Dawn broke pale and sickly, light seeping through clouds like water through torn cloth. The commune looked like a battlefield. Mud churned into ruts from boots and tires. Doors hung crooked on hinges. Mattresses, clothing, and books lay scattered in the dirt, soaked from last night's rain.
The air reeked of smoke, though no flames had been lit — only the acrid smell of gunpowder and broken wood.
Aurora moved quietly through the wreckage, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her feet were bare, the hem of her dress damp. She knelt to gather fallen pages from Ruby Hart's borrowed books, smoothing them with trembling hands. Alice, Wuthering Heights, Leaves of Grass. Precious things Beaumont's allies had meant to trample into mud.
Behind her, children huddled close, silent as ghosts. Some sucked their thumbs, others clutched toys with too-tight grips. They didn't laugh that morning.
Luxe stood apart, arms crossed, jaw tight. She hadn't slept. Her ribs throbbed where the baton had struck, and a bruise spread purple-black across her side. But exhaustion sharpened her resolve rather than dulled it. Her eyes tracked every movement, every whispered conversation.
The silence of the commune was worse than screams.
Grace Chen worked at the long wooden table, treating injuries. Steam rose from a pot of boiled water where cloths were dipped and wrung out. Elias had a split lip and blackened eye. June's wrists were raw from bindings. A mother's shoulder was dislocated from being shoved into the dirt.
Aurora moved between them like a thread of light, offering soothing words, steady hands. She hummed while binding wounds, her voice trembling but kind. "We'll heal. We always heal. Bodies mend faster than spirits."
Luxe hovered near the doorway, watching. When Aurora reached Elias, he flinched from her touch.
"I don't need help," he muttered.
"You're bleeding," Aurora said softly.
"I said I don't need it," he snapped, pulling back. His glare darted toward Luxe. "All of this happened because you couldn't keep your fists down."
The words sliced the air. Grace froze. June looked away. Even Aurora's hands faltered.
Luxe's voice was iron. "It happened because Beaumont wants us broken. Because Daniels wanted a show. Not because I defended one of our own."
"You provoked them," Elias shot back. "If you hadn't hit that officer, maybe they would've left sooner."
Luxe took a step forward, fury coiled tight. "If I hadn't hit him, June would've been dragged off in chains. Is that the world you want? One where we let them take whoever they please?"
The barn seemed smaller with each word. Aurora quickly placed herself between them, palms raised. "Stop. Both of you. We can't fight each other now."
But the fracture was already there, jagged and raw.
At midday, the community gathered for food. Grace had stretched beans and rice as far as possible, but portions were thin. Everyone sat close in the barn, bowls balanced on knees, rain dripping through gaps in the roof.
Conversation was hushed, splintered. Some murmured gratitude — that no one had died, that children were safe. Others muttered fears that this was only the beginning.
Luxe sat at the head of the table, her posture rigid. Aurora sat beside her, shawl still wrapped tight, offering smiles that felt like paper lanterns — fragile but glowing.
Elias spoke again, voice low but carrying. "They'll be back. And next time, they won't settle for breaking furniture. Next time, someone will die. Maybe all of us."
Murmurs rose. Eyes flicked to Luxe.
She set her spoon down deliberately, meeting every gaze. "Then we'll be ready. We'll build defenses. Hidden supplies. Runners who can warn us. We won't sit waiting to be slaughtered."
Her words crackled with conviction, but not all were reassured.
Aurora touched her arm gently, interjecting. "And we'll also show the city who we are. We'll invite neighbors to meals, we'll share music, we'll remind them we're not criminals. The more love we spread, the harder it will be to believe Beaumont's lies."
The contrast was stark: Luxe's fire, Aurora's water.
Some nodded at Luxe's plan, desperate for strength. Others clung to Aurora's promise of peace. And some looked torn, trapped between two visions of survival.
The divide widened quietly, like cracks spreading through glass.
That evening, rain misted the fields again. Luxe and Aurora stood in their cabin, voices low but tense.
"You undermined me," Luxe said flatly.
Aurora's brow furrowed. "I tempered you. There's a difference."
"You made me look like a tyrant in front of everyone."
Aurora shook her head. "You made yourself look like one, Luxe. They're afraid. If you keep talking like a soldier, they'll start believing Beaumont's story."
Luxe's hands curled into fists. "And if I keep talking like you, they'll think we're lambs ready for slaughter. You think kindness will stop men like Daniels? Like Beaumont? It won't."
Aurora's voice cracked. "It might stop us from becoming them."
Silence stretched. The sisters stared at each other, two sides of a coin, bound and divided all at once.
Finally, Luxe turned away, her voice rough. "I won't let them destroy us. Whatever it takes."
Aurora closed her eyes, tears threatening. "And I won't let us destroy ourselves to fight them."
The distance between them felt colder than the rain outside.
Later that night, Luxe walked the perimeter again. Her ribs ached, her side throbbed, but vigilance kept her upright. Lantern light spilled from the barn where some members still whispered in hushed circles.
She paused at the edge of the fields, staring into the dark tree line. The faint glow of cigarettes winked back — watchers, scouts, Beaumont's eyes.
Her fury simmered into a cold vow. We'll be ready. You'll regret this war you started.
Behind her, Aurora's voice drifted through the night, singing softly to the children to lull them to sleep. The melody carried hope, fragile but enduring.
Two leaders. Two visions.
And between them, a commune caught in the widening divide.
The next morning, the first green sprouts of beans pushed through the trampled soil, defiant against mud and boot prints. Aurora smiled when she saw them, kneeling to touch their tender leaves. Luxe stood beside her, arms folded, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Even after all that," Aurora whispered, "they still grow."
Luxe's gaze never left the tree line. "So will we. Stronger. Harder. Whatever it takes."
Aurora's smile faded at the edge in her sister's tone.
The sprouts swayed gently in the wind, unaware of the storm brewing around them.