The first true battle Louis fought was not against nobles, ministers, or fate.
It was against his own flesh.
The palace physicians declared him delicate, cursed by weak lungs and fragile bones. Servants hovered like shadows, ready to catch him if he stumbled. To Versailles, the Dauphin was porcelain — beautiful, but never meant to endure pressure.
Louis despised that word.
Porcelain shattered.
Kings did not.
Every dawn before the palace stirred, he slipped into the eastern gardens accompanied only by a single loyal guard, a young common-born man named Étienne Moreau. Étienne had once served in the army before a wound forced him into palace duty. He was sharp-eyed, quiet, and more importantly, unknown to the nobles.
"Five laps," Étienne said one morning.
"Ten," Louis replied, already moving.
By the third lap his legs trembled. By the seventh his lungs screamed. By the tenth he could barely see.
But he did not stop.
When he collapsed into the grass, Étienne sat beside him.
"You will destroy yourself, Your Highness."
Louis stared up at the pale morning sky.
"I will rebuild myself."
His diet changed.
Butter and pastries vanished from his table. Meat, fruit, and thick broths replaced them. The cooks protested. The doctors scolded.
The prince did not care.
At night he practiced lifting iron candlesticks, counting each breath.
One
Two
Three
His arms burned until tears welled in his eyes — but he swallowed them.
A king who wept in private still died in public.
The court noticed.
The Dauphin's shoulders broadened slightly. His cheeks lost their softness. His walk became measured, deliberate.
More dangerous than his body was his gaze.
The nobles said nothing aloud, but they whispered behind fans and gloves.
He stares like a general.
He no longer bows his head.
The child frightens me.
Rumors flowed beyond Versailles, drifting into Paris like sparks.
The prince is possessed.
The prince studies war.
The prince refuses sweet cakes like a monk.
The people laughed.
Then they wondered.
One afternoon, Louis passed a group of children playing in the gallery — sons of minor nobles. They froze when they saw him, bows half-formed, uncertain whether to fear or mock.
He stopped before a boy who smirked.
"You," Louis said.
The boy flushed. "Y-Yes, Your Highness?"
"Hit me."
Gasps.
The boy stared in horror. "M-Mon dieu, I cannot—"
"Do it."
The fist landed weakly against Louis's shoulder.
Pain flared.
Louis did not move.
"Again."
The second strike was harder.
Louis stepped back, nodded once, and turned away.
Étienne followed silently.
Later that evening, Louis's father stormed into his chamber.
"Have you lost your mind?" the Dauphin demanded. "You invite violence?"
Louis met his gaze without flinching.
"I invite reality."
Silence.
The Dauphin exhaled slowly.
"You are not my son," he murmured.
Louis bowed.
"No," he said softly. "I am your successor."
That night, as he lowered aching limbs into bed, Louis stared at the ceiling.
A weak king could rule in peace.
A strong king could survive chaos.
And chaos was coming.