The day began deceptively ordinary.
The rain had cleared overnight, leaving the earth damp and shining beneath the morning sun. Members of the commune moved briskly through their chores: hanging laundry, repairing fences, feeding chickens, grinding corn in the hand mill.
Aurora sat with the children beneath the oak tree, reading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland aloud. Her voice rose and fell like music, softening the edges of reality. Laughter rippled when she acted out the Queen of Hearts, brandishing a wooden spoon like a scepter.
Luxe patrolled the perimeter, every step a rhythm of vigilance. Her eyes swept the tree line, the road, the sky. Always waiting for the moment when peace fractured.
When she returned, Grace Chen was cooking beans over the outdoor firepit. The scent of garlic and onion mingled with the damp earth.
"You don't eat enough," Grace scolded gently, offering her a bowl.
Luxe forced a smile and took it. But her stomach churned too tight to swallow much. Something was wrong. She could feel it, like the prickle of static before lightning.
And then she heard it.
Engines.
Distant at first, then louder. The low growl of multiple vehicles, growing closer with every heartbeat.
The first black car crested the hill. Then another. Then three more. Police cars, sirens dark but lights flashing red in the sun. Dust billowed behind them as they tore down the road.
The bowl slipped from Luxe's hands, beans spilling into the dirt.
"Inside!" she barked, her voice sharp as steel. "Everyone inside, now!"
The children froze, eyes wide. Aurora rose swiftly, gathering them with calm words even as panic flared in her gaze.
Doors slammed. Officers spilled from cars, boots thudding on gravel. At least twenty men, armed with batons and rifles, uniforms crisp. And at their front, Officer Henry Daniels — smug, cruel, his hat tilted just so.
"Rowans!" he bellowed, striding toward the cabins. "By order of the city, this cesspool is under investigation for harboring delinquents and spreading immorality. Step forward!"
Aurora's hand found Luxe's, fingers trembling. Luxe squeezed once, then stepped forward alone.
"This is private property," she called back. "You have no right—"
A baton slammed against a cabin door, splintering wood.
Screams erupted.
Chaos unfurled like fire.
Police surged into cabins, overturning mattresses, flinging open trunks, scattering possessions into the mud. A mother clutched her baby as two officers dragged her outside, accusing her of neglect. A young man was shoved face-first into the dirt, handcuffed for "resisting" when he had only tried to protect his sister.
Aurora darted among them, begging for mercy, trying to shield the children. Her voice cracked with pleas: "They've done nothing wrong! Please—stop!"
Luxe grabbed the nearest officer by the arm, yanking him back from Grace. "Enough!" she snarled.
He swung his baton. Pain exploded across Luxe's ribs, knocking the air from her lungs. She staggered but didn't fall.
Daniels smirked as he approached. "See? Violent. Just like we said."
"You're not here for justice," Luxe spat. "You're here because Beaumont told you to be."
Daniels's smile widened. "Call it what you like. By the time we're done, you'll be the monsters the papers already say you are."
Aurora rushed to Luxe's side, gripping her arm. "Don't fight them," she whispered urgently. "If we resist, they'll slaughter us."
"And if we don't?" Luxe hissed back. "They'll strip us bare anyway. You think begging will save us?"
Her eyes darted to the barn, where officers were dragging Elias by his hair, laughing. To the garden, where children cried as their seedlings were stomped under boots.
Aurora's voice shook. "We show them peace. That's our strength. We endure."
Luxe's chest heaved, fury burning. Every instinct screamed to strike back, to defend. But Aurora's hand clung to hers, anchoring her in the storm.
For one fractured heartbeat, Luxe wavered.
Then a scream split the air.
June — only sixteen — was being hauled toward the police cars, wrists bound, tears streaking her face.
Something in Luxe snapped.
She tore free of Aurora's grip and lunged. Her fist connected with the officer's jaw, snapping his head back. He crashed into the mud, baton skittering away.
"Let her go!" Luxe roared.
Pandemonium followed. Commune members surged, desperation lending them courage. Hands grabbed, shoved, clawed at uniforms. Officers swung batons, cracking against skulls and shoulders. Shots fired into the air, deafening.
Aurora screamed Luxe's name, but her voice was lost in the chaos.
Grace hurled boiling water from the cookpot, scalding an officer's arm. Jazz smashed his trumpet case across another's back. The children huddled in the dirt, crying, while Aurora shielded them with her own body.
Daniels drew his revolver, leveling it at Luxe.
The world narrowed to that black barrel.
"Enough!" Daniels barked, voice ringing above the fray. "One more move and she dies."
The commune froze. Even the officers hesitated, panting, bruised.
Luxe stood tall, chest heaving, mud streaked across her face. Her gaze locked on Daniels's, unflinching.
"Do it," she dared him, voice low. "Kill me in front of them. Prove every word I've said about you is true."
Daniels's finger tightened on the trigger.
Aurora stepped forward, her body half-shielding Luxe. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, her voice breaking but steady. "If you shoot her, you shoot me too. And the world will know you killed unarmed women who did nothing but feed the hungry."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Rain dripped from the eaves. A crow cawed in the distance.
Daniels's smirk faltered, just slightly. His gaze flicked to the officers around him—men already rattled, uncertain. This wasn't the clean victory Beaumont had promised.
Slowly, with exaggerated disdain, he lowered the gun.
"Consider this your warning," he spat. "Next time, there won't be mercy."
He signaled the retreat. Officers shoved commune members to the ground one last time before pulling back. Engines roared as the cars departed, leaving behind wreckage, mud, and silence.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then sobs broke loose. Mothers gathered children. Men helped each other up, bruised and bleeding. Grace collapsed onto a stool, clutching her burned hands.
Aurora knelt in the mud, whispering prayers of comfort, tears streaking her face. Luxe stood rigid, fists trembling, chest burning with rage she couldn't release.
She looked around at the destruction — the trampled garden, the shattered cabin door, the blood smeared in the dirt.
This was what peace had earned them.
Aurora's hand touched her arm. "We survived," she whispered. "That's what matters."
But Luxe's eyes burned with fury. "No. What matters is making sure they never do this again."
Aurora flinched at the edge in her voice.
Around them, the commune gathered, shaken but alive. And in their eyes Luxe saw something shift. Some looked at her with gratitude, others with fear.
The Great Divide had widened.
That night, as lanterns flickered weakly against the darkness, Luxe stood watch at the edge of the fields. Her ribs ached, her body throbbed, but her mind was sharper than ever.
In the distance, beyond the tree line, she thought she saw the faint glow of cigarettes again. Watching. Waiting.
She raised her chin, letting them see her silhouette.
"This isn't over," she whispered into the night. "Not by a long shot."
And somewhere, she knew, Beaumont was smiling.