London, Early Spring 1784
A soft drizzle veiled the streets of London, blurring the lamps into shimmering halos as carriages rolled through the cobblestone avenues. The Thames was wrapped in morning mist, ships appearing and vanishing like silent ghosts.
At the gates of Buckingham Square, a small procession approached—not ostentatious like a royal parade, but unmistakably foreign. The coats were a shade too fine, the cut a touch too elegant, and the blue-and-gold banners of Fonseine fluttered quietly from the lead carriage.
Inside it sat Crown Prince Adrien de Montclair.
He watched the passing city with steady, measuring eyes. The chimneys, the foundries, the clattering workshops—London had become a living furnace, its pulse faster than any city on the continent.
Beside him sat Marquis Dufort, ever the diplomat.
"Your Highness," Dufort said softly, "London seems… transformed."
