The marble floor of La Maison Sépia vibrates beneath Gael’s feet as he stands before the doors to the balcony.

No. Not the floor. The people.

“DUBOIS! DUBOIS! DUBOIS!”

Their faces are red from a mix of heat and fervor, packed so tightly together that the mass resembles one living creature. Gael faces the creature from behind a glass door, his hands trembling around the speech written for him.

“Gambeaux! You’re up!”

The voice—Gael doesn’t bother placing it—cuts through the thunder just as the doors begin to open. The roar engulfs him, pounding like a drum against the inside of his skull.

“DUBOIS! DUBOIS! DUBOIS!”

He steps outside. For a moment, with the heat on his skin and the shaking beneath him, it feels as if the world isn’t moving at all. The creature cheers, then quiets as Gael raises his lips to the microphone.

“People of our new Republic, we enter a new era together—one where we are united without care for status or class. It is my great honor to present to you a man, a soldier, a leader, and now… your very first president—André Dubois.”

The creature explodes with sound.

Dubois clasps a hand on Gael’s shoulder—more forceful than supportive—and nudges him aside. Gael steps off the podium and into the shadows of the interior as Dubois’ voice booms across the plaza.

“Ardinians, we have endured much together. Hunger. War. The cruelty of an empire that bled us dry. But today—” his arms spread wide “—today marks the dawn of a nation reborn.”

The crowd erupts again.

Gael listens, arms locked behind his back.

“Our citizens need no longer fear the lash of the Vasselan whip. No longer must we beg for rights that are our birthright. We stand united—stronger than ever—and with your trust, I will build for you a future envied across continents.”

Pride coats Dubois’ tone, but Gael hears the edges—the ownership, the possessiveness, the implication that freedom is his to grant. “And as we rise together,” Dubois continues, “know this: your struggles are not forgotten. You are not forgotten. Every sacrifice you’ve made will be honored as long as I draw breath.”

Gael’s stomach twists.

He remembers the rations cut last week.

The unpaid workers rebuilding the streets.

The families told to “hold out a little longer.”

He retreats down the hall, letting the distant cheers muffle Dubois’ sermon. The gold-leaf walls gleam too brightly, taunting him with everything the people outside will never have.

And the thing that turns his stomach most— you.

You stand in the hallway, preened by adoring staff, swathed in finery and jewels—enough wealth to feed a family of ten for a week. Those families starve. And you smile, claiming to be one of them.

“You look dazzling,” Gael says, mouth curling. “I’m sure the people will be thrilled to know their sacrifices bought you such… radiance.”