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The Queen stood by the window, her shoulders taut and trembling as the mob’s chants grew louder. Rollant opened the door, gesturing for Lafayette to enter.

The commander knelt before her, his hat in hand.

“Your Majesty, the people demand to see you.” He hesitated, glancing at Rollant.

“However, I cannot promise your safety. But your presence may be the only way to calm them so that we can decide the next actions peacefully.” The slight tremor in his voice betrayed the gravity of his plea.

Marie Antoinette lifted her chin, her gaze darting between Rollant, Lafayette, and Louis. “If I refuse?” she asked, her voice steady but brittle.

Lafayette’s jaw tightened. “If you refuse, they will break through, and I will not be able to stop them.”

Marie Antoinette directed her next question to Rollant. “What are the chances of our family surviving if they break through successfully?”

Rollant did not want to answer. He shook his head and pressed his lips thin. “I would hope they would at least spare the children,” he said, knowing sometimes they did not. The weight of his words told her all she needed to know.

The Queen blinked back tears. “Then, I’ll do it,” she said with renewed vigor. “Even if it costs me my life.”

Rollant tilted his head back in admiration. Despite her fear, she held a firm resolve, in contrast to the king’s hesitation and Rollant’s own grim practicality.

Lafayette rose, offering his hand to the Queen. His voice softened, carrying his burdens. “Please know, Your Majesty, I ask this of you not as a traitorous soldier but as someone who wishes to save lives—yours, the King’s, your children’s.”

She nodded and placed her fingertips in his hand.

Louis stood. “I will go with you.”

But Rollant put his hand up to stop Louis. “Sire, if they kill both of you, your four-year-old son is king, with your eleven-year-old daughter as his regent. Do you want to leave them in this situation?”

“So I am supposed to sit here and let my wife face a murderous mob on her own?”

Rollant steadied Louis. “You are the king,” he said, implying her death would not be as impactful as his.

Lafayette bowed. “Sire, I will accompany the Queen, but we must not delay.”

Louis grunted as Lafayette escorted Marie Antoinette to the balcony beyond the antechamber alone.

The king paced the room. “I can’t believe I let my Queen go alone,” he muttered.

Rollant stared at the children, the sister consoling the brother. Louis Charles rubbed his belly. He pulled a piece of hardtack from his pocket and unwrapped it for the boy. He knelt before him.

“It doesn’t taste very good,” Rollant warned, “but it is food.”

Louis Charles looked at it, looked at his nodding sister, and then plucked it out of Rollant’s hand. He took a bite, and his face contorted. He handed it back.

Rollant stifled a chuckle. “Well, that one bite will help your belly,” he whispered.

Lafayette re-entered the room as Rollant stood. Louis stopped his pacing.

“They want the king in Paris as he promised,” the commander said. “The only way to calm the disorder and save your queen is to agree and reside in the capital.”

Rollant shook his head. More demands would lead to more demands.

More violence would lead to more violence.

He thought the era of savagery and brutish antics was over.

The heathens. But he fooled himself. Humans were animals in their basest form; all it took was a raving herd to strip away civility.

Lafayette pursed his lips and directed his attention to the king. “What say you, Your Majesty?”

“This is the last demand,” Rollant said in Louis’ silence. “And Sire, I suggest conditioning your response. You will move to Paris only if your family is unharmed and accompanies you.”

Louis nodded. “Yes, and to spare the lives of my bodyguard.”

Lafayette agreed. “Then I will urge the people to meet such conditions.”

He left and returned moments later. “They agree if the members of the King’s Bodyguard disarm themselves for the journey to Paris.”

Louis nodded in agreement and motioned to Rollant. “Captain, will you see to it?”

“As you command,” Rollant said, and he walked out to gather his men.

“Throw your bandoliers down,” he said, and was the first to take off the white and gold shoulder belt full of ammunition.

He held it over the balcony and dropped it.

The others followed. Forty bodyguards led the king and his family to the royal carriage at the stables beyond the gate.

A body of men armed with pikes and swords escorted the unarmed mass.

Once the royal family was secured in the carriage, Rollant ordered the wounded to follow first. Two of the national guards held each of the wounded bodyguards. Rollant ensured every guard member was accounted for on the remaining horses, save for the two beheaded guards in the Royal Courtyard.

Rollant muttered as he approached his mare, remembering the former Minister of War, “Well, General Chastenet, it seems your matter of moments was six hours. Where is the might of the Royal French Army you spoke of to save the king?”

He hated being right, and he hated it even more when no one listened.

He turned to mount his horse with the National Guard cavalry behind him, but élise stood before him.

He stopped mid-stride. The thought hadn’t occurred to him that she’d be among the masses, though there was no reason for her not to be. She might not have cared about her life, but he did.

“So, was it all a ruse?” she asked, her voice trembling and hands firmly on her hips. Her wide eyes glistened with unshed tears while the sting of betrayal burned her cheeks.

Answers flew through his mind. Not everything was a ruse, but the words stuck in his throat.

He doubted she would believe him. He doubted she would believe the reasons.

The thought of ending everything with her then amid chaos broke his heart, but maybe it was for the best. She was in too deep, leading marches on the palace and having spotted him.

He grabbed the reins and patted his mare’s mane, keeping silent.

“At least have the decency to answer me,” she said, crossing her arms. “The truth, this time.”

He turned his attention to securing his saddle.

He did not know how to respond. If he pushed her away, she would never allow him in her life again, which is what the rational mind told him he wanted anyway.

If he told her the full truth, she would think he was deranged.

She may or may not accept the half-truth if he told her that.

However, the curse weighed on his mind. What difference was there if she loved him as he loved her?

He could never hold her in his arms, never give her a life of love and happiness.

Her aching gasp when he pulled her close resounded in his memory.

It had shattered the space between them.

He’d frozen; his blood ran cold. He’d heard it twice, first with Amée, then with Ninette. He wouldn’t do it again.

With the resignation of cutting out his humanity once more, he said in the most monotonous tone he could muster, “Of course, it was all a ruse.”

Her arms dropped to her side. She pressed close to him. “Everything?” The whisper brushed his cheek.

Her question cut deeper than any pike. He wanted to tell her that no part of her had been a ruse. That she had become the only light in centuries of darkness. But the curse weighed heavier than her accusations. Loving her would only bring her ruin.

The words burned his throat as he forced them out.

“Yes, everything.”

Each syllable was a dagger in his chest, but it was better this way. Better for her to hate him than to die because of him.

élise sneered and punched him in the side. “You’re a pig,” she spat. Hate and hurt warred in her voice.

“The fattest kind,” he said, not acknowledging her but looking straight ahead like a good guard would do. He could feel her recoil from him, but it was for the better. Eventually, time would claim her like all the rest.

She shoved him and then spat at his feet. He recovered with ease and mounted his horse. He did not look at her; he couldn’t, or he’d jump down and beg her forgiveness.

She hit his leg with a closed fist. “I hate you,” she gritted.

“Move aside, Mademoiselle,” he said, pulling himself into the eternal stasis that had kept him from losing his mind for the last six hundred years.

He clicked his heels into the mare’s sides, and the horse jolted forward as the carriage rolled down the long road on the path to the Tuileries Palace in Paris with two bodyguards’ heads on pikes leading the crowd.

It was done.

She was free.

The carriage creaked forward, its wheels grinding against the cobblestones as the crowd surged around it.

Shouts of “Vive la Nation!” rang in Rollant’s ears, mingling with the crude insults hurled at the Queen.

Ahead, the pikes swayed like grim banners, their grisly trophies dripping blood under the noon sun.

Rollant gripped the reins tighter, the leather biting into his palm. The end was coming for Louis, for the Queen, for them all, but not for him. He would remain a relic of another time, a silent witness to history’s endless cruelty.

Alone.

Always alone.

And once again, Rollant would remain—an eternal witness to the fall of kings and the slow, painful decay of love. And as he rode on, élise’s final words echoed in his mind, sharper than the jeers of the crowd: I hate you.