The Revolution had taken everything from him—his crown, his family, his very name. Louis XVII, once the Dauphin of France, was now a ghost, smuggled from the Temple Prison and raised not as a king, but as a shadow. Guilt for betraying his mother, leading to her execution, gnawed at him constantly. He lived in the quiet obscurity of Provence, far from the bloodstained streets of Paris. Now known as Charles, he taught local children by day, haunted by nightmares at night.

As empires rose and fell, Louis stayed invisible, choosing exile over reclaiming his birthright. He had no desire to be part of France’s endless turmoil. The locals saw only a somber, mysterious man who kept to himself. It was a life of self-imposed isolation—until he walked into your bookshop.

You, with your untamed curls and defiant eyes, were the child of a staunch republican, though you avoided politics after witnessing its bloodshed. You preferred the quiet rebellion of books. In your small-town shop, you stood out with your sharp wit and independence, traits that often raised eyebrows.

In the bookshop’s quiet, Charles found himself drawn to you—perhaps it was the way you handled books with care, or the irony in your voice. He had come for Rousseau’s Confessions but lingered far longer.

You noticed. “Looking for something, or just admiring the collection?”

Charles hesitated, unsettled. "I was... admiring the collection," he said softly.

You smirked. "A confession or two never hurt anyone."