Sleep had become a stranger to Luxe.
She lay awake long after the lanterns went dark, ribs aching, ears straining for the crunch of boots in the dirt or the distant roar of engines. Each gust of wind set her on edge. Each owl call sounded like a warning.
Aurora slept beside her, breath slow and steady, shawl tangled around her shoulders. Luxe envied her sister's peace, even as she resented it. How could Aurora sleep when the world outside waited to devour them?
At dawn, Luxe rose silently, fastening her boots. She stepped into the chill morning, mist curling over the fields. The bean sprouts pushed through damp soil, fragile but alive.
"They'll trample you again," she muttered, crouching to touch a leaf. "Unless I stop them first."
That afternoon, while Aurora mended clothes with June and Grace, Luxe moved quietly among the others. She didn't call a meeting. She didn't make speeches. She asked.
One by one, she found those whose eyes had burned during the raid, those who had clenched fists instead of fleeing.
"Do you want to feel helpless again?" she asked Elias.
"No." His voice was hard, bitter. "I wanted to fight."
"Then come tonight. Barn after dark."
She asked the same of three others — young men and women who had stood their ground when batons swung. She asked Grace's eldest son, who had been shoved into the dirt and spat on.
By dusk, six had agreed.
The barn smelled of hay and oil, lanterns casting long shadows on the wooden beams. Luxe stood at the center, ribs aching but spirit burning. Around her, six commune members shifted nervously, waiting.
"This isn't about becoming soldiers," Luxe began, voice steady. "It's about surviving. If they come again, we won't cower. We'll be ready."
Elias crossed his arms. "Ready with what? We don't have rifles."
"We don't need rifles yet," Luxe said. She handed out wooden staffs, broom handles, even thick branches. "We need courage. Coordination. The will to stand as one."
The first exercises were clumsy. People swung too wide, stumbled, laughed nervously. Luxe barked corrections, sharp but not cruel.
"Feet apart. Balance your weight. Don't turn your back."
"Hit where it hurts — legs, arms, not just heads."
"Protect each other. Always protect each other."
Sweat gleamed on foreheads. Calluses tore. But slowly, rhythm formed. Six pairs of feet striking the dirt in unison. Six staffs cracking against hay bales with purpose.
For the first time since the raid, Luxe felt a flicker of control.
Halfway through, Aurora appeared in the doorway, shawl wrapped tight, face pale in lantern light. She said nothing at first, only watched as June clumsily swung her staff, Elias grunted with effort, others panted through drills.
Finally Aurora spoke, voice quiet but carrying. "What are you doing?"
The circle froze.
Luxe lowered her staff but didn't flinch. "Teaching them to defend themselves."
Aurora stepped inside, gaze sweeping the faces. "With sticks? Against rifles?"
"It's a start." Luxe's voice was firm. "Better than waiting to be beaten again."
Aurora's eyes glistened. "Or better than proving Beaumont right — that we're violent, dangerous. That we are a cult."
Murmurs spread. Some looked guilty. Others clenched their jaws, unwilling to back down.
Luxe's jaw tightened. "If defending ourselves makes us dangerous, then fine. I'd rather be dangerous than dead."
Aurora shook her head, voice breaking. "And I'd rather live with hope than die proving a point."
She turned and left, shawl trailing behind her like a wound.
Silence hung heavy in the barn until Luxe raised her staff again. "Again," she ordered.
And they obeyed.
That night around the campfire, the divide was visible.
Aurora sat with the children, telling them a story of a shepherd who protected his flock with nothing but kindness. Her voice was soothing, her gestures gentle. Those who leaned toward her vision gathered close, clinging to the comfort she offered.
Luxe sat apart with her circle, hands raw from training, ribs aching. They spoke quietly of drills, of how to hide weapons in plain sight, of where to post lookouts.
The firelight flickered between the two groups, splitting the commune into halves.
Later, as the embers dimmed, Elias approached Luxe. His face was bruised from practice, but his eyes burned with something close to admiration.
"You were right," he muttered. "It felt… good. To fight back, even in practice."
Luxe met his gaze, seeing for the first time not just doubt but hunger. Hunger for strength. Hunger for defiance.
"It felt like taking power back," Elias added.
"It was," Luxe said quietly. "And we'll take more. Piece by piece."
When the circle finally dispersed, Luxe lingered alone in the barn. The lantern flickered low, shadows stretching like specters. She leaned on her staff, breath slow, heart steady.
Outside, cigarette glows winked again in the tree line — Beaumont's eyes, ever watching.
Luxe lifted the staff, testing its weight. It wasn't a rifle. Not yet. But it was something.
"We'll be ready," she whispered into the dark.
And in the silence, the divide between fire and water, fists and open hands, grew deeper still.
The raid had left bruises deeper than the eye could see.
Doors were patched, gardens replanted, children soothed with stories — yet unease clung like a second skin. People jumped at sudden noises. Mothers pulled their children closer when strangers passed the road. Even laughter, when it came, was brittle.
Luxe felt it most of all. The silence after the raid wasn't peace. It was waiting. A predator's pause before striking again.
Each night, as Aurora told stories by the fire, Luxe stood in the shadows, scanning the tree line. Cigarette glows winked back at her, patient and mocking.
They're watching, she thought. And we're nothing but prey unless we change.
She didn't announce her plan. She moved in whispers.
Elias was the first she approached. He was splitting firewood, each swing of the axe sharp with frustration. Luxe waited until his breath grew ragged, then asked, "Do you want to feel helpless again?"
He froze, sweat dripping down his temple. His jaw tightened. "No."
"Then come tonight," Luxe said. "Barn after dark."
She moved on, finding Grace's eldest son repairing a fence. His knuckles were still swollen from the raid. "Do you want to stand by if they take your mother again?" she asked.
His grip on the hammer whitened. "Never."
"Barn after dark," she repeated.
By dusk, six had agreed. They came not because Luxe demanded it, but because fear had festered into anger, and anger into need.
The barn smelled of hay and old wood, lanterns casting yellow pools of light. Six people stood uncertain, clutching broom handles, staffs, and branches Luxe had gathered.
Elias. Grace's son, Daniel. Two young women — June, barely sixteen, and Ruth, who still carried bruises from being shoved during the raid. And two men whose names Luxe had only recently learned, both drifters who had found refuge here.
Their eyes carried the same mixture: fear, hope, desperation.
Luxe stepped into the center, ribs aching but voice firm. "This isn't about becoming soldiers. It's about making sure no one drags us into the dirt again. If they come back, we won't cower. We'll stand."
She handed out the makeshift weapons. "Feet apart. Balance your weight. If you lose balance, you lose the fight."
They mimicked her stance, awkward and uneven.
"Swing where it hurts," she said, demonstrating a sharp jab with her staff. "Legs, ribs, arms. Don't waste strength on heads unless you have no choice."
The first attempts were clumsy. Staffs clattered, feet tangled, someone stumbled into a hay bale. Nervous laughter rippled.
Luxe barked corrections, sharp but steady. "Again. Keep your guard up. Protect each other."
Slowly, rhythm formed. Six pairs of feet striking dirt in unison. Six staffs cracking against hay bales. Sweat gleamed, bruises bloomed, but resolve grew.
For the first time since the raid, Luxe felt a flicker of control.
Halfway through, the barn door creaked. Aurora stood framed in lantern light, shawl wrapped tight. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with hurt.
The circle faltered, staffs lowering.
Aurora stepped inside, her voice soft but heavy. "What are you doing?"
Luxe met her gaze without flinching. "Teaching them to survive."
Aurora's eyes swept the room — June's flushed face, Daniel's trembling hands, Elias's clenched jaw. "With sticks? Against rifles?"
"It's a start," Luxe said. "Better than waiting to be beaten again."
Aurora's voice broke. "Or better than proving Beaumont right? That we're dangerous? That we are a cult?"
A silence fell, sharp as a blade.
Elias shifted, jaw tight. "We can't just pray and hope, Aurora. Hope didn't stop them last time."
Aurora turned to him, tears bright. "And swinging sticks won't stop bullets. But kindness might stop neighbors from hating us. Might stop the city from turning its back."
Luxe stepped forward, staff in hand. "If defending ourselves makes us dangerous, then fine. I'd rather be dangerous than dead."
Aurora shook her head, her voice raw. "And I'd rather live with hope than die proving a point."
She turned and left, shawl trailing like a wound.
The circle looked at Luxe, uncertain.
Luxe lifted her staff again. "Again."
And they obeyed.
The drills stretched late into the night. Palms blistered, arms shook, sweat dripped. But there was fire in their eyes.
Daniel managed to disarm Elias once, and laughter broke through — the first genuine laugh Luxe had heard since the raid. Even June, small and awkward, found rhythm in her swings.
By the end, they collapsed onto hay bales, panting but proud.
"You'll bruise," Luxe said. "Good. Bruises harden into strength. Next time, you'll hold your ground longer."
Elias leaned forward, eyes burning. "It felt… good. To fight back, even in practice."
Luxe met his gaze. "It felt like taking power back."
He nodded slowly. "Yes. Power."
Around the campfire, the divide grew visible.
Aurora sat with the children, telling a story of a shepherd who saved his flock with kindness. Her voice was steady, her smile warm, her listeners leaning close. Those who clung to her vision sat near, soaking in her peace.
Luxe sat with her circle, hands raw, ribs aching. They spoke quietly of hiding weapons, posting lookouts, signaling danger. Their laughter was sharper, edged with defiance.
The fire cast twin shadows — one of comfort, one of resistance.
Later, when the others slept, Luxe lingered in the barn. The lantern burned low, shadows stretching like ghosts across the walls. She leaned on her staff, breath steady, heart heavy.
She thought of Aurora's tears, of the softness in her sister's voice. She thought of the cigarette glows in the trees, patient as wolves.
Her ribs ached with every breath. But inside, something else ached more — the knowledge that every step she took to protect them pulled her further from Aurora's world of compassion.
Still, she whispered to the shadows: "We'll be ready."
Outside, the cigarette glows winked again. Watching. Waiting.
The sprouts in the garden trembled in the night wind. Some would wither. Some would grow strong.
So too would the commune.
But whether it grew into a family or an army — that choice was slipping further from their hands.