At the Palace of Versailles, a row of servants stood waiting beneath the archway as the carriage came to a stop.
They were arranged by rank and function, not symmetry. Stewards closest to the doors. Footmen a step behind. Clerks holding ledgers at the edge, already tracking arrivals and timing.
Napoleon II stepped down.
A man broke from the line and approached him at once.
He was old. Not frail, but worn in the way of someone who had served too long to waste motion. White hair pulled neatly back. Deep lines carved into his face, not from age alone but from habit—listening more than speaking, watching more than reacting. His coat was immaculate without being new.
"Your Imperial Highness," the man said, bowing just enough. "I am Beaumont. Your chamberlain."
Napoleon II inclined his head. "You've been here a long time."
Beaumont allowed a thin smile. "Long enough to know what changes and what endures."
He gestured inward. "If you'll allow me, I'll show you to your apartments."
