Three days passed since the raid.
The commune still wore its scars. Splintered doors leaned against cabins, waiting for repair. Muddy footprints stained floors, reminders of boots that had trampled through their sanctuary. Children startled at sudden noises, clutching their mothers tighter.
Aurora walked through it all like a balm, shawl wrapped close, hair damp with morning dew. She stopped to help June mend a torn hem, to soothe a child still plagued by nightmares, to kneel in the garden and coax wilted sprouts upright again. Her presence was quiet, patient, like rain soaking into parched earth.
Luxe moved differently. Her stride was sharp, eyes scanning constantly. She carried wood for barricades, hammered nails with grim focus, checked and rechecked their meager food stores. Her body throbbed with aches from bruises, but vigilance hardened her spine.
Where Aurora whispered comfort, Luxe whispered war. And both whispers were heard.
Grace Chen organized a work group to rebuild what had been broken. Hammers echoed against wood, saws bit through planks, nails clinked in jars.
Aurora joined them, sleeves rolled up, hands blistered from the saw handle. She laughed gently when she slipped, brushing sawdust from her skirt. "I'm learning," she admitted. "Slowly."
Others smiled, encouraged. Aurora made hard work feel light.
Meanwhile, Luxe worked at the edge of the barn with Elias, though the tension between them still buzzed sharp. She drove nails into thick boards, reinforcing walls. He muttered as he worked, voice low but cutting.
"You think wood will stop rifles?"
Luxe didn't pause. "It'll slow them. Give us seconds. Seconds save lives."
"Or provoke them further."
Her hammer struck harder than necessary. "We're already provoked, Elias. They won't stop because we look harmless. They'll stop when they realize we can't be crushed."
He didn't answer, but his silence spoke louder than words.
That evening, Aurora gathered members in the barn. The lantern light glowed warm, casting her in gold. She held up a hand-written flyer.
"I spoke with Mrs. Whitaker in town," she announced softly. "She runs the soup kitchen on Folsom Street. They're overwhelmed. I told her we'd help."
Murmurs spread. Luxe crossed her arms at the back.
Aurora continued. "We'll cook, we'll serve, we'll share what little we have. When people see us feeding the hungry, helping the poor, they'll know Beaumont's lies aren't true."
A young woman nodded eagerly. "That's good. If the city sees us helping, maybe the police won't harass us again."
Others muttered uncertainly. Some looked toward Luxe, waiting for her response.
She finally spoke, voice firm. "Feeding strangers won't stop bullets."
Aurora met her gaze. "But it might stop neighbors from turning their backs when the bullets come."
The barn was quiet. Two visions hanging in the air like storm clouds.
Later that night, while most slept, Luxe moved in silence. She carried tools to the old root cellar at the edge of the property. With steady hands, she began hollowing out hidden spaces between stone walls. Places to store food, blankets, even weapons scavenged from abandoned farms.
She worked until sweat soaked her shirt, until her arms ached. Her ribs burned from the healing bruise, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through.
Every strike of the hammer echoed like a vow: Never again will they catch us unprepared.
When she finally emerged, lantern dim in her hand, the night air felt colder. She spotted movement near the tree line again — faint glows of cigarettes, watchers.
Luxe raised the lantern, letting its light fall across her face. She wanted them to see her. To know she was not afraid.
But inside, her chest tightened with dread.
Aurora found her at dawn, dirt on her hands, shadows under her eyes.
"What were you doing?" Aurora asked quietly.
"Making sure we survive next time," Luxe replied.
Aurora's brows knit. "By digging tunnels like a fugitive? By hiding food like a thief?"
"By preparing," Luxe snapped. "Because peace won't protect us. Because your soup kitchens won't stop raids."
Aurora's eyes glistened. "And what will it stop us from becoming? Luxe… if all we do is prepare for war, we'll forget why we built this place in the first place."
Luxe turned away, chest heaving. "I don't care what we become, as long as we're free."
Aurora's voice cracked. "I care. Freedom without compassion isn't freedom. It's just another cage."
The silence between them cut deeper than any words.
By midday, whispers spread through the commune.
"She's building defenses," one said. "Hiding food, making plans."
"She's provoking more trouble," another muttered.
"Maybe Aurora's right. Maybe kindness is safer."
But some eyes lit with fierce hope. "Luxe is strong. She'll keep us alive. She won't bow."
The campfire circle that night was quieter than usual. Music was muted, laughter strained. Members sat in clusters, glancing between Luxe and Aurora as if forced to choose.
The Great Divide, once subtle, was now spoken aloud in murmurs when they thought the sisters couldn't hear.
That night, Aurora sat with the children, singing softly. Luxe stood watch outside, hand resting on a hammer like a weapon.
The sprouts in the garden trembled in the wind, fragile but upright.
Two sisters, two visions. A commune balanced between hope and survival, compassion and defiance.
And beyond the tree line, Beaumont's eyes never closed.
The commune wore silence like a shroud.
Hammers rang as cabins were patched, saws rasped through planks, but there was no chatter, no laughter. Even the children were subdued, trailing after their mothers like shadows. The raid had stolen something invisible yet vital.
Aurora felt it with every step. She moved gently through the camp, shawl tight around her shoulders though the morning was warm. A toddler tugged at her skirt, pointing to a doll whose head had been cracked during the raid. Aurora crouched, smoothing the child's hair.
"I'll fix her," she promised, voice soft as water. "She'll be whole again. Just like us."
The child smiled faintly, clutching Aurora's hand. But as Aurora rose, she saw Luxe standing at the edge of the field, eyes hard, posture sharp. Her sister didn't see healing in broken things. She saw threats in every crack.
The sound of Luxe's hammer echoed through the barn. She worked with Elias and two others, reinforcing the walls with heavy beams. Sweat ran down her temple, darkening the collar of her shirt.
"We need crossbars here," she instructed. "If they force the doors again, these will hold longer."
Elias muttered, driving a nail too hard. "You think wood will stop men with guns?"
Luxe didn't glance at him. "It'll buy us seconds. Seconds save lives."
He sneered. "Or provoke them further."
The others shifted uncomfortably. Luxe slammed another nail, the sound like a gunshot. "We're already provoked. You want to sit and wait for them to come back? Bend your head and hope they don't strike too hard?"
Elias dropped the hammer onto the bench with a clang. "I want to live. And you'll get us killed pretending we can fight men who own the city."
The barn quieted. Luxe turned, meeting his glare. "If we're going to die, we die standing. Not crawling."
No one spoke after that. But whispers carried later — about Luxe's fire, about Elias's doubts, about the thin edge between courage and recklessness.
That evening, Aurora lit lanterns in the barn and gathered as many as would listen. Children sat cross-legged near the front, eyes wide. Adults clustered behind, weary faces illuminated in flickers of light.
Aurora held a flyer, her handwriting neat. "The soup kitchen in town is overwhelmed," she said softly. "I told them we would help."
A ripple spread through the crowd. Some looked confused. Others nodded.
"We'll share what we have, cook meals, serve side by side with them," Aurora continued. "When people see our hands feeding instead of fighting, they'll know Beaumont's lies are just that. Lies."
A woman in the crowd murmured, "It might show we're not criminals…"
Another frowned. "Or make us targets in town, too."
Aurora's smile was gentle. "Love disarms more than fists. If we give what little we have, hearts may turn in our favor."
From the shadows at the back, Luxe's voice cut through, hard as stone. "Hearts don't stop bullets."
Aurora didn't falter. She met her sister's gaze, voice steady. "But hearts might stop neighbors from handing us over when the bullets come."
The barn fell into heavy silence.
Long after the lanterns were doused and Aurora's voice faded into lullabies for the children, Luxe moved silently toward the root cellar. A lantern swung in her hand, light bobbing across damp stone walls.
She dragged crates into corners, hammered boards into hidden alcoves, stashed dried beans and blankets where eyes wouldn't see. The cellar smelled of earth and sweat, the work sharp with purpose.
Each nail driven was a vow: Never again. Never unprepared.
Her ribs ached, bruises dark beneath her shirt, but she ignored the pain.
When she emerged, the night air was sharp. Across the field, faint red glows flickered in the tree line. Cigarettes. Beaumont's watchers.
Luxe lifted the lantern high, letting her face be seen. I know you're there. I'm not afraid.
But her heart pounded like a war drum.
Aurora found her at sunrise, dirt on her hands, shadows beneath her eyes.
"What were you doing?" Aurora asked softly.
"Making sure we survive," Luxe said.
Aurora's brows knit. "By hiding food like thieves?"
"By preparing." Luxe's tone was sharp. "Peace won't protect us. Your soup kitchens won't stop raids."
Aurora stepped closer, her voice breaking. "And your hammer and nails won't stop us from becoming the very thing we fled."
Luxe turned away, chest heaving. "I don't care what we become, as long as we're free."
Aurora's eyes glistened. "Freedom without compassion isn't freedom. It's just another kind of cage."
Their silence afterward was heavier than shouting.
By midday, whispers rippled through the commune like a tide.
"She's building defenses in secret."
"She's preparing for war."
"She'll bring more raids on our heads."
"No — she's strong. She'll save us when kindness fails."
By the fire that night, the music was hesitant. Jazz's trumpet notes sounded brittle, laughter thin. People shifted, glancing between Luxe and Aurora, as if waiting to see which star to follow.
Two sisters, two visions.
And between them, a commune split like cracked glass.
That night, Aurora sang the children to sleep, her voice carrying soft into the dark. Luxe stood at the edge of the fields, hammer in hand like a weapon, eyes fixed on the tree line.
In the garden, sprouts trembled in the night breeze — fragile, defiant, unaware of storms still gathering.