Paris, 01:12 AM.
The Élysée Palace.
Only a few rooms flickered with warm light.
Moreau waited.
His coat was slung over a chair, sleeves rolled to the forearms.
He looked at the clock again.
01:16.
He didn’t pace.
He didn’t fidget.
He simply stood near the window, staring at the silhouettes of the Grand Palais rooftops and thinking how easily the entire country could’ve collapsed had a single column been delayed, a speech fumbled, or the President betrayed them.
Footsteps.
Slow.
The door opened.
General Maurice Galin stepped into the room, his coat buttoned, his expression unreadable.
He didn’t remove his hat.
He didn’t salute.
Moreau didn’t either.
They regarded one another across the long table in silence.
Moreau gestured toward the chairs. "Please."
Galin walked to the opposite end and sat down stiffly
"The last ti we saw each other, General without any poltics" Moreau began, "you ca to inspect the PAP gun trials."
Galin’s face barely shifted. "Yes. And I still believe that thing could change urban warfare."
Moreau allowed himself the thinnest smile. "At the ti, I was a field Major."
He paused.
Then added.
"Today I am the head of state of this Republic."
He leaned forward, voice steady. "So, General. What are your feelings?"
Galin didn’t answer imdiately.
His hands rested on the table.
The skin of his knuckles was worn and dry
Finally, he looked up.
"I’ve been addressed by many titles this week. Minister, General, Marshal."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"But I will address you as Major Moreau until I get a satisfactory answer to a single question."
Moreau’s lips twitched. "Ask."
Galin’s eyes locked onto his like bayonets. "What are your ambitions?"
The room went still.
Galin leaned back. "You could claim this entire thing was retaliation. That it began when the Chamber turned against you, or when your life was threatened. But I don’t believe that. I’ve been observing. Closely."
He continued, voice lower now.
"Since last autumn, I’ve seen you build. Slowly. Quietly. You deployed Renaud across the countryside. Built contacts in Lyon. Courted factory captains. Planted old comrades into key regints. I saw your na appear on telegrams that never reached official record."
Moreau sat still.
Galin’s tone never wavered. "I saw the ten n. The shadow command. The sa ones guarding you in Paris now 50,000 troops answering not to the War Ministry, but to you."
Moreau blinked.
Galin had known.
All of it.
The deception.
The buildup.
The secret loyalties.
And yet he’d done nothing.
"Why?" Moreau asked, almost in a whisper. "If you knew everything... why let it happen?"
Galin sat in silence.
Then, with a tired breath, he said.
"Because I’m tired, Major. Tired of watching this Republic bleed itself on speeches and slogans. Tired of the generals pretending they can hold the Maginot Line with paper instead of iron. Tired of a system that demands loyalty from n who no longer believe in it."
He paused, then said, "So I ask again. What is your ambition?"
Moreau looked down at the table, his fingers brushing a edge.
Then he spoke.
"I want to stop Germany before it becos unstoppable."
His voice was low.
"I want France to stop folding in on itself. I want to end the infighting, the backroom betrayal, the paralysis. I want us to be strong not in parades, but in steel and vision. Because I’ve seen what’s coming. And you’ve seen it too."
Galin stared at him.
"If Germany cos through Belgium again," Moreau said, "we won’t stop them. You know that. Not unless we rebuild from the command structure up."
"And at what cost?" Galin asked.
"At any," Moreau replied.
Another silence.
Galin rose from his seat, slow but precise.
He stood at the table, then stepped back.
"If that is your ambition, which I pray remains true..." He raised his chin.
"Then I accept any punishnt you see fit."
Moreau’s brows drew together.
Galin continued. "You led a revolution. I remained neutral. For that, I stand ready to be relieved, court-martialed, or imprisoned."
Then Galin saluted.
It was sharp, unflinching.
"Sir."
Moreau blinked.
Then slowly, he rose from his own seat.
There was no triumph in his expression only respect.
"No, sir," he said quietly. "There will be no punishnt."
He stepped forward and returned the salute.
"As of this mont, you are reinstated as Commander-in-Chief of the French Ard Forces. You will answer only to ."
Galin dropped his hand.
He smiled a rare thing for a man carved in battlefield stone.
"You point the direction," he said, "and I will cut the Germans."
They stood for a mont in mutual silence, not as rivals, but as two different types of soldiers who had chosen the sa end.
They shook hands not quickly, not in ceremony, but firmly.
A pact, not of legality, but of shared will.
As Galin turned to leave, Moreau called after him.
"One thing."
Galin paused at the doorway.
Moreau lit a cigarette, the fla briefly illuminating his face. "Why didn’t you warn them?"
Galin looked over his shoulder. "Because I wasn’t sure until the last hour that you’d succeed. And when I was sure... I didn’t want to stop you."
He nodded once and disappeared into the hallway.
The door clicked shut.
Moreau stared into the fire for a while.
He inhaled, letting the tobacco sting his throat and fill the air.
The last variable was now under control.
With Galin, the entire French military was unified at least for now.
His loyalty was a keystone.
The officers who’d waited in silence the undecided, the frightened, the loyal to routine rather than ideology would fall into line now.
Moreau stepped to the window.
He exhaled.
Even though he controls France, reality is that cracks haven’t been repaired, only fixed temporarily.
The mont Germany or any other countries throws water it will break away.
Flooding this republic with the sa fate.
But he knows one thing.
Tonight, Galin had chosen.
Tomorrow, the rest would follow.
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