Schönbrunn Palace, Vienna, 1828
Since Sophie had married into the Habsburg family four years ago, Franz had gained more than a royal aunt—he had found a companion.
Though six years older, Sophie treated him as an equal. The two often spent afternoons together painting, playing piano duets, reading poetry, and discussing literature. Franz admired her intellect and grace, and Sophie found joy in his sharp mind and quiet strength. Her husband, Archduke Franz Karl, was mild-mannered and dull—more a fixture of protocol than a partner. It wasn't a secret in the palace that Sophie had married for duty, not love.
Thanks to Sophie's quiet protection over the years, no one in the imperial court dared to look down on Franz, despite his father's name. While he was technically a French prince raised among Austrians, he had carved out a space of dignity and respect within the palace walls.
Now Franz was seventeen—tall, composed, and strikingly handsome. His guardian, Count Kaspar von Reinhardt, described him as "clever, disciplined, and resilient." Palace staff whispered among themselves that the young duke had become the most attractive figure in Schönbrunn.
One spring afternoon, Austrian Chancellor Prince Metternich arrived at the palace for a routine meeting with the Emperor. As he walked through the marble corridors, he paused near the rose garden when he heard the faint sound of music and laughter.
In the golden light of late afternoon, he saw them.
Sophie, dressed in soft pink silk with pearls in her hair, stood beside Franz, who wore a dark blue coat and carried a leather-bound book. They were surrounded by a few attendants as they spoke softly, pointing at passages from Goethe and laughing gently. The ease between them, the closeness, did not escape Metternich's sharp eyes.
"Even a daughter-in-law of Austria," he thought grimly, "can become the pawn of an ambitious prince."
He stepped forward.
Franz noticed him immediately and offered a polite bow. "Good afternoon, Prince Metternich."
"Afternoon, Your Highness. What are you reading?"
"Goethe's Faust," Franz replied. "We were talking about how Mephistopheles represents not just evil, but a kind of seductive power."
Metternich raised an eyebrow. "And what do you think power is?"
Franz looked him in the eye. "A shadow. The closer you get to the light, the harder it is to see clearly."
The Chancellor said nothing at first. But in that moment, he saw it all: the charm, the intellect, the awareness. Franz was no longer a boy. He was beginning to connect with others. He had influence. And Sophie—who was once seen as just a royal bride—was now his closest ally.
When Metternich finally reached the Emperor's private study, he spoke with purpose.
"Your Majesty," he began, "some events are already underway. Others must be prevented before they begin."
He laid out his case.
Reports had come from France—rumors in army barracks that "the Emperor's son still lives." In Italy, Sophie's mother had heard crowds chant "Vive Napoléon II" beneath her balcony. And here in Vienna, the boy once thought quiet and fragile was now a young man with presence, discipline, and ambition.
"He has completed his foundational studies," Metternich said. "He studies German, Italian, and mathematics, trains his body, and understands military tactics. At twelve, we made him a cadet in name. But we cannot let him take real command or gain real loyalty."
He lowered his voice.
"He's winning hearts. Especially Sophie's. That makes him dangerous."
The Emperor folded his hands. "What do you suggest?"
"Send him to a closed military academy—somewhere distant from court and far from influence. Later, arrange a politically safe marriage. Give him structure, not opportunity."
"A palace with no doors," the Emperor said quietly.
Metternich gave a tight nod. "Precisely."
Back in the gardens, sunlight bathed the sculptures and vines. Franz and Sophie stood side by side, her fingers lightly resting on the edge of a music book. They laughed again, unaware of the shadows gathering behind them.
They were just two figures in a blooming garden.
But in the eyes of the empire, one was a spark. The other, a torchbearer.
And the game had already begun.