Late May, 1828 — Ballhausplatz, Vienna, Late Evening
In the grand halls of Austrian power, few names held more weight than Prince Klemens von Metternich. He was no general, no master of domestic affairs, but on the chessboard of European diplomacy, he moved pieces with cold precision and elegant charm. During Austria's darkest hours—when Napoleon's cannons echoed through the Alps—it was Metternich who smiled, bowed, and bided his time. He had played the Emperor of France like a violin, marrying off the Emperor's son to an Austrian princess, only to stab the French throne in the back the moment the tides turned.
He was the mind behind the Congress of Vienna, the architect of the new Europe. For that, the Emperor of Austria entrusted him with the full weight of statecraft. And now, in the late spring of 1828, this master manipulator sat quietly in his private study, sipping black coffee as the scent of parchment and tobacco filled the air.
Across from him stood a man in dark formal wear—the official envoy of Charles X, King of France.
The envoy handed Metternich a sealed letter. The wax bore the fleur-de-lis—symbol of the Bourbon dynasty, etched in crimson.
Metternich broke the seal and read the contents in silence. Then, without a word, he held the letter over a candle. The flames licked the parchment until it curled into ash in a nearby tray.
"His Majesty thanks you," said the envoy with a thin smile, "for your commitment to… European peace."
He removed the silk covering from a lacquered wooden chest.
"Please accept these tokens of His Majesty's respect."
Inside were three rolled canvases—original works by Leonardo da Vinci, including a variant sketch of the Mona Lisa, acquired through the tangled web of war and theft. Beneath them rested a pouch of jewels that once belonged to French queens, and a set of bearer banknotes from the Rothschilds, with no names and no questions asked.
"His Majesty hopes these may enrich your appreciation of art… and your retirement," the envoy said meaningfully.
Metternich didn't blink. "I have already ensured that your men are within the traveling party. They departed this morning."
The envoy bowed deeply. "Once it is done, further gratitude awaits."
Metternich stood, folding his hands behind his back.
"My only concern is for the stability of Europe. Let us hope the... inconvenience is dealt with cleanly. I do not want blood on marble steps."
Outside, the warm sun of late May bathed Schönbrunn Palace in golden light. The young Duke of Reichstadt, known to few by his real name—Napoleon II, King of Rome—mounted a white stallion. For the first time in his life, Franz was leaving Vienna.
His heart beat fast, not with fear, but with something closer to freedom. The vast road stretched before him toward Transylvania, toward the unknown.
Behind him rode Count Reinhardt, his official guardian. The older man wore a grim expression, his brows furrowed beneath his hat.
"Count Reinhardt, are you unwell?" Franz asked, reining his horse beside him. "You're sweating. You should rest inside the carriage."
"I'm fine, Your Highness," Reinhardt replied quickly, forcing a smile. "Just a bit of dust in the air."
Franz frowned but let it go. He spurred ahead, eager to take in the world beyond the gilded cage of the court.
Reinhardt watched him disappear up the hill, then looked down at his gloved hands. They were trembling.
Just days earlier, he had been summoned to Metternich's office.
"Has the boy shown any signs of ambition?" the prince asked, his tone cold and sharp.
"No, Your Excellency," Reinhardt had answered. "He spends his days with music, poetry, and fencing. He seems to care little for politics."
"Good. Let's keep it that way."
Metternich rose and walked to the window, staring out toward the east.
"On the road to Transylvania, there are places where even the Emperor's eyes do not reach. Forests. Rebels. Accidents."
Reinhardt swallowed hard.
"I trust you will... not intervene unnecessarily."
"I serve the Empire, sir," Reinhardt said carefully.
"Indeed. And your family lives in Vienna, do they not?"
The message was clear.
Now, as the convoy crossed into Hungary, the count's heart weighed heavy with guilt. Franz was not just a ward. He had become something like a son.
And something terrible was coming.
In the far distance, dark clouds gathered—not in the sky, but in the hearts of men.
And somewhere in the shadows of the forested roads, a man with orders and no name waited for the right moment to strike.
The carriage rumbled into Budapest beneath a heavy June sun. Thunderclouds gathered on the horizon, as if a storm were waiting to break.
From the window, Franz watched the countryside pass by—fields scorched by heat, bent-backed peasants toiling in silence. A landowner barked orders from his carriage, lashing the ground with a whip:
"Hurry up, you dogs! You live off the empire's bread, now earn it!"
Franz clenched the curtain in his fist. The scene before him looked like something out of a history book—yet it was real, raw, and brutal. He had seen protests in New York, read about European serfdom, but witnessing this inequality with his own eyes stirred something deeper.
"Are we here as guests," he murmured to Count Reinhardt, "or as conquerors?"
The Count said nothing, but the tight grip on his riding crop gave the answer.
That evening, they dined at the estate of Baron Albrecht, the Imperial Governor of the region—an Austrian nobleman through and through. The dinner was opulent, with polished silverware and fine wines, but the food spoke volumes: not a single Hungarian dish was served.
Baron Albrecht raised a glass.
"May our royal guest find comfort," he said, "even in this... uncultivated land."
The officers laughed. One mocked the Hungarian language, twisting the phrase Haza és haladás—"Homeland and Progress"—into a sneezing sound.
The room erupted in laughter.
Franz forced a smile, but his stomach twisted. Not once during the evening had anyone spoken Hungarian. It was as if the very identity of the land was being erased.
Late that night, Franz returned alone to his guest room. Count Reinhardt had drunk too much and retired early. As Franz lay half-asleep, a strange scent filled the room—sweet and chemical, not like flowers, but something heavier.
His eyes snapped open. Instinctively, he covered his nose with a handkerchief and slipped from the bed, heart racing. His fingers reached for the sword by the nightstand.
Something creaked outside.
Suddenly, the window shattered. Shadows burst into the room—silent, swift, and deadly.
They wore traditional Hungarian garb, faces masked. Blades glinted in the moonlight.
Franz ducked the first slash, his sword barely drawn in time. His vision blurred. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
"They drugged the others," he realized. "It's just me."
He swung wildly, knocking one attacker back. His hand trembled, but he refused to give ground. Another attacker lunged. Franz twisted, his blade grazing the man's shoulder—blood sprayed, but no sound escaped.
Then, a blur leapt through the shattered window.
Steel clashed. A mask flew off.
"Merde!" the attacker hissed. Another shouted, "Retraite! Vite!"
Within seconds, the assassins vanished into the shadows.
"They spoke French," Franz noted through the haze. "They're not Hungarian."
His rescuer grabbed his arm. "We have to move—now."
They fled down backstairs, slipping through silent halls, then into dark alleys. The city seemed asleep, as if no one else had heard the fight.
When they finally stopped, Franz leaned against the wall, catching his breath. His rescuer pulled down his hood—a man in his early thirties, with sharp features and fierce eyes.
"They knocked out all your guards and servants," he said. "If we hadn't been watching, you'd be dead—and they'd blame it on Hungarian nationalists."
"Who are you?" Franz asked.
"Lajos Kossuth."
Franz stared. He knew that name. Hungary's most feared revolutionary. Vienna's worst nightmare.
A second man approached from the shadows—older, calmer, dressed in a green cloak.
"Count Benedek Széchenyi," he introduced himself. "My family has influence. But tonight, we are just men trying to stop a murder."
Franz stood straight, meeting their eyes. If these were the men history once called rebels, now was the time to speak.
"I am not the Habsburgs," Franz said slowly. "I'm Napoleon's son."
"I don't believe in conquest," he continued. "I believe in unity. But unity begins with dignity."
"I want to build a country where people live in freedom, equality, and prosperity. Where race, language, and religion don't divide—but law, education, and fairness unite."
He looked directly at the two men.
"If I ever reclaim the French throne—Hungary will have a seat in Parliament. Its own language. Its own culture. Its own future."
Silence hung in the air.
Then Kossuth stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"I will protect you in secret for as long as you remain in Hungary."
Széchenyi nodded beside him.
"We may not trust crowns, but we trust vision. After tonight, I'll convince my family—we won't stand against you."
Franz exhaled. His sword had saved him tonight—but these men, their belief, their loyalty… they were worth far more.
He was no longer just a guest of the empire.
He had taken the first step toward leading a people.