(As recounted not by Aurelio, but drawn from the Scholar's own research—a compilation of royal chronicles, intercepted Cabal missives, and the whispered confessions of dying men.)
The Scholar closed Aurelio's journal. The old warrior's personal tale was a quiet prelude to the symphony of treachery about to be played. He unrolled a different, more ornate scroll, its edges gilt with the faded lilies of France. The ink here was the color of dried blood.
"To understand the wound," the Scholar murmured to the silent night, "one must first see the knife. And the knife, in this instance, was not a blade of steel, but a crown."
Marseille: The Eve of Annihilation
The air in Marseille was thick with the cloying sweetness of rotting victory. Weeks prior, the French armies had shattered the Spanish lines. Now, the city, draped in royal blue and gold, was a grotesque parody of celebration. The scent of roasting peacocks and spiced wine from the victory feast in the great hall could not mask the underlying stench of the nearby charnel pits where the Spanish dead still smoldered.
In the heart of the opulent Palais de la Mer, King Louis, a bull of a man beginning to soften with age and wine, held court. His laugh was too loud, his gestures too broad, fueled by triumph and the fine vintages of a conquered Spanish vineyard. He was a king at the zenith of his power, blind to the serpent coiled at his feet.
That serpent was his court.
Prince Adrien, the firstborn, stood by a towering stained-glass window, a portrait of royal perfection. Tall, with sharp, aristocratic features and hair the color of dark honey, he wore his impeccably tailored silks with an air of bored elegance. He held a goblet of water, his lips curved in a faint, perpetual smile that never reached his eyes. They were the cold, calculating grey of a winter sea, scanning the room, missing nothing. A lady-in-waiting, her bodice laced low, brushed against him, her intent clear. Adrien's smile tightened a fraction. He dismissed her with a glance so frigid she recoiled. His lust was not for flesh, but for order. For control.
Prince Armand, the second son, was the opposite. He lounged on a velvet divan, his shirt unlaced, his cheeks flushed. A giggling noblewoman was nestled in the crook of each arm, and he was regaling them with a loud, exaggerated account of his (minor) role in the battle. He was all fire and passion, beloved by the commons for his easy smile. But his eyes, a warmer brown than his brother's, held a desperate, hungry light. The hunger of a man who knows he is the spare, forever in the shadow of a brother who considered him a beloved, but ultimately useless, fool.
And then there was Charlotte.
She sat slightly apart from the throng, a vision of composed grace. Her gown was a deep sapphire, a silent protest against the gaudy celebration. Her hair, the same dark honey as Adrien's, was coiled in an intricate braid that spoke of a patience her brothers lacked. She watched Armand's posturing with fond exasperation, and Adrien's cold calculation with a quiet, simmering dread. She was the only one who seemed to feel the wrongness in the air, the dissonant chord beneath the fanfare.
The feast was a display of French finesse, a deliberate performance of cultural superiority. The food was a ballet of flavors. The music was intricate, composed. It was a world away from the Norse roaring in their halls and the Italian grimness of the Anvil. This was power expressed not through brute force, but through an unassailable, effortless supremacy.
It was into this scene that the Spanish "delegation" was led. Not as conquering heroes, but as supplicants. At their head was Princess Isabel. She was a slip of a girl, no older than sixteen, with pale gold hair and eyes of a startling, frigid blue. She moved with a stiff, proud dignity, her chin held high, her simple black gown a stark rebuke to the French opulence. She was the last surviving daughter of the slaughtered Spanish king, the final leverage.
King Louis rose, his voice booming. "Princess! You see? The might of France is not to be trifled with! But we are not savages. You will be our… honored guest. A symbol of the new peace!"
Isabel's eyes swept the room, meeting Adrien's cold gaze, Armand's curious stare, and Charlotte's pitying one. She did not flinch. She did not speak. Her silence was more insulting than any curse.
The feast wore on. Wine flowed. The air grew thick with lust and arrogance. Armand, emboldened by drink, pulled one of his companions onto his lap, his hand sliding up her thigh in full view of the court. Adrien watched with detached amusement. This was the game. This was their right as victors.
It was Charlotte who finally slipped away, the noise and the leering glances becoming too much. She retreated to her chambers, high in the palace's east wing, seeking the solace of her balcony and the sea air.
Down below, in the shadowed gardens, a different meeting took place.
Adrien stood before Princess Isabel. He was no longer smiling.
"The terms are simple," he said, his voice low and devoid of its public charm. "You will publicly swear fealty to my father. Your line will be absorbed into ours. In return, your people will not be put to the sword."
Isabel looked up at him, her face a pale, perfect mask. "And if I refuse?"
"Then the siege your remaining forces are foolishly maintaining outside our gates will be their funeral pyre," Adrien replied smoothly. "And I will personally ensure your end is far less pleasant than a swift blade."
He reached out, not to strike her, but to trace a finger along the line of her jaw, a gesture of terrifying possession. "Such a delicate thing to hold so much power. Do not make me break it."
Back in the great hall, the King called for a toast. "To France! To my sons! To our eternal glory!" He drained his golden goblet, the wine a deep, ruby red.
A moment later, he choked. It was not a dramatic gasp, but a wet, gurgling sound. His eyes bulged, his face turning a mottled purple. He clutched his throat, his massive frame swaying before crashing down onto the feasting table, sending platters of food and golden goblets flying.
Pandemonium.
As the court screamed and scrambled, Armand stared in drunken, horrified disbelief. Adrien, however, did not move. He stood by the window, his face an unreadable mask. But his eyes, his cold, grey eyes; were not on his dying father. They were fixed on his brother, Armand.
And in the chaos, a single, small object rolled from the folds of the king's fallen napkin and came to rest at Armand's feet.
A signet ring. Carved not with the lily of France, but with a golden serpent
Up in her chamber, Charlotte heard the screams from the hall below. She rushed to her door, her heart hammering against her ribs. But as she reached for the handle, a shadow fell across the ornate wood.
A man stood there. He was not a guardsman. He wore the robes of a court physician, but in his hand, he held not a vial of medicine, but a thin, sharp stiletto. His eyes were empty.
"The Cabal sends its regards, Princess," he whispered.
The door to her room began to splinter under a heavy blow from the outside.