Chapter 16 - Chapter 16: The Training Ground

The Dubois estate's northern field was a patchwork of trampled grass and soft earth, kissed by the late morning sun and sharp with the scent of dew and distant pine. Julien faced Antoine under the sprawling branches of an ancient oak, their breaths visible in the cool air as they squared off, fists wrapped in cloth for another sparring session. Julien's muscles ached from sleepless nights hunched over rifle designs, but his past life's soldier instincts drove him to train harder, to prepare Antoine for the dangers circling them—Moreau's bribes, the spy's letter, the tobacco-scented shadows. The Mark I's patent was secure, but Monsieur Roche's oily threat in the parlor last night—Play smart, or your factory stays a tractor shop—made it clear the fight was far from over. Antoine, sweat beading on his brow, dodged Julien's jab with a grin. "You're getting slow, genius," he teased, his voice light but his eyes sharp, catching Julien's tension. "Worried about Roche? Or still chasing ghosts with that tobacco smell?" Julien countered with a quick hook, forcing Antoine to block. "Not ghosts," he said, his voice low, steady. "Enemies. Roche is Moreau's puppet, and that spy's letter Élise found proves they're after the factory. We need to be ready—for fists, knives, or worse." His mind flashed to 1911, the alley where Antoine's blood had stained the cobblestones, a memory that fueled every punch. This time, he'd make Antoine untouchable. Antoine ducked, his movements sharper than their last session, evidence of Julien's training sinking in. "You're paranoid, mon ami, but I'll humor you. Teach me something new—something to scare off spies." He lunged, aiming a playful kick, but Julien caught his leg, twisting him off­balance with a move from his trench days. "Lesson two," Julien said, releasing him. "Never overcommit. Stay loose, watch their eyes— they'll tell you where the blade's coming from." He demonstrated a sidestep, blending his past life's bayonet drills with Patrick Arnaud's tactical precision from 2025. "If it's a knife, grab the wrist, twist hard, and aim for the knee. Like this." He moved through the motions, slow and deliberate, Antoine mimicking with growing focus. The field echoed with their grunts and the soft thud of boots on earth. Julien pushed harder, his soldier's instincts merging with Arnaud's strategic mind—angles, leverage, anticipation. He saw Antoine's potential, the strength of his aristocratic frame tempered by a poet's grace, and vowed to shape it into a warrior's edge. "You're getting it," Julien said, stepping back, panting. "But you're still too pretty. A scar or two might help." Antoine laughed, wiping his face with a sleeve. "Scars? You're the one who'll need them if Claire catches you dodging her again. She asked about you at breakfast—says you're avoiding her." Julien's heart skipped, the mention of Claire stirring a warmth he couldn't afford to indulge. In his past life, her quiet strength had been a light he'd never dared chase after Antoine's death. "She's your sister, not a general," he said, deflecting with a grin. "I'm busy saving France." "Busy hiding," Antoine shot back, tossing a stick at him. "She's tougher than both of us, you know." Before Julien could respond, a rustle in the nearby bushes made them freeze. Julien's hand dropped to the knife in his belt, his eyes scanning the treeline. The tobacco scent hit him— faint, acrid, unmistakable. "Antoine," he whispered, "stay sharp. We've got company." Antoine's grin vanished, his body tensing as he followed Julien's gaze. The bushes parted, revealing Élise, her trousers mud-streaked, her eyes wide with urgency. "You two look like you're practicing for a circus," she said, but her voice was tight. She held up a folded letter, its edges worn. "Found this in the spy's coat before the gendarmes took him. It's coded, but it mentions 'Moreau' and 'factory takeover.' They're not stopping, Julien." Julien took the letter, his fingers brushing the rough paper. The code was simple, a cipher he recognized from his trench days—substitution, easy to crack with time. "Good work, little fox," he said, his mind racing. "This could bury Moreau if we decode it. But we need to keep training—Antoine, you're my right hand. I can't lose you." Antoine's eyes softened, catching the weight behind Julien's words. "You won't, mon ami. But you're scaring me with this talk. What's got you so sure we're in danger?" Julien hesitated, the truth of his past life—a future of blood and loss—too heavy to share. "Just trust me," he said, clapping Antoine's shoulder. "We train, we build, we win. No alleys, no mistakes." Élise smirked, breaking the tension. "No alleys, but maybe a few pranks on Moreau's men? I could slip this letter to Leclerc, make it look like it came from one of Moreau's own." Julien's lips twitched, her mischief a spark in the gloom. "Tempting, but hold off. We decode it first, then use it to trap him." He glanced at Antoine, who nodded, his poet's flair replaced by a soldier's resolve. As they resumed sparring, the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the field. Julien pushed Antoine harder, each move a step toward rewriting that fatal night in 1911. But the tobacco scent lingered in his mind, a reminder that Moreau's reach was long, and Roche's bribe was only the start. The coded letter was a weapon, but only if Julien could wield it before the enemy struck again.