My own brother.
The words slammed into me with the force of a physical blow, turning my victory to ash in my mouth. This wasn't just treason anymore; it was a family reunion from hell.
The relief I had felt just moments before evaporated, replaced by a sick, cold dread. I looked at Marie. The brilliant smile was gone from her face, replaced by a mask of horrified disbelief.
"My brother?" The words were a choked whisper. "Artois?"
Captain De La Tour nodded grimly. "He was with the Duke, Your Majesty. I saw him with my own eyes."
There was no time to process. No time to feel the sting of betrayal. I had two traitors, caught in the act, in a room just down the hall. I had to move.
"Captain," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Secure the Duke's wing. No one enters or leaves. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Marie, stay here."
"No," she said, her voice shaking but firm. Her hand found mine, her fingers lacing through mine. "He betrayed you. He betrayed our family. I will face him with you."
Her strength was a steel rod against my spine. I squeezed her hand once, then we followed De La Tour down the silent, candlelit corridor, our footsteps echoing like drumbeats.
We found them in Polignac's grand study. The air was thick with the bitter smell of burnt paper. A fire roared in the marble fireplace, devouring the last of the evidence.
The Duc de Polignac stood before the blaze, his expression one of icy, aristocratic calm. He was a man cornered, but not yet broken. Beside him, my younger brother, the Comte d'Artois, lounged in an armchair, a half-empty glass of brandy in his hand. He looked bored, not scared.
My guards filed into the room, their swords drawn, blocking the only exit.
Artois looked up at me, a slow, insolent smirk spreading across his handsome face. He took a deliberate sip of his brandy. "Well, well," he drawled. "The little bookkeeper has finally grown a spine. Are you going to arrest your own brother, Louis?"
The casual, familiar insult, the complete lack of remorse—it was like a splash of ice water. Any lingering familial sentiment I might have had for this man vanished.
I ignored him. My eyes were locked on Polignac. "Burning the evidence, Duke?" I asked, my voice soft. "A bit cliché, don't you think?"
Polignac turned from the fire, his face a perfect, unreadable mask. "There is no evidence, Your Majesty," he said smoothly. "Only a private conversation between gentlemen, and a small, accidental fire. A misunderstanding."
On the expensive rug in front of him lay my dispatch box. It had been broken open, its lock smashed, its contents gutted. It looked like a dead animal.
"The only misunderstanding," I said, my voice dropping lower, "is that you seem to think this is over."
Artois laughed, a short, barking sound. "Oh, it is over, brother. You have nothing. The Captain's word against a Duke and a Prince of the Blood? No court in France would dare convict us." He stood up, swaggering towards me. "So what will you do now? Send me to my room without supper?"
His arrogance was breathtaking. He believed he was untouchable. And the worst part was, he was right. I had no physical proof. A public trial was impossible. It would tear the kingdom apart and make the monarchy look like a nest of squabbling, treacherous vipers.
He was daring me to act, knowing I was powerless.
Back in my own study, the weight of kingship crashed down on me. It was a physical thing, a crushing pressure on my chest that made it hard to breathe. I stood at the tall window, staring out into the black, starless night, seeing nothing.
I had won the battle, but I was about to lose the war. If I let them go, I was finished. It would be a catastrophic sign of weakness. Every noble with a grievance would see me as a toothless dog, all bark and no bite. The court would be ungovernable.
But what was the alternative?
Marie was pacing behind me, her silk dress rustling with every agitated step. "He is your brother, Louis!" she said, her voice filled with a pain I couldn't afford to feel right now. "There must be a way. A reconciliation. An apology..."
Her words trailed off. We both knew Artois would rather die than apologize.
"He chose his side," I said, my voice flat, my reflection a pale ghost in the dark glass. "The family he chose to protect was the Polignacs, not this one."
I was no longer thinking like a brother. Or a husband. Or even a man. I was thinking like a CEO brought in to clean up a failing, corrupt company. When you find a toxic executive who is actively sabotaging the firm, you don't reconcile. You don't ask for an apology.
You fire him. You strip him of his corner office, his stock options, and his company car. You make an example of him.
I turned from the window, my decision made. It was a cold, ruthless calculation. There were no good options, only degrees of disaster. I had to choose the one that would ensure the survival of the company—the Crown.
"I can't cut off my own brother's head," I said, my voice hard. I looked directly at her, letting her see the new, cold resolve in my eyes. "But I can cut off his allowance."
She stared at me, her eyes wide. "What do you mean?"
"I can't imprison him, but I can bankrupt him," I explained, the plan forming, sharp and clear, in my mind. "I can strip him of his royal pensions. His military titles. His apartments here at Versailles. I will make him a political and social nobody. It's a modern solution for an ancient problem: a golden exile."
The next morning, I summoned the court. Not for a trial, but for a judgment.
I sat on the throne of France, the heavy ceremonial robes feeling less like a costume and more like armor. The throne room was packed with stunned, whispering courtiers who had been hastily assembled. They knew something momentous was about to happen.
My brother Artois was brought before me. He still had that arrogant smirk on his face, though I could see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He clearly expected a private scolding, a slap on the wrist.
He was about to be very disappointed.
I didn't rise. I didn't greet him. I took a scroll from a minister and began to read, my voice amplified by the cavernous room's acoustics, each word falling like a hammer blow.
"By the authority vested in me as King of France," I began, "I hereby find Charles-Philippe, Comte d'Artois, to have engaged in conduct unbecoming a Prince of the Blood and detrimental to the stability of the Crown."
Artois's smirk vanished. A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Effective immediately," I continued, my voice like ice, "all royal pensions, stipends, and incomes granted to the Comte d'Artois are hereby revoked."
A collective gasp went through the room.
"His military command and all associated titles are forfeit. His apartments at the Palace of Versailles are to be vacated by sundown." I looked down from the throne, my gaze pinning my brother where he stood. "You are hereby exiled from court and banished to your estate at Saint-Cloud, there to remain until my royal pleasure dictates otherwise."
His face, once so confident, had turned a pasty white. It was a mask of slack-jawed disbelief. He was being politically and financially annihilated.
"You can't do this!" he finally sputtered, finding his voice. "I am your brother! A Prince of the Blood!"
"You were," I said coldly. "Today, you are merely a debtor to the Crown. I suggest you learn to live more modestly."
I then turned my gaze upon the Duc de Polignac, who stood among the assembled nobles, his face a pale, rigid mask.
"As for the Duc de Polignac and his family," I announced, my voice ringing with finality, "their invitation to court is permanently revoked. Their assets are frozen, pending a full audit of every sou they have ever received from the treasury."
It was an earthquake. I had decapitated the entire opposition faction in one clean, brutal stroke. I had sent a terrifying message to anyone else at court who might be considering defiance.
Later that afternoon, I was visited by an unlikely guest. My other brother, the Comte de Provence.
He swept into my study, a practiced, sympathetic smile on his smooth face. Historically, Provence was just as much of an intriguer as Artois, just smarter and more subtle about it.
"A masterful stroke, brother," he said, his voice like silk. "A bit brutal for my tastes, but undeniably effective. You've culled the herd."
"Artois made his own choices," I said, my voice flat. I didn't trust him for a second.
Provence wandered over to a large globe standing in the corner of the room, spinning it slowly with one finger. "Indeed. He always was a fool." He stopped the globe, his finger resting on the city of Paris. "But in solving one problem, brother, you may have overlooked a much larger one."
He turned to face me, his expression serious. "The Polignacs and their ilk are merely symptoms. The disease is the empty treasury. The people of Paris don't care about our petty palace intrigues. They care about the price of bread."
He wasn't here to congratulate me. He was here to warn me. And to remind me that if I failed to solve the real problem, he would be waiting in the wings to pick up the pieces of my broken crown.
He was right. I had been so focused on the enemy within the palace that I had forgotten about the one gathering outside its gates.
Just as Provence was leaving, my finance minister, Calonne, burst into the study. He didn't even wait to be announced. He was clutching a dispatch in his hand, his face the color of ash, his eyes wide with panic.
"Your Majesty!" he gasped, stumbling to a halt. "It's the harvest reports! From the south! I just received them."
He held out the paper with a trembling hand. "There's... there's nothing! A summer of hail storms and drought... the grain harvest has failed. Completely."
A pit of ice formed in my stomach. A failed harvest. In my old world, that meant a bad quarter for agricultural stocks and higher prices at the supermarket.
In 18th-century France, it meant mass starvation.
And mass starvation meant mobs with pitchforks and torches.
Provence's warning wasn't a prediction. It was a prophecy, and it was already coming true. The revolution wasn't a distant, historical threat anymore.
It was knocking on the goddamn door.