Summer, 1828 – Schönbrunn Palace
Franz had just turned seventeen.
To celebrate his birthday, Schönbrunn Palace hosted a small but elegant royal family ball. It wasn't open to outsiders—only close members of the imperial family were invited. The entire evening was planned by Archduchess Sophie, who spared no detail.
As a special gift, Sophie and her husband, Archduke Franz Karl, invited the famous Viennese composer Franz Schubert to perform live at the palace. His music filled the ballroom with warmth and melancholy, weaving a memory Franz would never forget.
That night, standing alone on the balcony, Franz looked down at the garden where he and Sophie had often walked and talked. The moonlight shone softly on the gardenias. Everything looked beautiful—and painfully hard to leave.
Because deep down, he knew: this was goodbye.
A few days later, the Emperor issued a formal decree.
Franz was to be sent to the far eastern border of the Hungarian Kingdom—Transylvania—to undergo "military training."
But everyone in the court understood: this was no training. This was exile.
The Emperor still treated Franz kindly on the surface. But this time, there was no mercy in his decision.
Over the past years, thanks to Sophie's protection, no one in court had dared to look down on Franz. He had grown into a tall, graceful young man with a talent for languages, poetry, and music. He was fluent in Italian, loved English novels, and had a quiet, determined charm that made people remember him.
And that—was exactly what Metternich feared.
The moment Sophie heard about the exile, she rushed to the Emperor's study with her husband.
"Your Majesty," she pleaded, "Franz is your own grandson. Why send him to such a remote and dangerous place? He loves art and books, not war. Why force him into a soldier's life?"
The Emperor remained cold: "And that is exactly why he must go. A Bonaparte needs discipline. If not now, then when?"
Knowing her words were useless, Sophie lowered her head and left. Outside the study, she ran into Metternich, the powerful and calculating Chancellor.
He looked her up and down and gave a chilling smile.
"Your Highness, your concern for the last Bonaparte orphan is touching.
But perhaps that energy would be better spent giving the Empire a proper heir."
Sophie said nothing. She only looked at him—calm on the surface, but her eyes cold and sharp.
In that moment, she realized how powerless she was.
And for the first time, her ambition stirred.
She also realized something she had been avoiding for too long: her feelings for Franz had gone far beyond what an aunt should feel for a nephew.
That night, she sent word for Franz to meet her in the garden.
They walked side by side down a path lined with blooming white gardenias. The moonlight shimmered on the fountain. No one else was around—just the whisper of wind through the trees.
"I couldn't stop them," she said softly. "I tried. But I want you to know—you are not going alone."
She handed him a small velvet box. Inside were gold coins, silver rings, and precious jewels from her dowry.
"Take this. You'll need it on the road."
Franz didn't refuse. He looked at her and said quietly:
"I'll return. With my own name, and my own fate."
Sophie gently placed her favorite white cloak over his shoulders and smiled.
Far away, her maid Greta—plain-faced but fiercely loyal—kept watch from the shadows.
Before they parted, Sophie kissed him lightly on the forehead.
"Live. And come back to me."
At dawn, Franz prepared to leave Schönbrunn.
He would be accompanied by Count Kaspar von Reinhardt, his guardian and the man in charge of his education.
After the Emperor rejected her request to keep Franz in Vienna, Sophie made one last plea: to let her send Greta—her most trusted maid from Bavaria—to care for him on the journey. The Emperor agreed.
Sophie didn't stop there. She quietly arranged clothing, food, books, and personal items for Franz. She packed some of her finest jewelry and family treasures in secret, to give him what little power she still could.
There was no grand send-off. No guards of honor. No music.
Only Metternich, standing high on the palace steps, watching the carriages pull away.
One of his aides leaned in and whispered, "The prince is on the road. All is in place."
Metternich gave a small nod and murmured:
"Sometimes, history doesn't need troublemakers to survive."
No one noticed a new face among the escort—a tall man dressed as a soldier, recently "assigned" to protect the prince on the journey. He claimed to be from the central garrison.
But Count Reinhardt noticed his sharp eyes and cold silence.
And something in his gut told him: this journey would be far more dangerous than expected.