Inside Hradčany Castle, the Cabinet sat in near silence.
They had gathered hours before dawn, called by Beneš himself after yet another Sudeten town erupted in shouts the night before.
"Two more Czech post offices vandalized. One set aflame," Kamil Krofta said quietly, sliding the report across the polished oak table.
President Edvard Beneš didn't reach for it.
His eyes were locked on a black-and-white film reel projecting against the far wall.
Henlein's rally in Karlsbad.
The voice was off, but the gesture spoke clearly Henlein's hand raised, his face sharp with the confidence of a man who knew he was backed by someone larger than himself.
"He's not pleading anymore," Beneš murmured. "He's issuing ultimatums with polite grammar."
Krejčí broke the stillness. "We're watching a performance, Mr. President. Berlin is writing the script. He's just the actor."
"And we," Beneš said bitterly, "are the audience. Silent. Ticket holders to our own humiliation."
No one responded.
