Northern forests of Marosvásárhely, Transylvania, Summer, 1828, Dusk
The sunset painted the forest in a golden-red hue. The Austrian convoy moved slowly along the rugged path. Shadows stretched across the trees, and the air was heavy with the scent of earth—and something more dangerous.
Inside the carriage, Franz stared silently into the distance. He wore a formal noble's uniform, as if he were just a royal being sent to a distant border outpost. Greta sat beside him, clutching a small pistol.
"Stay in the carriage. Don't get out."
Franz said quietly, then opened the door and jumped down.
His boots hit the ground with precision. Drawing a short blade, he rushed into the forest.
The Firefight
The battle was sudden and brutal. The Austrian soldiers thought it was just another escort mission—until they stepped into a trap.
There had originally been another group involved: assassins sent by King Charles X of France, planning to quietly eliminate Franz along the way. But they never even drew their swords—they had already been poisoned by a "welcome drink," secretly prepared by Széchenyi's men. Their bodies were hidden in the forest well before the fight began.
So the real battle was between the Austrians and Franz's allies.
Széchenyi led his Hungarian fighters in a swift ambush, breaking the Austrian formation. Franz joined the fight himself—each strike of his blade was a cut through his old life.
He moved with speed and focus, his blade sharp and unforgiving. He recognized one of the soldiers—it was the same man who had whistled at him the night before, mistaking him for Greta. The man didn't even raise his sword—he only stared, confused, as if asking: why?
Franz felt a twist in his stomach, but his hand didn't hesitate. The blade slashed across the man's throat. Warm blood splashed across his face.
Count Reinhardt also fought fiercely, but soon realized this was no random attack. He saw Franz leap from the carriage and couldn't believe his eyes.
"Your Highness—stop!" he shouted, trying to reach him.
But it was too late. The quiet boy he had once trained in fencing now fought without mercy. The battle ended in chaos. The forest floor was littered with bodies. The air stank of blood, gunpowder, and burning wood. Birds fled in panic, their cries piercing the dusk.
Loyalty and Goodbye
Count Reinhardt dropped to his knees, bleeding from his shoulder. His face was smeared with dirt and blood. As Franz approached, he asked the question he had kept buried:
"This… was your plan?"
Franz nodded. No guilt, only calm.
"I don't want to kill you. If you can keep tonight a secret, you're free to go."
The count looked at him for a long time. There was no anger in his eyes—just deep exhaustion.
"If I'm the only one who returns to Vienna, no one will believe me. They'll punish my family."
He slowly drew his sword and stood up, still every bit a soldier.
"You've chosen freedom… so I must stay loyal."
With one deep breath, he turned the blade on himself. Blood poured out as he collapsed in the mud.
Franz closed his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.
Fire and Rebirth
After the battle, Széchenyi ordered the French assassins' bodies to be placed near the Austrian corpses. Together, they staged the scene to look like an ambush by foreign enemies that wiped out the whole escort.
Greta searched the bodies for someone similar to Franz in build. She changed the clothing, splashed blood across the chest, and placed the fake Franz in the carriage. Her face showed no pity—only cold determination. This body would carry away Franz's past.
She doused the carriage in oil and liquor, lit a torch, and threw it in.
Boom—
The flames rose high, lighting up the forest and burning the prince's name away.
Franz watched the carriage burn. In the thick smoke, he saw the cage of Schönbrunn Palace, saw the body once used by Metternich as a pawn, now turned to ash.
In the flames, layer by layer, his old identity burned away—the prince's shell, the Habsburg blood, even the tired soul of a crushed New Yorker.
He was no longer the overworked finance guy from Manhattan.
No longer the royal trapped in a golden prison.
He was now someone choosing his own path.
Even if that path meant rivers of blood.