Budapest, Summer 1828
The morning sun sliced through the thick curtains, casting light on the chaotic hotel room. The air was thick with the smell of cheap wine mixed with a strange, sickly-sweet scent. Greta's scream tore through the silence.
"The Prince is gone! My God—!"
Greta stumbled down the stairs, her hair a mess, clutching the crimson cloak she was supposed to have ironed. In the main hall, the hungover attendants jolted awake, and the guards scrambled for their weapons.
Just then, the oak door let out a long, drawn-out groan and slowly opened. Everyone froze, their eyes fixed on the source of the sound.
Franz stood framed in the doorway, between the morning light and the shadows of the hall. His deerskin boots were caked with dew and mud, and the hem of his black coat was damp, as if he'd stood out in the night for a long time. The edge of his glove had a faint, dark red tinge, as though it had been soaked in some liquid and then carefully wiped clean.
"It seems," his voice was soft, yet it made the air solidify, "that you all slept very soundly."
Count Kaspar von Reinhardt's pupils contracted. He noticed a fresh scrape on the prince's left knuckles—not the kind of injury one gets from riding. But what truly chilled him was the faint dark stain slowly congealing on the mouth of Franz's sword sheath, a blade usually worn only for decoration.
The Count, his face pale, looked straight at Franz, his eyes full of pain and conflict. "Your Highness, I... I passed out from the drink last night and failed to protect you. Please... punish me severely!" His voice was hoarse, with a practiced hint of panic.
Franz calmly tossed his glove onto a table, his eyes fixed on the Count with a cool, detached look. In his mind, he scoffed: "In my time, we call that a mole, not a drunkard." "This isn't the first time you've disappointed me. I hope it's the last."
Moments later, Baron Albrecht arrived with his men, his face grim and anxious. He strode over to Franz, quickly bowing. "Your Highness, my soldiers discovered something amiss on patrol! There have been strangers around the inn, and I suspect villains broke in last night. I've already ordered roadblocks and started a search."
The Baron's sharp gaze swept over the attendants, finally stopping on Franz, his eyes full of scrutiny and concern. "To dare to harm a member of the royal family in Budapest is an insult to the Empire! I will report this to Vienna immediately and suggest you postpone your journey until the culprits are caught! You must allow me to increase your guard!"
Franz knew that accepting the Baron's advice would ruin his fake death plan. He had to dismiss the Baron's concerns without revealing his true intentions.
Franz gave a faint smile, one that held an unnatural calm. "Baron, your vigilance is commendable. But do you truly believe they came for my belongings?" He gestured to the messy room, his voice full of disdain. "The fact that they dared to act here shows they care nothing for your search. They want my head, not a few trinkets."
Franz moved closer to the Baron, his voice low and commanding. "If I stay here, I'll only give them a second chance. My grandfather, Franz I, would hate to see his son cower in fear like a coward." His eyes were as sharp as daggers, piercing the Baron's resolve. "I will not let these ruffians stop me. Your duty is not to impede me, but to clear a path. We will depart as planned, at once!"
The Baron was stunned by Franz's demeanor. In his eyes, he saw a shadow of Napoleon—that same decisiveness and disregard for danger. He knew this prince was far more formidable than he had imagined.
He gritted his teeth and finally bowed. "Understood, Your Highness! But please, allow me to send more guards to ensure your safety!"
Franz gave a cold laugh. "There's no need. I have my own arrangements." He turned to Count Reinhardt, his gaze meaningful. "Isn't that right, Count?"
The Count's body tensed. He understood Franz's hidden message.
Afterward, Franz announced they would leave as planned. Count Reinhardt looked hesitant, as if wanting to delay the journey, but Franz ended his thoughts with a single sentence: "We will not let unfounded fears keep us from the night."
The carriage was ready, and Franz was about to leave the inn when the Count hurried to his side, his voice a low whisper. "Your Highness, I need a word with you, in private."
Franz stopped, turning to him with eyes as cold as iron. He waved his guards back and walked to a secluded corner of the inn's courtyard.
"Speak, Count." Franz's voice was calm but filled with undeniable authority.
The Count took a deep breath. He looked directly into Franz's eyes, seeing not the gentle boy he had known for a decade, but an emperor with a deep, cold resolve. "Your Highness, you... you didn't drink the wine last night." The Count went straight to the facts, hoping to earn Franz's trust.
Franz raised an eyebrow, a hint of a sarcastic smile on his lips. "Are you telling me this now to use moral outrage to cover up your submission to power?"
"No! Your Highness, never!" the Count pleaded, his voice trembling with anguish. "I... I was summoned by Prince Metternich before we left Vienna. He told me to stand by. How could I ever harm you? I watched you grow up. You… you are like my own son..." His voice broke.
A complex mix of emotions flickered in Franz's eyes—anger, disappointment, but mostly a weary understanding of human nature. He leaned closer to the Count, his voice low and commanding: "Count, your hands may be clean, but your soul is stained. And that stain was your own choice."
The Count's body shuddered. He felt Franz's words pierce him like a knife. He knew Franz was right; his choice was a stain he could never wash away.
"Your Highness, I... I beg to make amends!" The Count fell to his knees, his forehead pressed against the cold stone. "Just give me a chance, and I will do anything for you!"
Franz was silent for a moment. He looked at the man who had taught him swordplay and German, now kneeling in desperation. He knew Metternich's plot was not just to kill him, but to test the loyalty of everyone around him. And Count Reinhardt was merely a victim torn apart by the pressures of power. In his mind, Franz said to himself: "In this era, emotion is a luxury. Interest is the only truth."
"Get up, Count." Franz's voice regained its calm but undeniable authority. "I won't punish you now. But from this moment on, you have two choices: either you remain loyal to Metternich and become his discarded pawn, or you help me at a crucial moment and redeem yourself."
Franz didn't look at him again. He turned and strode to the carriage, leaving Count Reinhardt alone on his knees. His fate, and Franz's future, had taken a drastically different turn because of this private conversation.