The mirror lied.
It showed a man in a black coat. A man with sharp cheekbones and perfect posture. A man who looked like a King.
But I knew the truth.
I wasn't a man. I was a biological error.
I adjusted the collar of my uniform. It was the National Guard dress blues, stripped of gold braid. Minimalist. Severe.
The fabric felt wrong. Too rough. Too loud.
Every time I moved, the friction of wool against silk sounded like sandpaper on bone. Scritch. Scritch.
"Your Majesty?"
I turned.
My valet, Pierre, stood holding my boots. He was trembling.
I could smell him.
Not just sweat. I smelled the cortisol spiking in his blood. I smelled the onions he'd eaten for lunch. I smelled the decay of a cavity in his rear molar.
It was disgusting.
"Put them down," I said.
My voice was too loud. It resonated in the small dressing room.
Pierre dropped the boots. He backed away, eyes fixed on my face.
I knew why.
I hadn't put on my spectacles yet.
My eyes were spinning. The golden irises clicked and whirred, focusing on the dust motes in the air, then on Pierre's dilated pupils.
I picked up the smoked glasses from the table. Dark quartz lenses in wire frames.
I put them on.
The world went dim. The sensory overload dialed back from "Agony" to "Manageable."
"Leave me," I said.
Pierre fled.
I sat on the bench to pull on my boots.
My hands didn't shake. I laced them up with mechanical precision. Left over right. Tight. Perfect tension.
I stood up.
I checked the time.
6:00 PM. Vespers.
"Time to go to church," I whispered.
I walked out of the dressing room. I didn't head for the main staircase. I turned left, toward the Prince's wing.
I needed to see him.
The guard outside Charles's door saluted. He looked terrified.
I opened the door.
The room was freezing.
Literally freezing. My breath plumed in the air.
Charles was sitting on his bed. He was wrapped in three blankets.
He wasn't shivering. He was perfectly still.
He held a slate in his lap. He was writing equations with a piece of chalk.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
I walked closer.
The air around him felt like the inside of a freezer. The Golden Ichor had burned hot in me, but in him... it had inverted. He was a heat sink. He was sucking the warmth out of the room.
"Charles," I said.
He didn't look up.
"The variable is unstable," Charles murmured. His voice was flat. "The entropy coefficient is too high."
"We stabilized it," I said. "You're alive."
He stopped writing.
He looked at me.
His eyes were gold too. But they weren't spinning like mine. They were still. Dead pools of liquid metal.
"Alive," Charles repeated. "Is that what we are?"
He held up the slate.
It wasn't math.
It was a drawing. A wolf eating its own tail.
"I'm cold, Father," Charles whispered. "I'm so cold."
I reached out to touch him.
I stopped.
If I touched him, I might break him. My strength was uncalibrated. And his skin was probably brittle as ice.
"I have to go out," I said. "I have to secure the loan."
"The Austrian?" Charles asked.
"Yes."
"He's at Notre Dame," Charles said. "He prays at 6:15. Third pew. Left side."
I stared at him. "How do you know that?"
Charles tapped his temple.
"I extrapolated his schedule based on his Catholic guilt index," Charles said. "He feels bad about the treaty. He seeks absolution."
He went back to writing.
"Don't kill the Archbishop," Charles added. "The PR would be bad."
I stepped back.
My son was gone. The boy who loved toy soldiers was dead.
In his place was a calculator. A cold, efficient machine.
Just like me.
"I won't kill him," I said. "I'm just going to audit him."
I closed the door.
I walked down the hallway. My boots clicked on the marble.
Click. Click.
The sound was comforting. It was orderly.
I reached the courtyard.
Talleyrand was waiting by the carriage. He looked nervous.
"Your Majesty," Talleyrand said. "The Austrian Embassy is prepared..."
"Change of plans," I said, climbing into the carriage. "Notre Dame."
Talleyrand blinked. "Church? But sir, the streets... the riots..."
"Drive," I ordered.
The carriage lurched forward.
Paris was a nightmare.
The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the cobblestones.
The "Blue Drop" shortage had hit hard.
The sidewalks were lined with bodies. Men and women curled in the fetal position, shaking.
Some were screaming. Others were tearing at their own skin.
A woman ran at the carriage. Her face was gaunt, her eyes wild. She hammered on the window.
"Blue! Give me Blue!"
I looked at her.
Through the smoked glass, she looked like a skeleton. I saw the tremors in her hands.
Dopamine crash. Serotonin depletion. Survival probability: 12%.
My brain supplied the data instantly.
I felt... nothing.
No pity. No horror.
Just annoyance. She was slowing us down.
"Drive faster!" I yelled at the coachman.
He whipped the horses.
We turned onto the bridge. Notre Dame loomed ahead.
It was dark. The EMP had killed the few gas lamps in the square. The cathedral was a black mountain against the purple sky.
But inside... inside it was glowing.
Thousands of candles.
We stopped.
I kicked the door open before the footman could reach it.
"Stay here," I told Talleyrand.
"Sir, you can't go in alone!" Talleyrand hissed. "Archbishop Juigné hates you. He has Swiss Guards inside."
"I'm counting on it," I said.
I walked up the steps.
The great doors were open. The smell of incense and unwashed bodies rolled out.
I stepped into the nave.
It was packed. Refugees. Addicts. Soldiers. They were all huddled in the pews, praying for salvation from the darkness.
I walked down the center aisle.
My boots were loud.
Click. Click. Click.
Heads turned.
They saw the black coat. The smoked glasses. The way I moved.
A murmur started. "The King? Is that the King?"
I ignored them.
I locked onto my target.
The Altar.
Archbishop Juigné was there, wearing his gold mitre. He was holding a monstrance, blessing the crowd.
And kneeling in the front row...
Ambassador Metternich.
The Austrian.
He was praying with his eyes closed, clutching a rosary.
Perfect.
I kept walking.
A Swiss Guard stepped into my path. He held a halberd.
"Halt!" he said. "Mass is in session."
I didn't stop.
I walked straight at him.
He lowered the spear point.
"I said halt!"
I moved.
My hand snapped out. I grabbed the shaft of the halberd.
I didn't pull it away. I crushed it.
The wood splinted in my grip. SNAP.
The Guard stared at the broken weapon.
I shoved him. Gently.
He flew backward ten feet. He hit a pillar and slid down, unconscious.
The murmur turned into a gasp.
I kept walking.
I reached the altar rail.
Juigné looked down. He saw me.
His face went white.
"You..." he whispered. "You're dead."
"I got better," I said.
I vaulted the rail.
I didn't use the stairs. I just jumped. A four-foot vertical leap. Effortless.
I landed next to him.
Metternich opened his eyes. He looked up.
He saw a man in black standing over the Archbishop.
"Your Excellency," I said to the Ambassador.
Metternich scrambled back, dropping his rosary.
"Your Majesty?" Metternich stammered. "But... the reports..."
"Administrative error," I said.
I turned to Juigné.
The Archbishop was trembling. He held the monstrance like a shield.
"Get back, demon!" Juigné shouted. "I know what you are! You melted the relics! You serve the Devil!"
The crowd went silent.
"I serve the budget," I said. "And you are currently overdrawn."
I leaned in close.
"The Ledger, Juigné," I whispered. "Page 402. The orphanage in Lyon. The funds you diverted to your mistress in Nice."
Juigné froze.
His eyes widened.
"You... you wouldn't..."
"I would," I said. "I'll nail the pages to the cathedral doors. Martin Luther style."
Juigné lowered the monstrance. He looked defeated.
"What do you want?" he hissed.
"Bless me," I said.
"What?"
"Bless me," I repeated. "In front of him." I pointed at Metternich. "Tell the Ambassador that God has returned me to France. Tell him I am the anointed King."
Juigné looked at Metternich. He looked at the crowd.
He looked at my hand, which was resting on the marble altar.
I pressed down.
CRACK.
A spiderweb fracture appeared in the stone slab.
Juigné flinched.
"Kneel," the Archbishop said, his voice shaking.
I knelt.
I didn't bow my head. I looked straight at Metternich.
Juigné dipped his thumb in the holy oil.
He pressed it to my forehead.
"I... I bless you," Juigné stammered. "Louis, King of France... returned from the shadow of death..."
SIZZLE.
The oil touched my skin.
It smoked.
A thin wisp of grey steam rose from my forehead.
The crowd gasped.
"A miracle!" someone shouted. "The Holy Spirit touches him!"
I smiled.
It wasn't the Holy Spirit. It was my body heat boiling the oil. My metabolism was running too hot.
But they didn't know that.
I stood up.
I looked down at Metternich.
I took off my glasses.
I let him see the eyes.
The gold irises spun. Click. Whirr.
Metternich stared into them. He saw the geometry. He saw the unnatural light.
He stopped breathing.
"Tell Francis," I said softly.
My voice carried through the silent cathedral.
"Tell him the debt is paid. Tell him France is open for business."
I leaned closer.
"And tell him," I whispered, so only he could hear, "that if one Austrian soldier crosses the Rhine... I will come to Vienna. I will find him in his bed. And I will liquidate his assets."
Metternich's eyes rolled back in his head.
He fainted.
He slumped onto the stone floor in a heap of velvet and lace.
I stepped over him.
I turned to the crowd.
I raised my hand.
"Go home!" I shouted. "The King is awake! The Audit is over!"
A cheer went up. It started low, then grew. A roar of relief and terror.
"Long live the King!"
I walked back down the aisle.
I put my glasses back on.
I didn't feel triumphant. I felt efficient.
Message delivered. War averted.
Now for the hard part.
I had to fix the world.
And I was running out of time.
I walked out into the night.
Talleyrand was waiting by the carriage. He saw me coming. He saw the crowd cheering behind me.
He smiled. A thin, reptile smile.
"Dinner is served, sir?"
"Dinner is served," I said. "Drive."
We rolled away into the darkness.
Behind us, the cathedral glowed like a furnace.
And somewhere in London, a clock was ticking.
I could hear it.
Even from here.