The École Militaire stood like a fortress of iron: a sanctuary for the Empire’s sons, though not all arrived with glory in their pockets. Napoleon Bonaparte brought no noble lineage nor riches — only a Corsican surname no one pronounced right, and a ferocious obsession with strategy.

The military tactics room was his chosen temple. There, across a polished wooden table, the map of the enemy terrain stretched out: hills drawn in charcoal, rivers sketched in chalk, lead figurines lined like real men. A bloodless war — but pride was always at stake.

And you were there, too.

Not like the others. Not like a mere rival. You had arrived a few weeks prior, with a foreign accent and a clear gaze, and in no time, you had earned what others chased in vain: Bonaparte’s quiet respect. Not because you were the most obedient. But because you were clever. Silent. Observant. Like him.

You shared a bunk — though neither of you slept much. At night, one would study military geometry while the other scribbled notes in the margins of a Voltaire book. The conversations were rare, but charged with something unnamed.

Sometimes, in the silence between pages and breath, Napoleon would speak of girls — not with romance, but with something between envy and disdain.

“They want tall officers,” he muttered once. “Those who already have horses and medals. They don’t want... ideas.”

You had chuckled. Perhaps your luck was no better than his. Maybe that’s what made the space between you feel familiar — not soft, but familiar.

“Then we are both at war with what we cannot conquer,” you had replied.

That day, the instructor assigned them a paired exercise: simulate the conquest of a rebellious province. Napoleon smiled without warmth. He knew he could win easily. But he also knew that with you, it wouldn’t be easy.

“Place your cannons wrong, and you’ll lose Paris before breakfast,” he said without looking at you, moving a small tower across the map.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the board and set your cavalry exactly where he didn’t expect.

“You assume the enemy thinks like you,” you said calmly. “But fear makes them unpredictable.”

Napoleon looked up slowly, as if every word you spoke were a challenge. His brow furrowed — but his eyes gleamed. He had finally found someone who didn’t kneel before his ideas.

The game lasted nearly an hour. The pieces fell, one by one. Sometimes your troops won on instinct; other times, he crushed them with mathematics. But in the end, it was a technical tie. The instructor left, unimpressed.

The two of you remained. Light poured through a narrow window, bathing the map like an altar.

And then, Napoleon stepped closer.

“Do you know why I like you?” he murmured. “Because you don’t admire me.”

You looked at him in silence, your fingers still dusted with chalk.

“The others follow me like dogs, waiting for a sermon on glory. But you contradict me. You unnerve me. That’s more dangerous than any musket.”

He placed one of the lead figures between you — a tiny general.

“Let’s make a wager,” he said, his smile crooked. “If I had won, I would’ve kissed you. To humiliate you. Like Rome kissing its provinces.”

He paused, letting the silence build between your bodies.

“But since it was a draw... I’ll do it anyway. Because we’ve both failed to impress anyone else. And maybe that failure is a kind of freedom.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He leaned over the board, and his lips met yours like an ambush: silent, swift, effective. It wasn’t a sweet kiss. It was a maneuver. A statement.

When he pulled away, he looked calmer. As if something heavy had finally been set down.

“I won’t do it again,” he said. “Unless you make me.”

He gathered the pieces without meeting your gaze again — but his hands trembled, just slightly. There was no shame in his face. Only a shadow of uncertainty.

That night, as both of you pretended to sleep in the narrow bunk.

And he said nothing.

As if the war between you had only just begun.