The cameras were already rolling when Henri stepped forward.
Behind him, the Brazilian sun filtered softly through tall arched windows, illuminating the silk fleur-de-lis draped over the back wall, an ancient symbol reborn for the modern age.
There were no handlers now.
No press agents, no advisors whispering from the wings.
Only a single microphone before him, and the eyes of a broken nation watching from afar.
He inhaled deeply, steadying himself.
"My fellow countrymen…" he began, his French clipped and perfect, the old courtly accent of a prince who had never forgotten the land that cast him out.
The weight of centuries hung on his shoulders, but he bore it with ease, his spine straight, his voice calm.
"I do not speak to you today as a pretender. I do not speak as an exile. I speak to you as a son of France."
He paused.
