The silence in the hall wasn't fear anymore; it was the sound of a thousand years of history breaking.
My proposal hung in the air, a mad, beautiful, terrifying thing. An army for the people, commanded by the Assembly. A king giving away his monopoly on violence. For a long second, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then a single delegate from the Third Estate, a lawyer from Dauphiné, leaped to his feet. "I second the King's motion!" he roared.
The hall exploded.
It wasn't a debate; it was a coronation. The delegates of the Third Estate were on their feet, cheering, shouting, waving their hats in the air. The motion was called. The vote was a formality, a landslide. The creation of the National Guard was approved in less time than it took to read the proposal.
My brother, Provence, stood alone and forgotten by the podium. His face was ashen, the face of a man who had not just lost a battle, but had watched the entire world he knew burn to the ground. He had been rendered utterly, completely irrelevant.
As the delegates swirled in a chaotic celebration, he slowly walked down from the stage. His path took him right past me. He stopped. His eyes, when they met mine, were not filled with the hot rage of a loser. They were empty. Cold. A calm, reptilian hatred lay deep within them, a promise of a reckoning that would come on a day and in a manner I could not possibly predict.
He didn't say a word. He just gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn't a concession. It was a vow. Then he turned and walked out of the hall, a ghost at his own funeral.
In the joyful chaos, a figure materialized at my side. Maximilien Robespierre. His face was not celebratory. It was intense, analytical, his sharp eyes evaluating me like a specimen.
"A masterful move, Your Majesty," he said, his voice a low hum that cut through the noise. "You have bound the arm of the people to the will of this Assembly."
He paused, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "But remember this. The people are a tool of pure justice. A tool can be turned against its master, should that master's hand falter, or prove itself unjust."
It was a warning, delivered with the cold precision of a surgeon. He was my ally in this moment, but he was not, and would never be, my subordinate. He was reminding me that he served an idea, not a man. The ticking time bomb of our alliance had just had its fuse cut dangerously short.
"Justice is the only master I intend to serve, Mr. Robespierre," I said, meeting his gaze without flinching.
I left the celebrating Assembly and returned to my chambers. A new army had been born on paper. Now I had to face the reality of the mob that was its parent. There was no question of what I had to do next. I couldn't send a general. I couldn't send a decree. I had to go myself.
Marie was waiting for me. She had been watching from the windows, had heard the cheers. She knew. The moment I started pulling on my riding boots, her face went pale.
"You cannot go to Paris," she said, her voice a strained whisper. She moved to block my path to the door, her hands coming up to press against my chest. They were trembling. "It is a hornet's nest. A pit of snakes. They will tear you apart."
Her eyes were wide, filled with a terror that was purely personal. "I did not save you from an assassin's poison just to lose you to a mob's pike."
I took her hands in mine, holding them tight. "Marie, they are rioting because they think I am a prisoner here. They think I am your puppet, a puppet of the court. They think the aristocrats are still in control."
I looked her in the eye, trying to pour all my conviction into my words. "If I send a general, it proves them right. If I hide behind these walls, I become their enemy. I have to go to them. I have to look them in the eye and show them I am not their prisoner. I have to show them I am with them. It is the only way to stop this."
"You are not just a king, Louis," she whispered, her voice breaking, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "You are my husband. You are a father to our children."
"And the only way I can protect our children," I said, my own voice rough with an emotion I couldn't name, "is to protect our country from tearing itself apart."
I pulled her into a fierce, desperate hug, then let her go before I lost my nerve.
I rode out from Versailles not with an army, but with a small delegation from the Assembly. I had insisted Robespierre and a few other key leaders of the Third Estate come with me. Unity, and my partnership with them, had to be a visible, physical thing.
The closer we got to Paris, the more the world changed. The manicured fields gave way to trampled farmland. The air grew thick with the smell of smoke. In the distance, we saw it—a great, black plume rising from the center of the city, a funeral pyre for the old regime. The Bastille.
We were met at the city's edge, not by guards, but by a makeshift barricade of overturned carts, furniture, and paving stones. Behind it, the mob.
It was a living, breathing creature. Thousands of men and women, a churning sea of humanity. Their faces were smudged with soot and grime, their voices hoarse from shouting. They were armed with everything they could find. New muskets looted from the armories, ancient pikes dragged out of cellars, heavy woodcutting axes, sharpened farm scythes. The air smelled of cheap wine, unwashed bodies, and burning wood. This was not an army. It was an element. A force of nature.
They saw our small party approaching. A hush fell, rippling outwards from the barricade, quickly followed by a deep, guttural roar. It was impossible to tell if it was a cheer or a threat.
The sea of people parted, and a man walked forward to meet us.
He was huge, a mountain of a man, built like an ox with arms as thick as my legs. He wore a heavy leather apron, stained dark with old, dried blood. A butcher. He had become their de facto leader, their champion.
He walked with a heavy, deliberate tread, and in one massive hand he held a long, crude pike. Stuck on the end of it was not a flag. It was the governor of the Bastille's head. The face was a pale, bloody ruin, but the powdered white wig was still attached, askew, swaying gently in the breeze.
My stomach turned to ice. Robespierre beside me went rigid, his face a mask of fascinated horror.
The butcher stopped ten feet from my horse. He ignored the Assembly delegates. He ignored Robespierre. His small, dark eyes were fixed on me. He didn't bow. He didn't offer a greeting.
He lifted the pike. Not pointing it at me, but gesturing with it, towards the smoking heart of Paris behind him. His voice was a low, gravelly roar that carried over the hushed crowd.
"You're with us, 'People's King'?" he demanded, the title both a plea and a challenge. "Then prove it."
He jabbed the pike towards the city again. "March with us. Help us finish the audit."
He was asking me to lead them. To put my royal seal of approval on this bloody, chaotic, terrifying new world. To sanctify their violence with my presence.
I looked from the head on the pike to the thousands of desperate, angry faces watching me, waiting. My answer would determine if I was their king, or their next victim.