, and now, with three years until the war, he'd make damn sure Antoine could fight, think, and survive. Patrick Arnaud's knowledge gave him weapons; his own past gave him purpose. They broke apart, panting, and Julien wiped sweat from his brow, the distant hum of the factory a faint reminder of his looming deadline. "You're not bad," he said, circling again. "But you're too flashy. Thieves don't care about style—they go for the throat." Antoine laughed, tossing his dark hair back. "Thieves? What's this, Julien? You think we're heading into some dime-novel adventure?" He lunged, aiming a playful kick, but Julien sidestepped, grabbing his arm and twisting him into a hold. "Something like that," Julien said, his voice low as he pinned Antoine's arm behind his back. "Humor me. If we're going to make these rifles, we'll make enemies. You need to be ready." He released Antoine, stepping back, his eyes serious. "I need you ready." Antoine rubbed his arm, his grin fading as he studied Julien. "You're different, you know that? Not just the rifle talk. You've got this… weight. Like you've seen things." He paused, picking up a stick to twirl like a sword. "What's really going on, Julien? You said something yesterday—about losing me. What did you mean?" Julien's chest tightened. The truth—a life where Antoine died, where France burned, where Julien limped through decades of regret—was impossible to share. Not yet. He picked up his own stick, twirling it with the precision of a bayonet drill from his past life. "Just a bad dream," he said, forcing a smile. "You're my brother, Antoine. I don't want to lose you to some stupid mistake. Not in a fight, not in a war, not ever." Antoine's eyes softened, but his voice stayed light. "Brother, huh? Careful, you'll make Claire jealous." He lunged with the stick, a mock thrust Julien parried easily. "Fine, train me. But if I'm your right-hand man, I want a say in this rifle business. What's the plan?" Julien relaxed, grateful for the shift. He dropped the stick and gestured toward the satchel he'd set under a tree, its edges worn from carrying his blueprints. "The plan's simple. Build a semi­automatic rifle—ten rounds, gas-operated, light as a feather compared to the Lebel. Then an improved Chauchat, no jams, inspired by designs I… studied." He caught himself, nearly saying from 2025. "We show the prototype to your father's contacts—investors, maybe the Ministry of War. If they bite, we convert the factory." Antoine whistled, tossing his stick aside. "Ambitious. My father's got a friend, General Leclerc, who's been muttering about Germany's arms buildup. He might listen. But you'll need more than sketches to impress him. And what's this about enemies? You expecting trouble?" Julien's hand brushed the pocket where he'd tucked the threatening note. The tobaccoscented stranger in the factory, the cigarette butt by the stables—someone was circling, and he didn't trust the shadows. "Let's just say I'm not taking chances," he said. "You saw that worker yesterday, the one who slipped out? Didn't look familiar. Keep your eyes open." Antoine's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "You're paranoid, but I'll watch. Now, teach me something useful. If we're fighting thieves, I want to win." Julien grinned, slipping into a stance he'd learned in the trenches. "First lesson: don't fight fair. Aim for the knees, the eyes, whatever gets you out alive." He demonstrated a low strike, showing Antoine how to pivot and disable an opponent. They sparred again, Julien blending his past-life combat with Arnaud's tactical insights, each move a step toward rewriting Antoine's fate. As the sun sank, painting the sky in streaks of crimson, Élise appeared, bounding across the field with a basket of apples. "You two look ridiculous," she called, tossing an apple at Julien. "What's this, training to be knights? Or are you just avoiding Maman's tea invitation?" Julien caught the apple, taking a bite to hide his unease. "Knights, obviously. Antoine's my squire." He winked, but his eyes scanned the treeline, catching a flicker of movement—a shadow, gone too fast to track. Élise followed his gaze, her mischief fading. "Something's off, isn't it?" she whispered, stepping closer. "I saw a man by the factory this morning. Not one of ours. Smelled like cheap tobacco." Julien's blood chilled. "Keep that to yourself, little fox," he said, his voice low. "And stay close to Antoine when I'm not around." He glanced at his friend, laughing as he juggled apples, oblivious to the danger. Julien's vow hardened: he'd protect them both, no matter the cost. As they headed back to the estate, the basket swinging between them, a rustle in the bushes stopped Julien cold. He turned, hand on the knife he'd started carrying, but nothing emerged. The threat was out there, waiting. And he'd be damned if it caught him off guard.