Summon

The café had a different energy at night.

The usual daytime crowd workers grabbing a quick meal, merchants counting their earnings had been replaced by a quieter, more observant clientele.

Some men sat in groups, speaking in hushed tones about politics, the army, or the price of bread.

Others sat alone, nursing their wine, listening more than they spoke.

Étienne Moreau had learned a long time ago that a place like this wasn't just for drinking. It was for listening.

He sat at his usual table near the window, his coat draped over the back of his chair.

The wine in his glass was dark and rich, the bottle beside it half-empty.

Across from him sat the woman from the café, her expression unreadable as she rested her chin on her hand.

"You're early this time," she said, watching him with a faint smirk.

"You almost sound disappointed," Moreau replied, taking a sip of his wine.

She shrugged. "I thought soldiers liked to keep people waiting. Or maybe just officers do."

"Only when there's a reason for it."

"And tonight?"

Moreau exhaled, glancing out the window.

The streets outside were quiet, but in the distance, he could still hear the occasional burst of shouting some political argument, maybe a drunk nationalist yelling about the Republic.

The usual.

"Tonight," he said finally, "I wanted to remind myself that the world outside the barracks still exists."

She studied him for a moment, then reached for the wine bottle and poured herself a glass. "So you do know how to relax. I was starting to think you were just another officer with a stick up his ass."

Moreau chuckled. "Most of them are. I try to be different."

"And why is that?"

He considered the question, swirling the wine in his glass. "Because I don't want to be like them."

Her gaze didn't waver. "And what are they like?"

Moreau leaned back slightly. "Blind. Stubborn. Convinced that because they won the last war, they'll win the next one the same way."

She smirked, tilting her head. "So you're saying we're going to lose?"

"No," Moreau said. "I'm saying we don't have to. But we will if people like Clément get their way."

At the mention of the name, something in her expression shifted.

"Clément," she repeated. "The major who doesn't like you very much?"

Moreau raised an eyebrow. "You've been asking around."

She smiled, sipping her wine. "Like I said last time, people talk when they drink. And your name has come up more than once."

Moreau exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I hope they're saying good things."

"That depends on who's talking," she said, setting her glass down. "Some of your fellow officers think you're arrogant. A troublemaker. Someone who doesn't respect 'tradition.'"

"And what do you think?"

She studied him for a moment before replying. "I think you're a man who knows he's right but hasn't figured out how to prove it yet."

Moreau chuckled, shaking his head. "You make it sound like I have a choice."

"Don't you?"

He hesitated, then shook his head again. "Not really. If I stay quiet, nothing changes. If I push too hard, I get crushed. So I walk a fine line and hope it holds."

She tilted her head slightly. "And if it doesn't?"

Moreau met her gaze. "Then I find another way."

The conversation was interrupted by the café door swinging open.

The relaxed atmosphere shifted instantly as Renaud strode inside, his usual smirk replaced by something more serious.

Moreau immediately knew something was wrong.

Renaud wasn't drunk.

He wasn't grinning like an idiot, ready to make some joke about Moreau sneaking off to see a woman.

He was focused. Sharp. Urgent.

Moreau set his glass down as Renaud approached. "You look like hell," he said casually.

"You need to come with me," Renaud said, ignoring the remark.

Moreau frowned. "What happened?"

"You've been summoned," Renaud said. "Paris. Immediately."

Moreau felt his stomach tighten. "By who?"

"The disciplinary committee."

The entire café went quiet.

The woman across from him raised an eyebrow, watching the exchange with mild curiosity. "Disciplinary committee? That doesn't sound good."

Moreau exhaled slowly, his mind already racing.

Clément.

This was him.

Renaud pulled a folded letter from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the table. "It's official. They're calling you in for 'insubordination' and 'improper conduct.'"

Moreau picked up the letter and skimmed it.

The language was vague, carefully worded to be just threatening enough.

A summons to the military offices in Paris, signed by the committee's chairman.

No details.

Just a demand for his presence.

"This is bullshit," Renaud muttered, crossing his arms. "Clément must have pulled strings. He couldn't shut you down in Verdun, so he's bringing you to Paris to do it."

Moreau set the letter down carefully, rubbing his temple.

It was a move straight out of the army's political playbook.

If they couldn't get rid of him through reports, they would bury him in bureaucracy, accusations, and vague disciplinary actions.

The woman leaned back in her chair, watching the scene unfold. "You must be more important than I thought."

Moreau smirked. "Or just more of a problem."

She tilted her head slightly. "And what happens if they decide you really are a problem?"

Moreau glanced down at the letter again, then back at her. "Then I find another way."

She smiled slightly, raising her glass. "You really don't know how to quit, do you?"

"No," Moreau admitted. "I don't."

Renaud sighed, rubbing his face. "Alright, lovebirds, as much as I'd love to let you two keep flirting, we need to move. The train leaves in an hour."

Moreau chuckled, standing up and adjusting his coat. "Don't worry, Renaud. You're still my favorite."

Renaud rolled his eyes. "Lucky me."

The woman stayed seated, watching them with that same knowing expression. "Be careful in Paris, Capitaine. I have a feeling you're going to need all the luck you can get."

Moreau nodded once. "I'll be back."

She smirked. "I'll believe it when I see it."

As Moreau followed Renaud out into the night, the warmth of the café faded behind him, replaced by the cold, quiet air of the empty streets.

Paris was waiting.

And so was Clément.