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.