Vienna, Imperial Palace – early morning.
Thick fog still covered the rooftops. The golden domes of the palace were hidden behind gray clouds, as if the whole empire hadn't fully woken up yet. A servant quietly pushed open the door, face pale and voice shaking, breaking the morning silence:
"Your Majesty… news from Transylvania. His Highness Franz… was assassinated in Târgu Mureș."
The wrecked carriage was found in the forest. All the guards and Count Reinhardt, his guardian, were killed—bodies burned. Inside the carriage was a charred corpse, with Franz's clothing, jewelry, and personal seal. The face was unrecognizable, but no one doubted who it was.
Shock swept through the palace.
Emperor Ferdinand sat silently before a giant tapestry, the Benedictine cross in his hand trembling slightly. After a long silence, he whispered:
"So in the end… we still couldn't protect him."
He turned to the window and said nothing more.
When the news reached Empress Sophie, the teacup in her hand shattered. Her face turned white in an instant, and she collapsed into her maid Anna's arms. Her scream echoed through the hallway.
By nightfall, the entire Hofburg Palace was in mourning. Candles were lit, and prayers were whispered without end.
Paris, Tuileries Palace.
"What?" King Charles X jumped up, his golden robe creasing at the knees. "You said… the Austrians found the body? And… French soldiers too?"
The envoy whispered, "Yes, Your Majesty. The news came from our embassy in Vienna. They confirmed the bodies of several French guards—wearing our royal insignia."
Charles X's face darkened.
"Blame it on Orléans."
"Pardon, Your Majesty?"
"Let them say they did it for the throne. Everyone knows they want it anyway." He waved impatiently. "The Bourbon family must stay clean—we can't be connected to an assassination."
A few days later, Vienna, Foreign Affairs Office.
Late at night, the French envoy arrived at Prince Metternich's mansion. He brought "France's regrets" and a "compensation offer" from King Charles X.
In a golden box lay a handwritten letter from the king and a gold cross medal.
"We deeply regret what happened," the envoy began, but Metternich cut him off coldly.
"Regret?"
Metternich slowly paced the room, his voice sharp and icy. "The scene had French bodies. Daggers, uniforms, royal insignia—all clearly Bourbon. And the target was the Emperor's grandson."
Silence fell.
"We are willing to accuse the Duke of Orléans of masterminding the attack," the envoy said softly, "and we will offer money as compensation, plus diplomatic support—France will publicly back Austria's claim to the island of Crete."
Metternich finally stopped walking and smiled faintly.
"Good. We don't need the truth. We need a story."
He stood by the window, watching the black-clad mourners filling the streets of Vienna.
"The dead are quiet. But if this 'ghost' ever returns… that'll be a problem."
Across Europe.
Austria's royal obituary spread across Europe within three days. Courts in every country received a black-edged document stamped with the emperor's seal:
"His Imperial Highness, the King of Rome—Franz Joseph Charles Bonaparte, was assassinated in Transylvania."
But this wasn't just about one young prince's death.
In Italy, old General Berthier stared at the telegram in silence before finally saying, "Has the last spark of the Empire… burned out?"
In Prussia, The Berlin Daily ran a black-and-white headline: "Napoleon's son dies on Habsburg soil—Peace or Conspiracy?"
In the British Parliament, the opposition mocked, "Charles X buries Bonaparte's son today. Tomorrow, maybe he'll bury his own crown."
From Sicily to Brussels, from Warsaw to Amsterdam, old newspapers, barroom whispers, and secret letters began to mention a nearly forgotten name again—now with a tone of mourning:
The King of Rome.
Napoleon's flag still lay behind museum glass. And his son—once hailed as "the future emperor"—was now reduced to ashes and questions.
Meanwhile, Hungary.
In a quiet corner of Count Széchenyi's estate...
A young man slowly stood in front of a mirror. Fake wounds—like raw meat—were stuck to his face. His golden hair had been dyed black, and his gray-green eyes were now brown.
Maid Greta applied the last bit of ointment and carefully stuck a fake scar behind his ear.
"From now on, your name is Alex."
The man in the mirror looked at himself.
Once a prince, grandson of an emperor, prisoner of the Empire's power games.
Now—just a ghost walking among the living.
He whispered:
"The war… is only beginning."