The Dubois estate's dining room glowed under the soft flicker of a chandelier, its crystal prisms scattering light across polished silverware and the rich aroma of roasted lamb mingling with the faint sweetness of Marguerite's rosewater perfume. Julien sat at the long mahogany table, his hands restless as he pushed a fork through his plate, the triumph of humiliating Victor Moreau at the demonstration still fresh but overshadowed by the lingering tobacco scent and the spy's unseen presence. General Leclerc's promise of a contract meeting tomorrow should have felt like a victory, but the weight of the stolen sketch and Moreau's parting threat—You've made an enemy today—hung like a storm cloud.
Antoine, seated across from him, tore into a roll, his grin undimmed by the day's tensions. "You made Moreau look like a fool, Julien," he said, his voice bright. "That knockoff of his couldn't hit a barn, let alone a target. Leclerc's eating out of your hand now."
Julien forced a smile, his eyes flicking to Élise, who sat beside Marguerite, her mischievous air subdued as she toyed with her napkin. Henri, at the table's head, sipped his wine, his stern face softened by a rare pride. "You've done well, Julien," he said, his voice gruff. "But don't let it go to your head. The Ministry's a snake pit—Leclerc's one man, and not everyone's as honest."
Marguerite's hand paused on her glass, her gaze sharp. "Henri's right. Success draws vipers. Be cautious, Julien." Her words echoed the cryptic note still hidden in his study— Keep your secrets close, Dubois, or they'll bury you—and Julien's gut twisted. She didn't know about the spy, but her instincts were uncanny.
Before he could respond, a sharp knock echoed from the front hall. A servant entered, his face pale. "Monsieur Julien, a man from the Ministry of War is here. Says it's urgent. He's waiting in the parlor."
Julien exchanged a glance with Antoine, whose grin faded. Élise's eyes narrowed, her hand slipping under the table as if ready to bolt. Julien stood, his soldier's instincts from his past life kicking in. "I'll handle it," he said, his voice calm but his hand brushing the knife in his belt. "Antoine, with me."
In the parlor, a stout man in a Ministry uniform stood by the fireplace, his face ruddy and his eyes cold. Monsieur Roche, a mid-level official Julien recognized from Ministry gossip as a man who thrived on favors, held a leather folder and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. The faint whiff of tobacco clung to him—not the cheap scent of the spy, but something richer, like Moreau's circles smoked.
"Monsieur Dubois," Roche began, his voice oily, "your demonstration was… impressive. The Ministry's interested in your Mark I. But there's a process. Approvals, inspections, funding." He tapped the folder, his smile widening. "A small contribution—say, ten thousand francs— could smooth things along."
Julien's blood boiled, his past life's memories of corrupt officers profiting off soldiers' lives flashing hot. He kept his face neutral, channeling Patrick Arnaud's strategic calm. "A contribution?" he said, his tone light but edged. "Funny, I thought the Ministry valued results, not bribes. My rifle speaks for itself. Ask General Leclerc."
Roche's smile tightened, his eyes narrowing. "Leclerc's one voice. Others, like Monsieur Moreau, have deeper pockets and longer reach. You're new to this game, boy. Play smart, or your factory stays a tractor shop."
Antoine stepped forward, his charm masking a steel Julien recognized. "Monsieur Roche, you're bold to ask for bribes in a gentleman's home. My father, Comte Lefèvre, might be interested to hear about this. He dines with the Minister next week."
Roche paled, but his voice stayed sharp. "Watch your tone, Lefèvre. And you, Dubois— think carefully. Refuse, and your contract might hit… complications." He tucked the folder under his arm and strode out, leaving a trail of tobacco scent and menace.
Julien's fists clenched as the door shut. "He's Moreau's dog," he said, his voice low. "They're squeezing us before Leclerc can push the contract through."
Antoine nodded, his face grim. "We need leverage. I'll talk to Papa—he knows men who can pressure Roche. But Julien, this spy—Élise's note said he's caught, but he talked. What if more are out there?"
Julien's mind raced, Arnaud's knowledge of 2025 business tactics mixing with his trenchhoned paranoia. "Then we double down. Finish ten rifles for Leclerc's trial, lock down the factory, and watch every shadow. I'll talk to Élise—she's already sniffing out trouble." Back at dinner, Élise met his gaze, her eyes gleaming with unspoken news. As the family dispersed, she pulled him aside in the hallway, her whisper urgent. "I checked the spy's things before the gendarmes took him. Found a letter—unsigned, but it mentioned 'Moreau' and 'Ministry pressure.' They're not just after the blueprints, Julien. They want the factory."
Julien's heart sank, but his resolve hardened. "Then we fight dirtier. Get that letter to me— I'll show it to Leclerc. If Moreau's bribing officials, we'll turn it against him."
Élise grinned, her mischief returning. "Already hidden in your study. You're welcome, brother."
As Julien headed to his room, the tobacco scent lingered in the hall, faint but unmistakable. Roche's visit wasn't random, and the spy's letter was only the start. Moreau was circling, and Julien's next move had to be flawless—or the Mark I, and his family's future, would be crushed before the war evem began.