Dion Elbaz felt a slight chill run down his spine as he wandered the dark streets of a nighttime Paris. The streets that were once clean, filled with order, and could be considered safe, were now riddled with the distress of innocent civilians who just wanted change, but were, instead, forced to suffer. Crime was on the rise, but the tyrant monarchs only cared about maintaining their power. Staunch royalists roamed the streets day and night, but so did revolutionaries. Oftentimes, their paths would cross, and what followed was never pretty. Dion lived in an apartment above a small café along with his immigrant father, French mother, and his younger brother, Thomas. But, strangely, he found peace walking the streets at night. The streets were no busier tonight than usual, but something felt different. After his nightly prowl, Dion made his way back to his family’s apartment. But, what he found when he returned would forever change his life. 

At first, things looked as mundane as every other night. But as Dion got closer, he realized something wasn’t right. The curtains eerily danced as the night breeze flowed through the broken window of his parents’ bedroom. Dion ran around back to avoid making any noise. He slid his cold key into the iron lock on the back door of the café and turned his wrist. His heart pounded with each metal click as the door unlocked. Dion carefully pushed the door open and crept up the stairs to his parents’ bedroom. The door was closed. Dion crouched to the floor and peered through the keyhole. He nervously examined the room but couldn’t see any occupants. Dion opened the door and cautiously entered the room where he should’ve found his parents peacefully sleeping. Instead, he found knocked over furniture and broken glass on the floor beneath the curtains. Dion noticed a red Fleur de Lis painted in blood on the wall above the limp corpse of his own father. All of the memories Dion had of his father rapidly flashed through his mind. The person who had protected him, taught him everything he knew, and loved him more than anything, was now gone. Dion couldn’t believe his dad was gone, and didn’t know how to react. Everything began to spin as Dion fell backward onto his parents’ bed. 

By the time he came to his senses, blinding dawn glistened  off the windows of the surrounding buildings. Dion’s uncle, Lucien, who lived down the street, helped Dion track down some nearby soldiers. Dion’s face was streaked with dried tears as he informed the soldiers about his night. He told them about his night walks, the broken window, how he found his father's body, how his mother and brother were missing…and he told them about the symbol painted on the wall. 

After covering his father’s body with a sheet, the soldiers rummaged through Dion’s family’s apartment in search of any further evidence that might explain who had done this, and why. Dion watched as one soldier searched through his father’s trunk. The soldier pulled something small out of the trunk, stared at it, called over the other soldiers, threw the item on the floor, spat on it, and proceeded to walk out of the apartment along with the rest of the soldiers. 

“Where are you going?” yelled Dion as he hastily walked after them. 

One of the soldiers turned around to face Dion and said, “We couldn’t find any evidence, so there’s nothing more we can do for you.” The soldiers turned the corner and left Dion standing in the middle of the street and drowning in confusion. Dion had no idea as to why the soldiers had left so abruptly without even removing his father’s body. He could see bloody fingerprints left on the broken glass and muddy footprints left on the street beneath the apartment. Dion walked back into his father’s bedroom to see what had changed the mind of the soldiers so instantaneously. He looked down and saw a red, white, and blue cockade lying on the floor. His father was murdered, his mother and brother were kidnapped, and the soldiers refused to do anything to help because his father was a revolutionary. That’s not justice, Dion thought. That’s tyranny, and it had to be stopped. 

The soldiers weren’t willing to help, so Dion’s only clear option to find his missing family members was for him to follow the evidence that had been left behind. He grabbed his father’s leather satchel from their home, and began his journey. Dion’s father wasn’t like most people. He never really talked about his past, but Dion knew he was an immigrant from somewhere in the Middle East. That’s about all Dion was told of his father’s childhood. His father taught Dion more than what most fathers teach their children. He taught Dion how to fight, how to investigate, how to hide, and how to think on his feet.

 Dion analyzed the footprints that had been left in the street. He concluded that they were from boots larger than that of most men. Dion could also tell, based on the abnormality of each footstep, that the wearer was likely not balanced, which probably meant the person was either injured or carrying something heavy.  Dion followed the trail of footprints down the cobblestone road. The trail of footprints took a sharp turn into an alleyway where they abruptly stopped. Dion studied his surroundings. The passage was dark and narrow, and all he saw was a wooden barrel with a small, golden Fleur de Lis painted on the top. Dion had seemingly lost his only chance of finding his family. He kicked the barrel over in a burst of frustration. That was when he discovered the tunnel.

Dion’s boots slapped the shallow layer of water with every step as he navigated his way through the dark tunnel he had discovered. The only visible light was coming from the entrance that he found, which was slowly disappearing as Dion moved further into the pitch black darkness. His hands slid against the slick walls of the tunnel as he tried to find out where it led. Suddenly, Dion slammed into a hard wooden door like a runaway carriage into a wall. He frantically ran his hands along the door as he tried to figure out how to open it. His right hand felt a rough metal lever. He pushed the lever down and he heard the latch click. As he slowly pushed the door open, the scream of its rusted hinges echoed through the dank tunnel as golden sunlight flooded in and shimmered on the wet floor. 

Dion stepped out and studied his surroundings as his eyes attempted to adjust to the brightness of the outside world. Dion could hear a constant rush of water next to him. He realized that he had just come out of an elaborate sewer tunnel network, and that he was standing on the bank of the Seine. Dion looked around for any further evidence regarding his father’s assailant. He noticed an entrance to another tunnel adjacent to the one where he had just emerged. However, this tunnel looked more maintained and had an iron gate covering its entrance. He also noticed a thick black padlock holding the gate shut. Dion reached into the worn leather satchel on his hip and retrieved two thin pieces of metal. He inserted the lockpick and tension wrench into the iron padlock. It had been a while since Dion had picked a lock, but he remembered what his father had taught him, and he applied even pressure to the tension wrench as he jiggled the pick back and forth, feeling the pressure of each pin as he proceeded. He heard a small, satisfying click with every pin he successfully pushed back. The lock clicked, and the tension wrench began to turn. The bolt released, and Dion removed the lock and opened the gate. He carefully placed the lockpick and tension wrench back in his father’s satchel, and proceeded forward into the rounded brick tunnel. Unlike the first tunnel, this one was dimly lit with flickering torches on the walls. The tunnel eventually came to a fork. Dion studied each path carefully but noticed a Fleur de Lis on the wall of the path to his right. It was like the one painted on the barrel. Dion took this path and continued walking. At first, the tunnel looked the same as before. But after a while, he came across a few wooden barrels near a metal door in the wall of the tunnel. 

Suddenly, the door swung open, scraping the floor. Dion dove behind the barrels, and held his breath. He heard a man say something in a gruff voice. The man’s  footsteps echoed through the tunnel as he walked deeper into the tunnel system. The man had left the door open and Dion knew this was his chance. He peered around the wooden barrel and watched the man turn a corner. Dion quickly slipped through the doorway. He found himself in a large furnished room.  Dion had never seen anything like this connected to a tunnel network before, and had trouble believing he was still in Paris. A man sat at a wooden table at the far end of the room with his back turned to Dion. He also saw his mother chained to the wall. Adrenaline began pumping through Dion’s veins as fury polluted his mind. The man’s silhouette stood up and slowly turned around. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he grumbled in a low voice that resonated through the room. 

Dion’s mother looked up at her eldest child with fear in her eyes. “Run!” she yelled as the man stepped into the dim torchlight. He had a large scar over his right eye and a sheathed sword on his left hip. 

“Who are you? What do you want with my family?” Dion shouted at the man. 

“Did your father tell you nothing? It’s a little late, now that we bashed in the skull of that sad excuse of a man, after first forcing him to watch his wife and child get kidnapped!” the tall figure taunted. 

Rage took control of Dion as he charged at the man, but the large man knocked Dion over without a grunt. Dion slammed hard into the brick floor as the man drew his sword from its sheath. 

“Now I can finally finish your father’s muddied bloodline of cowardice, and I will savor every second of it!” the man snapped. 

He lifted his sword into the air above Dion. Although restricted by the chains on her wrists, his mother managed to jump in front of Dion as the man’s sword plunged deep into her chest. Dion screamed as he watched his mom fall to the ground. Dion scrambled to his feet as the man laughed at the sight of Dion’s mother. 

“Pathetic,” the man muttered. “You’re next,” he said with a chuckle as he charged at Dion, who quickly reached into his father’s bag. 

The man grabbed Dion’s shoulders and slammed him into the wall of the dimly lit chamber. The man squeezed Dion’s throat with his big hands, and everything started to slowly fade. Dion had lost. He had failed to avenge his father. He let his mother get stabbed trying to protect him. 

“Is this what death feels like?” Dion wondered. 

From within the void of his fading consciousness, he heard his little brother shout, “Dion help!” Dion’s eyes sprang open as his fingers grasped the leather hilt of his father’s dagger within the satchel. The man smiled as his grip around Dion’s neck tightened. Dion pulled the dagger out and thrust it as hard as he could into the man’s neck. The man yelped as he released his grip and reached for the knife stuck in his neck. 

Cold air rushed into Dion’s throat and filled his lungs as he began to painfully cough. He watched as the man fell to the ground and went limp. Dion ran to his mother, who was leaning against the wall and breathing shallowly, the sword still in her chest. 

“Mom.” Dion whimpered. “I’m so sorry.” Dion’s mother reached her hand up and touched his cheek. 

“Your brother needs you,” she softly whispered. “Save him!” Her hand fell, and the metal shackle around her wrist clanked as it hit the brick floor. Her chest slowly stopped moving. Dion sobbed next to his mother’s body until he remembered her dying command. 

The man who had accidentally left the door open for Dion, now returned to the room to find Dion, a young man he had heard of only in warning, standing over his boss’ corpse. The man fled, but the echo of Dion’s swift footsteps bounced off the walls of the tunnel as he sprinted after the man, who was his best chance at finding his brother. The scared man knew his way around the intricate labyrinth of the man-made rabbit hole, but Dion followed in pursuit closely behind. The man ran himself into a dead end where water flowed behind the metal bars preventing the man from escaping. 

“Stay back!” the man shouted. He pulled out a small folding knife and held it with a firm reverse grip. 

“Tell me where my brother is and I’ll let you go,” Dion responded. “I have no quarrel with mercenaries like you. It’s your employer that I’m after.” 

The man scoffed nervously, and charged at Dion with the knife. Dion remembered his father’s training, and grabbed the scrawny man’s wrist that held the knife. Dion twisted the man’s wrist until his arm was forced behind his back and the knife dropped to the ground. The man let out a grunt. 

“Where’s my brother?” Dion interrogated. The man remained silent and Dion tightened his grip as he twisted the man’s arm even more. “I will ask you one more time before I break your arm,” Dion said sternly. 

“You stupid fool!” the man uttered. 

“Tell me where he is!”

“We sent him off to the guillotine. You’re wasting your time.”

“Where?”

“Even if you do get there in time, you won’t stand a chance against–”

“Tell me where they took him before I snap your arm like a twig!” 

“The Place de la Concorde!” the man yelled. 

Dion let go of the man, who stumbled forward and scampered away holding his sore arm. Dion picked up the knife, closed it, and slipped it into his coat pocket. He wove his way through the tunnels until he came across a ladder to an exit. He scurried up the ladder and pushed the wooden trapdoor open. 

Dion observed his nighttime surroundings as he emerged from the elaborate underworld of Paris. He found a horse tied to a hitching post next to two inattentive soldiers. Dion remembered how the soldiers he talked to refused to help solve his father’s murder, which ultimately led to the death of his mother, too. Dion picked up a rock and threw it into the alleyway behind the soldiers. As they left to investigate, Dion untied the horse and mounted it. He commandeered the reins, and the horse took off in a sprint. The soldiers chased after him on foot, but were left behind as Dion wound his way through the dark streets and alleyways. 

He made his way to the Place de la Concorde. Once he finally arrived, he climbed off the steed and began to survey the area from a distance. In the middle of a large mob was a tall wooden platform that had a guillotine on it with men wearing powdered wigs standing on the platform. There was a brigade of soldiers that surrounded the platform. They held long muskets with bayonets and yelled at the crowd when people got too close. Dion also noticed a group of people in a cart with their wrists bound. That’s where he spotted Thomas. 

Dion needed a way to get past the brigade. He ducked around a corner and saw a lone soldier patrolling the streets. He began to follow behind the soldier. The streets were littered with debris from the previous riots. He knew this was the only way he could save his brother. Dion made sure nobody was looking and he grabbed a plank of wood off the ground. His heart raced and he swung the board at the soldier's head. The soldier fell to the ground with a thud. Dion dragged the unconscious body into an alley and put on its clothes. He took the soldier’s musket and walked back to the mob. 

Dion made his way through the tightly packed crowd. Their burning torches lit the night sky and filled Dion’s nostrils with cold smokey air. One of the men on the platform said something, and the sharp metal blade came rushing down with a chop as Dion saw someone’s head topple into a basket. Dion knew he didn’t have much time left before his brother was next. He held his breath as he slipped through the brigade of soldiers and into the empty space around the wooden structure. His brother was in sight. Dion slowly made his way toward the cart, trying not to raise any suspicion. Once he got the to cart, he slipped his hand into his coat pocket and removed the small folding knife. Dion looked up at his younger brother and grinned as he cut him free. 

“Dion!” Thomas whispered.

“We have to get out of here without getting spotted.”

“No, we have to save the others. They’re innocent just like me!” 

“We don’t have time!”

“They were all taken by the same people who took me.”

“Fine, but be quick.”

Dion handed Thomas the knife, and he began cutting the other prisoners’ ropes. “Traitor!” a man who was dressed in black and standing below the platform yelled. He brandished a long black flintlock pistol with regal white plating and gold engraving on the handle. 

Dion ducked behind the cart just as the stunning firearm flashed and a loud crack followed. The ball missed its mark, and the man had to reload, which gave Dion a chance to strategize. Unfortunately, the gunshot had alerted the entire brigade of infantry soldiers around the platform. The brothers were surrounded by soldiers with guns and bayonets. They had no other option but to surrender. 

“Keep the knife hidden,” Dion whispered to Thomas. 

The man finished reloading, and raised his arm, gripping the narrow-barreled pistol as he  pointed it at Dion. Dion walked backwards but stopped when he felt the abrupt disturbance of a soldier’s bayonet press against his back. He was cornered and had nowhere to go. 

“So you’re the one they couldn’t find,” the man shouted over the noise of the surrounding mob. 

Dion’s cover was blown, and he felt exposed. There was another crack, and Dion flinched. But this time, the man crumpled over and fell to the ground. The soldiers began to scramble as a large group of men wearing long striped pants, the kind that dock workers wore, and red caps with cockades attached to them, flooded the wooden platform and the area around it. They were the militant members of the Jacobin Club, and they fought the soldiers in both hand-to-hand combat and gunfighting. Thomas finished cutting the other hostages free, and they fled the violent scene, with Dion following behind them. 

Dion and Thomas sat together in safety on the steps of a building. 

“Where’s mom?” Thomas asked his brother. Dion looked at him with sad eyes that told Thomas everything he needed to know. 

 “Who were those people and what did they want from us?” Thomas asked. Trying to change the topic.

“They call themselves the Grand Orient de France. Father was working against them and, 

apparently, so was everyone else in that cart. They were going to execute us because they were afraid we’d rise up against them and reveal their identities to the public. Dad tried to put up a fight at home, so they killed him there. They took your to the guillotine because they could get away with our murders without consequence if they said we were traitors.”

“How’d they get so much power?” Thomas asked, wondering how his brother knew so  much about this.

“It's ancient power. Their origins can be traced back to biblical times, and they’ve had

control over countless rulers and countries ever since. I know these things because dad 

told me about his involvement. After the Templars were ‘eradicated’, they started 

working in the shadows and most of the surviving crusaders joined secret societies. The 

Grand Orient is one of those societies. Thomas, you might think that France is controlled by monarchs, but the monarchs are controlled by them! They’re behind this Reign of 

Terror and the Revolution itself and they need to be stopped or else the bloodshed and 

injustice will endure! They already know who we are, and they will try to kill us any chance they get. We need to leave France before they find us again, and we need to go 

somewhere they can’t…England! England has strict barriers that exclude forms of

Christianity outside of the Church of England. Because the Grand Orient de France is Catholic, they can’t enter England. We will be safe there, and from there, we can work with people in France to destroy the Grand Orient from within,” Dion strategized.

***

Dion sat at his London study and gazed out a circular window as raindrops slid down the cold paine. His fingers held a quill as he dipped it into an inkwell. Dion pressed the sharp-tipped feather to the paper, and the ink began to flow with every line, and swirl with each stroke of his hand as the hollow quill scratched against the paper. On the paper was a list of famous French leaders and influencers who Dion had discovered to be members of the Grand Orient de France: 

Marquis de Lafayette - Aristocrat and commander during the American revolution

Marquis de Condorcet - Philosopher and mathematician

Mirabeau - French noble and leader during the early stages of the French Revolution

Georges Danton - Lawyer, French Minister of Justice, and a leader during the French Revolution

Jacques Hébert - Journalist and founder of an extremist newspaper during the French revolution

Duke of Orléans - French noble with heavy involvement in the French Revolution and the Grand Master of the Grand Orient de France

Dion knew the Grand Orient was influential throughout France, but the extent was even greater than he had imagined. These people had power and control over the lives of others, but they valued the Grand Orient above all else, even if that meant the deaths of innocent people. 

Dion and his brother were determined to continue their father’s legacy and avenge their parents’ death. To that end, the brothers created an underground organization that stretched from London to Paris. 

The brothers knew that if their list of known members of the Grand Orient de France were to fall into the wrong hands, it would result in the deaths of many good people. But, they also knew that it could save even more lives if their list were received by their contacts in France. 

Dion carefully folded the paper and sealed it with a warm red wax stamp. He meticulously addressed it to “Uncle Lucien Elbaz, Paris, France.”