Paris was loud.
But it wasn't the roar of revolution. It wasn't the thunder of cannons.
It was a clanging.
A rhythmic, metallic beat that echoed off the stone walls of the Tuileries Palace.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Louis-Charles stood on the balcony, looking down into the courtyard.
Below, a sea of women filled the square. Thousands of them. Market women, washerwomen, mothers. They weren't carrying pikes or muskets.
They were carrying empty pots. And spoons.
They were beating the pots like war drums.
"Bread!" they chanted. "Bread! Bread!"
The sound was terrifying. It was primal. It was the sound of a stomach growling, amplified by ten thousand throats.
"Close the doors," Louis-Charles ordered. His voice cracked. He hated when his voice cracked. It reminded him he was only seven.
"The doors are closed, Highness," a guard said nervously. "But the sound... it comes through the walls."
Louis-Charles gripped the stone railing.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He was the Wolf Cub. He was the Regent. He had the army.
But the army was in Italy, eating their own boots.
Here, he was alone.
"Where is Robespierre?" Louis-Charles asked.
"Here, Citizen."
The voice came from the shadows of the Solar.
Maximilien Robespierre stepped into the light. The "Incorruptible." He wore a simple green coat and spectacles. He looked like a librarian who had accidentally wandered into a war zone.
But his eyes were sharp. Predatory.
"You let him in?" Louis-Charles snapped at the guards.
"The guards are hungry too, Highness," Robespierre said softly. "Hunger opens many doors."
Robespierre walked to the window. He looked down at the mob of women.
"Do you hear that music, Citizen Regent?" Robespierre asked. "That is the song that brought your father down. The March of the Women. October 1789. I remember it well."
"I am not my father," Louis-Charles spat. "I will not hesitate. If they breach the gates, I will order the Swiss Guard to fire."
"With what ammunition?" Robespierre asked. "You sent the powder to Italy. And besides... do you think the Swiss Guard will shoot their own wives?"
Louis-Charles froze.
He looked at the guards standing by the door. They were looking at the floor. They were listening to the chant. Bread. Bread.
"You promised order," Robespierre said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You promised glory. You promised an Empire."
He gestured to the window.
"You delivered famine."
"It's the British!" Louis-Charles shouted. "It's the blockade! It's my father!"
" The people don't care about geopolitics," Robespierre said. "They care that their children are crying. They say the Accountant is feeding the English while we starve. They say he is the only one who knows how to bake bread."
Robespierre leaned in close. He smelled of old paper and dry asceticism.
"Fix this, Boy. Or the Guillotine comes out of retirement. And it is very, very hungry."
Louis-Charles stormed back to his desk. He swept the map of Italy onto the floor.
"Get me a courier!" he screamed. "A fast one!"
He grabbed a quill. He wrote furiously, tearing the paper.
To General Bonaparte:
March on Rome! Loot the Pope! Loot the cardinals! I don't care if you have to strip the gold leaf off the altar of St. Peter's!
Send gold! Send grain! If you do not send food by Tuesday, Paris will fall!
He sealed the letter with a glob of red wax that looked like a bloodstain.
"Send it!" he ordered the trembling page.
But even as the boy ran out, Louis-Charles felt a cold dread in his stomach.
A letter arrived an hour later. Not from Rome. From Mantua.
It was stained with mud and what looked like soup.
To the Regent:
I cannot march. My horses are dead. My men are eating grass. The British have bought every grain of wheat from here to Naples.
I have gold. I have cannons. But I cannot fight a ghost. Send food, or I surrender.
— Napoleon.
Louis-Charles dropped the letter.
Surrender?
Napoleon never surrendered. Napoleon was the sword of the Republic. If the sword broke...
"He's going to flip," Louis-Charles whispered.
He looked at his toy soldiers lined up on the mantle.
If Napoleon surrendered to Alex... if the General joined the Father...
The Boy King realized he was standing on a trapdoor. And his father had just pulled the lever.
He grabbed a porcelain figurine of a grenadier and smashed it against the fireplace.
"I hate him!" Louis-Charles screamed. "I hate him! Why won't he just die?"
He fell to his knees, sobbing.
He wasn't a King. He wasn't a Regent. He was a child, terrified and alone in a big, cold palace, while the wolves scratched at the door.
London. The townhouse in Soho.
The fire crackled warmly in the grate. The smell of roasted lamb filled the room.
I sat in my armchair, reading a book. The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith. Light reading.
There was a knock at the door.
Pitt entered. He looked grave.
"A message, Alex. From Paris."
He handed me a small slip of paper. It wasn't sealed with the Royal crest. It was sealed with a fingerprint in ink.
"It's from Danton," I said, recognizing the handwriting.
I unfolded it.
Louis,
The Boy is losing control. Robespierre is sharpening the blade. The women are banging the pots again.
Come back. We will give you the Regency. We will exile the Boy. Just bring the bread. The people are dying.
— D.
I stared at the paper.
Danton. My old partner. The man I saved from the guillotine. He was begging.
"They are desperate," Pitt said, watching me closely. "If you go back now... you could take power without shedding blood."
"Without shedding blood?" I laughed. "Danton says the people are dying. Blood is already shedding, William."
I looked at the fire.
I thought of Paris. I thought of the Tuileries. I thought of my son, alone in that palace, listening to the mob.
Part of me—the father part—wanted to rush back. To bring the ships of grain. To be the hero. To save him from the monster I had made him become.
But the auditor part of me held firm.
"It's a trap," I said.
"Is it?"
"If I go back now, I go back as a savior, yes. But the system remains. The army remains. Napoleon remains."
I threw the letter into the fire.
"I don't want a truce," I said, watching Danton's plea curl into ash. "I don't want a compromise."
"What do you want?" Pitt asked.
I looked at him. My face felt like stone.
"I want unconditional surrender."
"Alex," Pitt warned. "You are condemning thousands to starvation. History will call you a monster."
"History is written by the winners," I said. "And the winners are the ones who balance the books."
I stood up.
"Send a message to the fleet," I ordered. "Tighten the blockade. No grain enters France. Not a single sack."
"But Danton said—"
"I know what he said! Let them get hungrier!"
I shouted the words. My heart hammered in my chest. Thump-thump-pause.
I took a breath. I steadied myself.
"Hunger is the only language my son understands now," I said quietly. "I have to speak it louder than he does."
I walked to the window and looked out at the London fog.
I was the villain. I knew it.
I had become the very thing I despised. A cold, calculating tyrant who traded lives for leverage.
But the audit wasn't finished. There were still red numbers in the ledger.
And I wouldn't stop until the balance was zero.
"Let them starve," I whispered to the glass.
"Let them starve until they beg."