Versailles loved tradition.
And Louis intended to suffocate it.
The palace tutors expected tears, not arguments. Yet when Abbé de Fleury entered the prince's study that morning, he found Louis already seated, quill in hand, reviewing a stack of parchment like a miniature minister.
"Your Highness," the abbé said carefully, "today we begin with scripture."
Louis closed the ledger.
"Today we begin with numbers."
The abbé blinked.
"No prince concerns himself with accounting."
Louis met his gaze, calm, unblinking.
"No kingdom survives without it."
By midday the tutors were sweating more than the child they were meant to educate.
Louis asked about tax exemptions.
About grain storage.
About the debt accrued from the Seven Years' War.
Questions kings never asked until it was too late.
That afternoon, word reached the finance ministry.
And one man listened.
Jacques Necker was not born noble.
He had clawed his way upward through banking, earning respect not with blood but competence. Yet Versailles loathed him for it.
When the summons came — The Dauphin requests your presence — Necker nearly laughed.
A six-year-old prince could not possibly need a finance minister.
But curiosity defeated pride.
He arrived in the prince's chamber expecting a bored child.
Instead, Louis slid a parchment across the table.
"France is spending forty percent of its income servicing debt," Louis said flatly.
"You believe the crown can survive this?"
Necker froze.
+
Those numbers were not public.
"Who told you this?"
"No one," Louis replied. "I read."
The man stared.
"You are aware," Necker said slowly, "that these matters are not suitable for children."
"I am not a child," Louis answered. "I am the future."
Silence pressed down between them.
Necker bowed.
That single motion changed the course of France.
That evening, the palace buzzed.
The prince had summoned a banker.
Unthinkable.
Improper.
Dangerous.
But Louis was not listening.
He stood before a mirror, studying his reflection.
Sweat had darkened his collar from another private training session. His cheeks had thinned ever so slightly. His posture no longer slouched.
This body was still weak.
But not for long.
His father, the Dauphin, visited him before bed.
"You embarrassed the court today," the man said quietly.
Louis folded his hands.
"I impressed France."
The Dauphin studied his son for a long moment.
"You are not like before," he said.
Louis met his eyes.
"Before was how I died."
A chill crossed the room.
That night, rumors burst beyond Versailles.
The prince was reading ledgers.
The prince spoke like a minister.
The prince trained like a soldier.
In taverns from Paris to Bordeaux, whispers formed a dangerous sentence.
The Dauphin has awakened.
And somewhere in Arras, a little boy named Robespierre sneezed — unaware that his future enemy had just chosen his first ally.