The newspaper lay on the kitchen table like a curse.
Its headline screamed in block letters:
"UNMARRIED SISTERS CORRUPT CITY YOUTH – LOCAL CULT OR COMMUNE?"
Luxe stood over it, jaw tight, fists clenched at her sides. The paper smelled of cheap ink, and its words bled into her vision until they seemed to hiss. She didn't need to read the article; the headline said everything.
Aurora hovered in the doorway, pale and uncertain. "They put our names in it."
Luxe's eyes flicked down to the print. Sure enough—there it was. Luxe Rowan and Aurora Rowan, sisters, suspected leaders of a growing sect outside the city. Witnesses describe their commune as immoral, filled with runaway youths, jazz musicians, and unmarried couples. Neighbors warn that the women encourage sin in the name of freedom.
Luxe exhaled through her nose. "Of course they did."
The commune's kitchen buzzed with activity around them. Grace Chen stirred a pot of rice at the stove, the fragrance of ginger and garlic cutting through the heavy mood. Johnny "Jazz" Monroe sat on the counter with his trumpet, polishing the brass until it gleamed. A pair of younger members, June and Elias, scrubbed potatoes in the sink.
And every single one of them kept stealing glances at the paper.
It wasn't the first article written about them. Last year, a small piece in The Chronicle had painted them as eccentric do-gooders. Harmless. Quirky. A novelty. But this…
This was Beaumont's hand.
Aurora folded her arms, hugging herself like she was trying to disappear. "They'll believe it. People always believe the worst."
"They'll believe what they see," Luxe snapped, harsher than she meant. She softened her tone, turning toward her sister. "And what they'll see is us—working, building, feeding people. Not the lies."
But Aurora's eyes didn't brighten. She gazed at the paper like it was prophecy.
Jazz finally broke the silence. "Headlines spread faster than truth. Folks'll talk. Parents will forbid their kids from coming here. Cops'll come sniffin', looking for something to bust."
Grace's ladle clinked against the pot. "And some of our own might start wonderin' if it's true."
Luxe froze. "Our own?"
Grace didn't flinch. She nodded toward the window, where three commune members were hauling firewood. "People talk, Luxe. Some came here to escape, not to be hounded. They don't all have your fight in them. They'll ask if you're leading them into safety… or into ruin."
The words landed heavy, and Luxe hated how true they felt.
That night, Luxe found Aurora sitting outside their cabin, wrapped in a shawl. The moonlight painted her face silver, her eyes distant.
"They're afraid," Aurora said softly before Luxe could speak.
"They should be angry," Luxe replied, pacing. "Angry at Beaumont, angry at the police who let him spread this filth. Not at us."
Aurora shook her head. "Fear comes first. Anger comes later. Right now, they wonder if following us will destroy them."
Luxe crouched in front of her, searching her sister's expression. "Do you wonder that?"
Aurora hesitated. Just long enough.
Luxe's stomach twisted.
"I don't doubt you," Aurora whispered quickly. "I just… I doubt the world. It's bigger than us, Luxe. Beaumont has money, power, connections. All we have are gardens and songs. What if it's not enough?"
Her words cut deeper than any newspaper headline.
Luxe reached out, gripping Aurora's hands. "Then we make it enough. I don't care if he owns the whole damn city. He won't own us. Not now. Not ever."
Aurora gave a faint smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.
The next morning, Luxe called a meeting in the barn. The entire commune gathered—forty souls crammed into the wooden structure, lanterns swinging overhead.
The newspaper had made its rounds. Luxe could see it in their faces: worry, doubt, the beginnings of mistrust.
She stood before them, heart pounding. Public speaking never came naturally to her, but necessity had a way of burning fear into ash.
"They call us a cult," she began, voice steady. "They say we corrupt the youth, that we're immoral. Do you believe that?"
A ripple of murmurs spread. Some heads shook. Others didn't move at all.
Luxe's gaze landed on Elias, the lanky young man who'd joined them last spring. His arms were crossed, his expression skeptical.
"They say we're dangerous," Luxe continued. "And you know what? We are. Dangerous to men like Beaumont. Dangerous to those who want obedience instead of freedom. They call us witches because we won't kneel."
A few nods. A spark of fire in some eyes. But others still looked uneasy.
Aurora stepped forward then, her presence softening the room. "We're not here to fight the world," she said gently. "We're here to build a home. To care for each other. To live with kindness. That's all. If people misunderstand, we'll show them through our actions."
Where Luxe's words burned, Aurora's soothed.
The balance was deliberate, unspoken between them. Fire and water. Iron and silk.
For a moment, it seemed to work. The tension eased. Shoulders relaxed.
Until Elias raised his voice.
"I came here because you promised freedom," he said, his tone sharp. "But what if the papers are right? What if we are just another cult—your cult? You make the rules. You decide what we build, what we plant, who we trust. How's that different from Beaumont?"
The barn went silent. Dozens of eyes turned to Luxe.
Her chest tightened. The question wasn't new—she'd asked herself the same thing in sleepless nights. But hearing it aloud, from one of their own, lit a fuse inside her.
"The difference," she said slowly, "is choice. You're free to leave whenever you want. No chains. No threats. No fear. If you think we're the same as Beaumont, walk out those doors right now. See if he welcomes you with open arms."
Her voice cracked like a whip. Elias flinched but didn't move.
Aurora touched Luxe's arm, trying to ease her back. "Luxe—"
But Luxe wasn't finished. "We are not Beaumont. We are not a cult. We are a family. And families don't always agree. But we stand together when the world tries to tear us down. If you can't do that, then you've already chosen your side."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Then Grace spoke, steady and clear: "I stand with them."
One by one, voices joined. Jazz. June. A dozen others.
Not everyone. Some stayed quiet. Some looked away. But enough.
Enough to hold the line—for now.
Later, when the barn was empty and lanterns snuffed, Luxe sat alone on the steps. The night air was cool, carrying the distant croak of frogs.
Aurora sat beside her, folding her shawl tighter. "You scared them."
"They needed scaring," Luxe muttered.
Aurora shook her head. "Fear isn't loyalty. You can't build a family on fear."
Luxe rubbed her temples. Exhaustion weighed on her bones. "Then what do you suggest? Smile until they forget Beaumont exists?"
"No," Aurora whispered. "But remind them why they followed us in the first place. Not because you promised safety. Because you promised hope."
Luxe leaned back, staring at the stars. "Hope doesn't stop bullets."
Aurora's hand slipped into hers, warm and steady. "No. But it keeps people standing long enough to face them."
The Whispering Shadows
Two nights later, as Luxe patrolled the edge of the farmland, she spotted movement in the tree line. Figures watching. Men with cigarettes glowing like tiny embers.
Beaumont's scouts.
Her pulse quickened, but she didn't approach. Not yet.
Instead, she stood tall, letting them see her silhouette against the lantern light of the commune. Letting them know she wasn't afraid.
Behind her, music drifted from the barn—Jazz's trumpet, Aurora's laughter, the hum of voices sharing food and song.
The commune lived.
And that, more than any headline, was their defiance.