Versailles did not sleep.
It only pretended to.
At dawn, the palace was already alive with whispers — silk shoes gliding across marble corridors, servants bowing without meeting eyes, nobles pretending not to stare at the strange child prince who now jogged through the eastern gardens every morning.
Six years old.
Breathing hard.
Not crying.
The Dauphin of France was supposed to be fragile.
Yet Louis-Auguste — once Kenji Sato — forced his tiny legs forward until his lungs screamed. His nightshirt clung to his back with sweat, hair damp against his brow.
Five laps.
Then ten.
He collapsed near the hedges, chest burning.
A maid rushed toward him.
"Mon Dieu! Your Highness, you must not—"
"Water," he said calmly.
She froze.
The prince never asked servants kindly.
He ordered and took everything for granted.
"This prince has changed."
And the words spread.
At breakfast, the nobles watched him instead of their plates.
Normally the prince played with honey cakes.
Today he ignored sweets entirely and reached for boiled eggs and meat.
Duc de Richelieu raised an eyebrow.
"Your Highness, that is… quite the appetite."
Louis-Auguste met his gaze.
"I am training."
A silence heavier than velvet fell over the table.
Training.
For what?
Kings did not train.
They inherited.
The boy cut his meat neatly, posture straight, eyes steady.
Someone coughed.
Someone whispered.
The prince has changed.
That afternoon, Louis was summoned by his grandfather.
King Louis XV reclined on a golden chaise, powdered face masked by boredom.
"So," the king said lazily, "my little Dauphin is becoming an athlete now?"
Louis bowed with perfect form.
"Your Majesty, a king who cannot endure hardship cannot rule."
The room stilled.
That was not a child's phrase.
The king studied him.
"You have been reading again?"
"Yes, Sire."
"Politics?"
"Yes, Sire."
A faint smile crept across the old monarch's lips.
"Interesting."
The audience ended swiftly — too swiftly.
Which was dangerous.
That night, the whispers sharpened.
The tutors compared notes.
The servants repeated rumors.
The nobles laughed nervously.
The prince is cursed.
The prince is possessed.
The prince stares like a general.
Within a week, all of Versailles knew.
The boy who once hid behind curtains now walked like he owned the palace.
Louis sat alone in his chamber, candle flickering.
Future knowledge was a blade.
Use it too openly — and the court would fear him.
Use it too little — and fate would kill him.
He needed allies.
And enemies to mark.
He opened a thin ledger smuggled from the royal archives.
Maximilien Robespierre — born 1758, Arras.
Four years old.
A nobody.
One day, the architect of terror.
Louis closed the book slowly.
"So that's where you are," he murmured.
Another page.
Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna — Archduchess of Austria. Born 1755. Age: Five. Vienna.
Not in France yet.
Not his queen yet.
Just a little girl practicing music beneath Austrian chandeliers, unaware her fate was drifting toward Versailles.
Louis walked to the tall window overlooking moonlit gardens.
"Wait for me," he whispered.
Because this time, when she arrived in France, she would not meet a weak prince doomed by history.
She would meet a king who had already decided to conquer destiny.