LESSON I: A BROKEN RANK IS AS GOOD AS A BROKEN BLADE—HOLD YOUR GROUND.

My Dearest Celina,

I pray this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I write to you from a quiet corner of a bustling inn, where the air is dense and punctuated by the clinks of glasses and the chatter of travelers. It is strange to feel such stillness amidst the storm of my current endeavours, but it is of the utmost necessity for me to steal this moment to think of you, and our son.

This war stretches long and hard, fourteen years and counting. The mission before us is as treacherous as the roads that brought us here, yet I find courage in knowing that the cause is just. The King's enemies are cunning, their plans woven like spiderwebs across the countryside, and we must tread carefully to avoid entanglement. It is the nights that I find the hardest, Celina, for the fire's warmth is but a poor imitation of yours.

Clovis and Chevalier inquire after your health, and ask you the great favour that you might pass on their love to their own wives and to their respective children, Toré and Delphine. They speak of them often in the quiet moments between our tasks, when the weight of duty is momentarily replaced by the ache of longing. Clovis's face softens when he recalls Toré's understanding of the nature of his work. "That boy will be greater than I, someday," Clovis said just last night, and a rare smile seemed to light his tired features.

Chevalier, on the other hand, wears his love for Delphine like armour. "She's more fearless than a battalion," he says to me as we watch dusk set into the sky. He laughs, but you and I are both knowledgeable enough to know it is a hollow one chocked with the weight of a father's weariness, for what parent is not cautious of the world that waits beyond their reach? The laughter may rise, but it falters, carried off like smoke on the wind, leaving behind the raw truth: a parent's love is both shield and burden, a relentless hope that their child's courage be not tested before it is time.

He spoke of her defiance when a neighbour scolded her for climbing an old oak tree, her face set in unyielding determination. "She told them she wasn't afraid of heights, nor of falling, only of never learning how to get back up." And he laughs again, Celina, head in his hands as though he does not know whether this will be her undoing or her making.

I think of their children when I think of Jules, for it is the innocence of youth that makes this fight worth enduring. I wonder if they miss the warmth of the men who have been called away to serve a cause too great to ignore. Yet, they deserve a France where they can laugh without fear, dream without restraint, and love without loss. I believe when I was younger and more foolish, it was glory that I sought. Now I have found this greater purpose.

If I should not return, let it never be said that I left without loving you fiercely, without cherishing every moment fate allowed us. But I am no fool, Celina. I will not let death find me easily. "Etienne", you said, the last time I bid you goodbye, "return not because you must, but because you will." Those words have lived in my soul ever since, and it is my oath to you that I will.

To protect King and country, and to return to you, are the two oaths I will always live to uphold, honour bound. When this is over, I will come back to you, and I will not let go again for a very long time.

I am bound to you by more than vows or the laws of man. Let not logic nor reason taint this ink: you are the breath in my lungs, the blood in my veins, and the fire that sustains me.

Yours, in life and beyond,
Étienne de Riviere

"Always writing, and writing, and writing, Étienne," a voice pierces through the hum of the inn, not mocking, but good-natured and sincere, like the familiar clash of steel meeting steel. The young musketeer glances up from his letter, giving a careful flick of the quill at the end of his last stroke, to see Lorcan Clovis standing before him. His best friend and his fellow man in arms, someone with the unshakeable confidence of a man who'd lived through enough to know how much it would take for him to be broken. Perhaps they all thought themselves invincible in some capacity. Étienne did not think this such a terrible thing to believe. Lorcan's smile was subtle, his gloved hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, as though he'd strolled straight out of a painting of Saint George and the Dragon. 

"Love letters again?" The man pressed, sliding into the chair beside Étienne at the bar and reaching for the pitcher of watered-down wine, pouring himself a cup. "Or are you composing a sonnet for the King himself? You do seem to have a flair for the theatrics, as ever. I've always thought you'd make a rather talented poet if you weren't so set on serving France in all her glory." Lorcan gave a satisfied sigh as he leaned against the back of his chair and ran a hand through his hair, a fond gleam in his gaze as he topped up his comrade's cup.

Étienne smirked, folding the letter with deliberate care. "And you seem to have a flair for interrupting, though I would not deign to refute your kind compliments," he chuckled with a wink lacking in humility but filled with an abundance of brotherhood. "You're back soon. Were it not from the new scar grazing your jaw, I'd have thought you never left. Were you not chasing shadows in the market square?"

"I was," Lorcan replied slowly, rubbing his jaw with a more serious expression settling onto his handsome features. "Caught a shadow, too. Fought me like the spirit of Lucifer lived in him. Chevalier's outside now, wrangling the innkeeper's boy for details on the men we're after. I'd wager he's about three pints away from recruiting the poor lad into the Musketeers." 

It was then that Lucien Chevalier came swaggering into the inn, his footsteps unmistakable as he draped his arms around his two friends, leaning forward with a grin. "I see you've been writing, de Riviere. Tell me: how many words does it take to tell a woman you miss her? Five hundred? A thousand?" He teased, as was the friendship between the two men. Both originally countrymen and having paved their own way by pure fire and ambition, they were fast friends and it was not uncommon for the Musketeers to add an element of jest that lightened the load of the otherwise heavy business they'd be dealing with.

"O-ho, you'd know about that, wouldn't you, Lucia?" Étienne grinned back, getting to his feet, having nursed a mug of something far stronger than wine, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He was the youngest of the trio having just reached twenty seven, though they were all in a similar age range and were truly more brothers than anything else. "If my recollection serves true, a certain Lucien Chevalier fell so deeply for Mademoiselle Allard, that he swore he didn't know sight until the day he saw her!"

At this, Étienne exaggeratedly drew a red rose from a floral display, presenting it to Lorcan as he swooned into his arms, drawing laughter and applause from the inn's crowd, and a whistle or two from nearby tables. Lorcan simply rolled his eyes, but took the rose all the same, tucking it behind his ear as he dropped his friend fast enough that he would have fallen to the wooden floorboards, if he wasn't spirited and up on his feet in a split second, leaning against a wooden beam with a bow towards the audience.

"Hah! I wouldn't dream of denying it," Lucien roared with laughter, his voice carrying through the inn with the warmth of a hearth. "Colette is a vision sent by the heavens themselves! Though, if memory serves, Étienne is the one who serenaded a young Mademoiselle de Césars under the wrong window and nearly woke her father instead."

The inn erupted into more laughter, and Étienne held up his hands in mock surrender. "An honest mistake! And if you hadn't been so drunk you couldn't tell left from right, you'd have warned me before I hit that window with a perfectly good lute," he chuckled, turning onto Lorcan now also. "Lest we leave you out of the fun, I don't think any of us will be forgetting your courtship of Emily," he began with a sly grin, his tone practically dripping with mischief.

Lorcan, who had been pouring himself another cup of wine, paused mid-pour and groaned. "Not this again. Haven't I suffered enough being in the company of the two of you?"

Lucien leaned forward now, his eyes gleaming with delight as he climbed up onto the bar counter with the grandiose of a play narrator, offering a hand to Étienne who jumped up to join him. "Ah, but it's a tale worth telling, isn't it? The great Musketeer Lorcan Clovis, brought to his knees by love—and a particularly irritable goose!"

The room's attention shifted entirely to Lorcan, who shook his head, resigned to his fate. Étienne stooped down to ruffle the man's hair, grin widening as he straightened. "You see, it all began at the riverbank, where our gallant friend here decided to impress Emily with a grand declaration of love. A bouquet in one hand, his best jacket freshly brushed—why, he looked every inch the romantic hero, as Chevalier and I could assure you," he nodded with an exaggerated gesture to Lucien, who gave his just-as-exaggerated assent.

Lorcan groaned louder, burying his warm face in his hands, though there was that slight smile he couldn't help that gave a quiet assent to the theatrics the men were playing out. "Stop. I beg you."

But Lucien was already laughing too hard to stop. "And just as he opened his mouth to recite—what was it? A line from Corneille?—a goose from the farm next door took offense at his presence. Charged at him like it was protecting the crown jewels!"

Étienne jumped in, unable to resist. "Clovis here stumbled back, trying to fend it off with the floral arrangement—heroic, really. But the goose was relentless! Chased him straight into the river. Emily, of course, watched the whole thing from a safe distance, laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. And so did we!"

At this point, the inn was in uproarious laughter, the patrons slapping their tables and wiping tears from their eyes. Lorcan was trying not to smile at the memory of it all, giving his comrades a stern look. "These are the same gentleman who swore to stand by me, all of you remember!" He added on with a grin, jokingly swiping at his friends, causing Lucien to almost trip over Étienne, which only made the uproar all the louder.

"And the best part," Étienne continued after steadying himself, barely able to keep a straight face, "is that when he finally crawled out of the water, soaking wet and with feathers clinging to his uniform, he still managed to stammer, 'I—I brought you flowers!"

Lorcan threw up his hands up in mock indignation. "And she married me anyway, didn't she?" He pointed out triumphantly, his tone still playful although there was clear love and pride in his steady gaze.

Lucien raised his cup in a toast. "To Emily, then, for having the patience of a saint and the sense of humour of a rogue!" The sentiment was echoed by the crowd, who lifted their drinks with cheers, and Lorcan grinned, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head.

"Ah, the glorious escapades of youth. Aren't we three men lucky to be blessed with our wives? If only the King's enemies trembled as much as the hearts of Paris's women do at the sight of us," Lorcan mused, sipping his wine.

Étienne shot him a wry grin. "A pity, then, that the King's enemies carry muskets instead of bouquets."

The jovial mood was cut short when a loud crash sounded from outside—a barrel tipping over, perhaps, but the tension it brought was immediate. Lucien's hand was already at his sword, and Étienne felt the shift in the air like a seasoned hunter catching the scent of danger. "Trouble," Lorcan frowned, his eyes sharpening as he took in the room with a practiced sweep.

Lucien cracked his knuckles. "Finally. I was starting to think the arms dealers had grown bored of us."

Étienne adjusted his cloak with a flourish and fixed his hat onto his head, motioning for the others to follow. "Let's not keep them waiting, then," he murmured as the three of them moved as one, stepping into the cool night air with the grace of men who had lived too long by the sword to stumble now.

The innkeeper's boy stood a few paces away, his face pale as he pointed toward the shadows looming at the end of the street. "They're loading a cart," he stammered. "Big men, armed. Didn't see their faces, but—"

"Enough," Étienne said gently, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You've done well. Go back inside and lock the doors." As the boy scampered off gratefully, the three men exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. They'd danced this dangerous waltz many a time before.

They approached the alley in measured silence, the faint clink of metal and muffled voices growing louder as they drew near, and Étienne held up a hand to halt his comrades. He peered around the corner, studying the two men loading crates into a covered cart while another stood guard, his musket slung across his back. Étienne leaned back, his voice low. "Three of them. Two busy, one armed. We'll need to make it quick."

Lucien grinned. "Quick's my specialty."

Lorcan rolled his eyes. "Quick and noisy."

"Let's aim for quick and clean," Étienne interjected, drawing his rapier. "Clovis, flank left. Chevalier, take the guard. I'll handle the loaders."

With a nod, they moved into position, their movements fluid and precise. Étienne stepped into the open first, his blade glinting in the moonlight as he swung the rapier at his side, leaning against the wall. "Bonsoir, messieurs," he called, his voice smooth but authoritative. "Care to explain what's in those crates?"

The men had froze, their hands going to their weapons. But before they could act, Lucien was upon the guard, disarming him with a sharp twist of his wrist, pinning him to the floor. Lorcan darted out from the shadows, sword flashing as he drove the two loaders back toward the cart. Étienne pressed forward, his blade finding the space between one man's guard and forcing him to drop his dagger, while the second lunged at him with a crowbar, Étienne sidestepping him smoothly as he caught the man's wrist, twisting it until he yelped in pain.

The fight was over almost as quickly as it began. The three musketeers stood triumphant, their captives subdued and tied to the cart's wheels. It was almost too easy—but how much more complicated could things get?

"Let us see what our dear friends have been smuggling," Étienne said, prying open one of the crates with the tip of his sword. Inside, rows of muskets gleamed in the moonlight, along with powder and shot, enough to arm a small battalion. It was what Monsieur de Treveille had sent them after, amidst a swirl of rumours in the capital that there was a trail of black-market dealers smuggling arms out of France and into enemy hands. Lucien let out a low whistle, and Lorcan clapped Étienne on the back.

"Another victory for the King's men, then," Lorcan grinned.

Lucien laughed, slinging an arm around Étienne's shoulders. "And for the poets, of course."

Étienne smirked, glancing at his comrades. "For France, always."

It was a victory, but there was something off. A feeling Étienne couldn't shake, like the faint scent of smoke long after the fire had burned out. He crouched down beside the man who seemed to be in charge, the one he'd disarmed first. The man's face was pale, his eyes darting between the three musketeers. "You seem to be the one calling the shots here," Étienne spoke coldly, his voice like velvet over steel. "Who do you work for?"

The man swallowed hard, but remained silent. Lorcan approached and leaned in closer, his tone sharp. "Speak. Or would you prefer we let the King's Justice loosen your tongue?

The threat worked. The man looked half alive now, like he had seen a ghost. His own, maybe. He averted his gaze quickly, trying to hide behind his straw-coloured hair. "I cannot," he muttered, his voice little more than a terrified whisper, like he had been reduced to infancy. "He'll kill me. Us. All of us."

Lorcan exchanged a glance with Étienne, who rolled his eyes dramatically. "You think your life is safer in his hands than ours?" Étienne drawled, his blade catching the moonlight again as he twirled it lazily. "How charmingly naive."

The man hesitated, his gaze darting between the two men. Finally, he sighed in defeat, the men tied up beside him long knocked out and unable to assist him here. "He's someone high up. Inside the palace. I don't know his name. I only get orders through intermediaries." Étienne grimaced at this. It was worse than he had thought: arms dealing was bad enough, but a traitor in the palace? That was treason of the highest order. "He... he pays well, but he's ruthless. He controls more than just arms. Information, spies, contraband, the King—God have mercy on us. He will not hesitate to retaliate, I warn you. You should have seen what he did to the boy—"

Étienne held a hand up to stop him. "A child is involved?" He questioned, tone sharp. "Where is he?" The man's face only paled further, realising he'd said too much. Before Étienne could press him further, Lucien's voice called from the other end of the alley.

"Etienne, Lorcan! You might want to see this."

Étienne stood and followed Lucien, who led him behind a stack of crates. There was a small boy, no older than seven. His clothes were evidently in a terrible condition, ragged and smeared with dirt, and his wrists and legs had clearly been bound before Lucien had cut him free, the discarded ties laying on the floor. His brown hair was matted to the point where he could be mistaken for a beggar. Maybe he was one, they knew nothing about him other than that he was somehow roped up in all of this. Most of all, his eyes were striking: a sea green rimmed with darkness, but it wasn't their colour that made Étienne hesitate.

It was the unadulterated rage in his gaze. Not fear, but anger.

The Musketeer crouched low, keeping his movements deliberate and calm. The boy's eyes locked onto him, unblinking, as though watching a predator, his body tensed and ready to lash out. Étienne held his hands open and empty, speaking softly, almost as though soothing a spooked animal. "Easy, garçon," he said slowly, taking his hat off. "We aren't here to harm you. Can you tell me your name?"

The boy didn't answer, his jaw taut. He didn't so much as twitch, save for the subtle rising and falling of his chest as he breathed. Étienne tried again, asking if the boy was hurt, if he was hungry, if he had anyone looking for him. The only answer he received was a low, guttural growl, menacing for such a small frame. Lucien and Lorcan exchanged glances, though Étienne just shook his head. "He's just frightened," he murmured, though doubt pricked at him.

Why wouldn't the boy speak? Was it fear, or something else? Étienne studied him closely: he seemed to be almost hyper alert to his surroundings, his gaze shifting to the slightest of sounds, jaw tighter than what must be comfortable, and his posture crouched as if ready to spring at the smallest provocation.

Finally, Étienne tried a different question. "Can you... speak at all?"

For the first time, the boy hesitated. His eyes narrowed sharply, the rage momentarily replaced by something calculating. Then, slowly, he shook his head. The answer sent a ripple of unease through the air, and the men glanced at each other, neither one having been confronted with a situation like this. Étienne's throat tightened, but he forced his voice to remain gentle, trying to confirm his suspicions.

"Has someone... done something to take away your ability to speak?" Lucien suggested softly, taking off his own hat to not frighten the boy, Lorcan following suit. At this, the boy's eyes flashed with renewed anger as he flinched.

For a moment, Étienne thought he might make a run for it from the way he was eyeing the exit, but instead, he just opened his mouth ever so slightly, enough to reveal the horrifying truth.

His tongue was gone.

The brutality of it was unmistakable, and Étienne had let out a yelp before he could silence himself, his gaze immediately apologetic as the boy snapped his mouth shut and drew back, his growl returning with a fierceness that made Etienne's heart ache. His small hands had curled into fists, his entire demeanour screaming defiance and self-preservation. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, garçon. I didn't mean to," Étienne murmured soothingly, reaching for the flask of water at his side and offering it to the boy, who eyed him suspiciously before drinking very carefully from it, clearly used to each sip or bite of food being a life or death situation.

Lucien cursed under his breath. "Mon Dieu... who would do such a thing?"

Lorcan was simply quiet, sobered. Étienne shook his head, his expression hardening. Whoever this boy was, whatever he had seen or endured, someone had gone to great lengths to endure he could never tell the tale. But for now, Étienne pushed those thoughts aside. He was reminded of the fact that all of them had children not much older than the boy, and it only made the pain that much more acute. He met the boy's hard gaze and said softly, "I swear, no one will hurt you again."

Finally, Lorcan moved, having pulled out a piece of parchment that was tied to his belt for emergency letters. He took out a quill and dropped some dark red wine from his flask onto the cobblestone, filling the cracks. Slowly, he slid the paper over to the boy, who gave him a suspicious sidelong glance, but seemed to get the message. Slowly, he took the quill, dipping it into the red wine and doing his best to write along the parchment. When he slid it back, it was hard to read, the stain of the wine faint and the writing wobbly and uncertain, but on it was a name all the same.

Sukru.

Étienne offered him a steady smile, getting to his feet. "Well, Sukru, you had better come back with us. We'll take you to Paris, and... figure things out from there," he nodded, and the boy gave him another calculating look before getting to his feet. He seemed agile and tougher than one would expect, looking up at the three men, seeming to debate whether to trust them or not. But finally, he followed after them as they moved back towards the inn.

After finding the boy suitable clothes and getting him to very slowly attempt to eat something, the Musketeers were ready to depart, a matter of urgency, mounting their horses grimly. Sukru rode in front of Étienne, not showing any sign of falling asleep, his eyes alert as he took in his surroundings. Étienne sighed, slowing the mare so that he fell in line in between Lucien and Lorcan.

The men rode on in silence, the weight of the night's revelations settling heavily upon them. The road stretched ahead, shrouded in the dim light of the waning moon, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on the packed earth the only sound breaking the stillness. Étienne kept his eyes fixed on the faint glow of Paris in the distance, his thoughts racing faster than their horses.

Behind him, Lucien broke the quiet, his voice low and sharp. "A traitor within the palace. Arms, information, spies..." he glanced at Sukru like he was about to add something else, but decided against it when the boy returned his glance with a glare. "This isn't just a single corrupt thread—it's the whole weave. This is no common villain we pursue, but a serpent coiled around the very heart of the realm."

Lorcan's voice followed, steady but grim. "And such serpents rarely coil alone. Their reach is long, their venom powerful. If this be treason, it runs deep—deeper than we know."

Étienne turned slightly in his saddle, his expression unreadable under the dim light. "Even the cleverest serpent can be undone by its trail. Treason is a sickness, men, but it is not yet a death sentence. So long as we breathe, we fight."

The weight of the words hung heavy in the air, as they all looked toward the city in the distance, its spires faint against the horizon, and the three exchanged a look, the kind born of years spent side by side in battle. The oath was clear: they would see this through, come what may.

Lucien let out a low breath, his gaze fixed on the city ahead. "Well, well," he murmured, "it seems Paris holds more than just the King's secrets tonight."

Étienne arched a brow, glancing sidelong at Lucien with a smirk. "What's this, then? Poetic musings from you, Chevalier? Should I worry you've ambitions to rival Corneille?"

Lucien snorted, rolling his eyes. "If the day comes when I start composing plays, you'll know it's time to retire me to the countryside. I'll stick to the sword and a bottle of Burgundy, thank you."

And it was perhaps, the small hint of a smile that the men noticed on the young boy's face, that pushed them to keep the energy in high spirits. Lorcan chuckled, his voice warm against the chill night air. "Burgundy? I thought your preference was whatever swill happens to be closest."

"Swill or no, I'll have you know I drink with discernment," Lucien shot back, feigning wounded pride. "Unlike some, who mistake speed for sophistication. I've seen how many pints you can handle in a limited time frame, Clovis."

Étienne shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the gravity of the night. "If we've reduced ourselves to debating wine, perhaps the road has been too long."

"It's always too long," Lorcan said, his grin faint but genuine. He gestured toward the encroaching city. "But it ends soon enough."

Lucien grinned, leaning slightly forward in his saddle. "And then we'll remind those serpents we spoke of that we musketeers still know how to bite back."

Étienne chuckled. "Only if you don't trip over your sword in the process, Lucien." The laughter that followed was quiet but real, a moment of lightness amidst the dark. He straightened in his saddle, his voice taking on a touch of that old camaraderie. "Together, as always, mes amis. No serpent, no shadow, no treason can stand against that."

Lucien tipped his hat, his grin rakish. "Together, then. But if we're to fight treachery, I insist we do so after a decent meal."

"And a better bottle of wine," Lorcan added, his tone as dry as the road beneath them.

Étienne shook his head, but his smile lingered. "First the fight, then the feast. Let us remind Paris why they still whisper our names," he spoke with a glow to him, looking from his right to left at both of his comrades fondly before fixing his gaze ahead. "All for one, and one for all."

And with that, the three rode on, the path ahead uncertain, but their brotherhood unshaken, their laughter fading into the night. The road to Paris was long, but they would see it through.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

Probably kind of an unexpected update! I aim to have prologues done for all my applyfics, and had a rather eventful Christmas, so I felt inspired 🫡 I also wanted to let everyone know the deadline for forms is now fixed for January 5th, because if I keep delaying it then I'll never get 'round to the other applyfics. The purpose of the prologue is just to set the scene and all! Definitely not an urgent or necessary read. It was honestly kind of sad to write knowing that Lorcan and Lucien are both gone, like ow

Anyway though, I hope everyone had a good Christmas and a happy holidays!!