The rifle was a success.
Field tests conducted in the outskirts of Verdun showed a 60% increase in suppression efficiency. Emil's prototype, nicknamed the Grive 14 by soldiers for its chattering recoil, outperformed anything currently in French or German arsenals.
And with its success came something more dangerous than German bullets: political attention.
The Price of Innovation
"Ten thousand units?" Henriette stared at the Ministry's telegram, her voice razor-sharp. "They want ten thousand Grives in four months. That's madness."
"They've attached a clause," Marianne added, tossing a second letter on the desk. "Failure to deliver revokes all pending Sanglier contracts."
Emil stood at the window, arms folded, watching workers lay foundation for a new machining hall.
"They want to break me," he said quietly.
Henriette turned. "Or chain you to the state."
"Same result," Emil murmured.
The Grive 14 wasn't just a weapon—it was a political statement. A message that France no longer needed its allies' outdated rifles. That Dufort Engineering could outbuild, outthink, and outgun entire ministries.
And that was a threat the War Office couldn't afford to ignore.
The Swiss Offer
He received the invitation in a sealed envelope, wax-stamped with a sigil he didn't recognize.
Three days later, in a private railway car bound for Geneva, Emil found himself face to face with Felix von Graben, a financier with the demeanor of a gravekeeper and the tailored restraint of old money.
They sipped black coffee in silence.
"You've shaken Europe," von Graben said finally. "Congratulations."
Emil said nothing.
"The German Crown fears your tanks. The French Cabinet fears your rifles. And the British"—he smirked—"well, they're still deciding whether to bribe or bomb you."
"Why am I here?"
"Because wars end. But fortunes endure. You've proven yourself as an engineer. I want to see if you can become something more."
"And what do you want in return?"
"Control. Shared, not stolen. You hold the hammer. I hold the purse."
Von Graben opened a leather case, revealing documents.
"Twelve million francs. No interest. Convertible shares. Use it to build what governments can't—armories, foundries, smuggling routes. We make the war yours."
Emil closed the case without a word.
"I'll consider it."
"No," von Graben said calmly. "You already have."
Henriette's Tangle
Back in Paris, Henriette attended what was supposed to be a routine Ministry hearing on production delays.
Instead, it was an ambush.
"Is it true," asked Deputy Minister Ameline, a gray-eyed bureaucrat with ambitions too large for his shoulders, "that your brother has accepted foreign financing from an unregistered entity?"
Henriette blinked. "No such funds have entered our ledgers. And if you have evidence, I suggest you speak with our auditors—"
"We will," Ameline interrupted, "once the inspection order is signed."
The room went cold.
This wasn't oversight.
This was sabotage.
Outside, she lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
A shadow detached itself from the alley wall—Pierre Lamont, a Ministry clerk she had once tutored at university.
"You've stepped on toes, Henriette," he said quietly. "And some of them wear sabers."
"Why tell me?"
"Because if Emil falls, the rest of us fall with him."
He handed her a sealed envelope.
"From someone who still believes in what you're building."
The Leclerc Vault
That night, Emil walked the length of Vault 2—now a true treasury of steel and secrets. Inside lay:
The third Sanglier Mk VI
Two prototype Grive rifles with tungsten bolt enhancements
A hand-etched scroll containing modified artillery schematics inspired by naval shock-absorber systems
Beside the vault, a stack of sealed crates marked with "Orphée Industries"—a shell company Emil had created to funnel his growing wealth into neutral logistics hubs.
He wasn't just building weapons.
He was building an empire.
"Steel is one kind of power," he whispered. "Currency is another."
The Confession
Henriette arrived after midnight. She didn't knock.
She threw the Ministry letter on his desk.
"They're preparing to seize us."
Emil read it without blinking.
"Let them try."
"You don't understand. They'll paint you as a traitor. They'll arrest me to bait you."
"Then we counterattack."
"With what? Rifles? Lawyers?"
He walked to the cabinet, unlocked a drawer, and handed her a second set of documents.
Banking transfers. Zurich accounts. One sealed envelope labeled "Contingency C."
"If they come, we fold. We become Orphée Industries. The war doesn't stop because Paris throws a tantrum."
She stared at him.
"You were always two moves ahead."
"And you were always the reason I didn't go too far."
Silence.
"Emil…"
"Say it."
"I don't want to lose you. Not to war. Not to this… mask you wear."
He reached out. Just once, brushing her hand.
It wasn't a promise.
It was a truce.
The Next Spark
The chapter closed with another report from Metz:
"Donnerschädel prototype II encountered French Mk VI. Sustained damage. Retreat ordered. German engineers have requested anti-rifle shielding and mobile artillery redesign."
A scribbled postscript from a field agent read:
Dufort's machines grow faster than ours. If we cannot stop him with guns, we must stop him with guilt.