December 1806.
Vienna.
The halls of the Hofburg Palace were colder than usual this winter — not from the failing fires, but from the chill that settled among the diplomats.
In a long chamber lined with towering mirrors, beneath crystal chandeliers heavy with frost, a quiet conference unfolded.
No trumpets.
No grand proclamations.
Only whispered plans, inked letters passed from gloved hand to gloved hand, nods exchanged like coins.
At the head of the gathering stood Prince Klemens von Metternich — young still, by courtly standards, but with eyes old enough to see the fractures others missed.
He wore no decoration save a simple ring on his right hand — a sign among those who knew that he valued substance over spectacle.
As the murmurs died down, Metternich addressed the room in a voice low and measured, every syllable chosen as carefully as a dagger's stroke.
"France bleeds Europe," he said, without preamble.
"One by one, our crowns bow before a parvenu."
No one challenged him.
Not the Prussian envoy, his face still raw with the humiliation of Jena.
Not the Russian agent, who said little but whose presence spoke volumes.
Not the Austrian ministers, who remembered well the fields of Austerlitz.
Metternich spread a series of maps across the table, pinning the corners with silver weights.
"Napoleon believes he has broken the world," he continued. "He has broken armies, yes. Borders. Treaties."
He tapped the map sharply.
"But not hunger.
Not resentment.
Not memory."
He let the words hang, thick as smoke.
"Our peoples suffer under his taxes.
Our merchants suffocate under his blockades.
Our soldiers rot in fields he names his own."
The Prussian envoy — a gaunt man with a bitter mouth — finally spoke.
"And yet we sign treaties. We kneel."
Metternich smiled thinly.
"For now."
He leaned forward, the light catching the cold gleam in his eyes.
"We must not meet him in open battle — not yet.
We must let the rot within his empire fester.
Let the hunger grow.
Let the gold drain from his coffers."
The Russian gave a slight, approving nod.
"And when Paris turns against him," Metternich said, voice dropping almost to a whisper, "then we strike."
Silence.
Not agreement — not yet.
But the kind of silence that means seeds have been planted.
Across the hall, unseen by the diplomats, a servant boy paused as he carried a tray of wine, catching a single word whispered by the Russian agent:
> "Bide.
Bleed.
Break."
The boy hurried on, head down, knowing better than to listen too closely.
And outside, beyond the heavy stone walls, snow fell softly on Vienna — a white shroud for old kings dreaming of revenge.
Their swords were sheathed.
For now.
But their knives were very, very sharp.
---
Meanwhile, in London, under a soot-darkened sky heavy with mist and coal smoke, a different kind of council convened.
The House of Commons buzzed with arguments over tariffs and taxes, but behind those grand debates, in the drawing rooms of Mayfair and the shadowed corridors of Whitehall, the real conversations took place.
At the heart of it stood Lord Castlereagh, slender and sharp-eyed, draped not in velvet and lace like the peacocks of Parliament, but in plain, severe black.
In the private study of the Duke of Portland — now Prime Minister in name if not in will — Castlereagh outlined Britain's true strategy on a map pinned to the wall.
Red lines traced the world's oceans, connecting colonies, trade routes, and ports — arteries of a vast empire built not on thrones, but on ships.
"France cannot be allowed to dominate the continent," Castlereagh said, his voice clipped, each word a blade.
"Nor must we bleed ourselves dry meeting him on land."
The gathered ministers listened, the fire hissing low in the grate.
"We are merchants," Castlereagh continued. "We are bankers.
We are kings of the sea."
He stabbed a finger at the map.
"Starve him.
Blockade him.
Choke him."
"Already done," grumbled an admiral seated near the fire.
"The fleet patrols from the Channel to the Adriatic."
"Not enough," Castlereagh snapped.
"Not merely his ships. His markets. His supplies. His hope."
He turned to the assembled men, eyes glittering.
"Support the smugglers. Arm the rebels. Sabotage the continental ports. Flood the black markets."
A few of the older men shifted uncomfortably.
"But that would mean..." one ventured, "trading with the enemy."
Castlereagh allowed himself a thin smile.
"We trade with death itself if it means France starves."
No one argued after that.
A servant entered, bearing a silver tray laden with sealed dispatches.
Castlereagh broke one open without ceremony, scanning it quickly.
His smile deepened.
"Spain groans under the yoke," he said aloud. "Portugal wavers. The Emperor's grip weakens where he does not even see."
He folded the letter neatly.
"The noose tightens."
And across the Channel, Paris danced and starved and sang and whispered.
It would not be long before the first cracks split wide.
Not long at all.
---
In Paris, the winter deepened, hard and merciless.
Snow clung to the rooftops like a shroud.
The river froze along its edges, turning the Seine into a sluggish artery of ice and mist.
Yet inside the Tuileries, preparations for a grand celebration continued with feverish devotion.
Another victory was to be marked — not merely the crushing of Prussia, but the Emperor's triumphal entry into Berlin.
Napoleon himself, still away in Germany, had ordered it:
A festival of banners.
A night of light and music.
A spectacle to remind the people of their "glorious destiny."
Ministers scurried.
Courtiers rehearsed their smiles.
Artisans labored day and night to gild carriages, embroider sashes, polish medals.
Paris would shine, no matter how cold the stones grew beneath the frost.
But even among the gold and velvet, the rot was seeping through.
In the salons of the Marais and Saint-Germain, old aristocrats who had bent the knee to the Empire now whispered behind gloved hands:
About shortages.
About taxes.
About rumors of revolt in the countryside.
In the dark alleys near Montmartre, hungry men — veterans forgotten by their generals — huddled around stolen barrels of fire, muttering about the price of bread.
Even among the merchants, resentment smoldered.
Victory was supposed to bring prosperity.
Instead, it brought levies, conscriptions, and hollow promises.
And at the highest echelons of power, the knives sharpened invisibly.
In Josephine's private drawing room, a secret meeting took place under the cover of a small, unremarkable luncheon.
Not the usual flutter of ladies and jesters, but a gathering of real players:
Two ministers.
A banker's son with silent, deep pockets.
A marquis, old but still dangerous.
Josephine smiled as she poured tea, her hands steady, her eyes watchful.
"The Emperor is a force of nature," said the marquis, swirling his cup absently. "But even the mightiest storm leaves broken trees in its wake."
Josephine tilted her head.
"And storms," she said sweetly, "cannot rule forever."
Soft laughter.
Subtle nods.
No oaths were sworn.
No rebellion declared.
But alliances were seeded —
tentative, poisonous.
Josephine understood her position better than any man at that table.
She had been lifted by love.
She would not be destroyed by politics alone.
If France was to bleed from within, she intended to bleed last.
And perhaps, if fortune was kind,
to rule the ruins left behind.
Outside, in the frozen streets, a child cried for bread.
Inside the palace, the orchestras tuned their instruments.
The city would waltz again.
It must.
It had no choice.
---
Two days later, the grand celebration began.
Paris lit itself like a torch against the long, frozen night.
Thousands packed the boulevards, shivering under threadbare coats, craning their necks to see the endless procession of gilded carriages, the banners heavy with the imperial eagle, the endless glitter of uniforms and polished swords.
The fireworks cracked and screamed into the black sky, blooming into golden lilies, crimson suns, and silver crowns.
From the windows of the Tuileries, the court gazed down in orchestrated wonder.
Ministers laughed too loudly.
Generals clasped one another's arms with rehearsed fervor.
Noblewomen feigned swoons of admiration as the fireworks reflected in the jeweled combs of their hair.
In the great ballroom, musicians played as if to outpace the very collapse they feared but dared not name.
Josephine entered at the height of the evening, trailing emerald silk and diamonds that shimmered like frost on glass.
The crowd parted before her like water around a ship.
Whispers chased her steps:
"Still the Empress..."
"For now..."
"Poor creature, she knows, doesn't she?"
She smiled, bowing her head just enough to appear gracious, not humbled.
At the far end of the hall, the brothers of Napoleon clustered together, each with a circle of courtiers, each calculating his own future.
Lucien drank steadily, his disdain poorly masked.
Louis scowled into his wine.
Jerome, ever the peacock, laughed too loudly, eager to forget that his kingdom was built on the whim of a single man who was not present.
Above them all hung the unspoken truth:
Napoleon was not there.
His absence was a wound no celebration could mend.
And the court, for all its splendor, could feel it — the faltering beat of a heart that was supposed to be invincible.
Outside, in the alleys and narrow streets, the fireworks were not seen but heard — great explosions that rattled windows, startled horses, and sent crows screaming from the eaves.
Men drank cheap brandy from cracked mugs.
Women clutched their children tighter as the booms shook the thin walls of their rooms.
In the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, someone threw a stone at a patrol of gendarmes.
They responded with batons.
There were no headlines.
No proclamations.
Only the quiet, growing knowledge among the poor that the Empire celebrated itself while they starved.
And so Paris danced.
Paris roared.
Paris cracked.
Beneath the banners.
Beneath the music.
Beneath the ash of falling fireworks.