Chapter 1
00. I Am Leaving
August 17, 1898 – The Night of the Great Revolution.
The workers who had long suffered under the tyranny of the most infamous despot in Léans’ history—Emperor Antoine XIII—and the bourgeoisie, who had spent years slowly prying wealth and power from the nobles, rose up together to launch a massive revolution. With the cooperation of the eastern warlords, the revolution reached a successful conclusion on this very day. Today, we call this historic uprising the Great Léans Revolution.
The revolution succeeded.
But a new era does not come on its own.
Before the revolutionaries stood mountains of problems yet to be resolved. The Emperor, Empress, Crown Prince, and all members of the royal family were imprisoned in the eastern tower of the imperial palace. Most of the loyal nobles who had fought to the bitter end to defend the palace either died on the night of the revolution or were executed by firing squad the following morning. Of those who survived, some accepted their downfall humbly, while others wagged their tails and offered coin purses to the revolutionaries far too late. Yet deciding their fates was only a tiny fraction of the revolutionaries’ burden.
After securing the palace, the revolutionaries elected Angélo Reniqour—a former lawyer and their leader—as the first Consul. They then focused on eliminating the Crown Prince faction’s forces entrenched in the southern stronghold of Basbourg. Thus began the fierce resistance of the monarchist restorationists—a struggle that would later be known as the Léans Civil War.
And then, in 1899—the following year—as the southern civil war and repeated royal rescue attempts grew fiercer by the day, the revolutionaries finally drew the ultimate card they had kept close to their chest.
“…This is insane.”
Anaïs Belmartier clutched her silver hair in both hands, head hanging low, murmuring almost in tears. It was in front of a massive iron door, behind which gunshots and screams rang out.
If you were going to suffer this much, it would have been better not to come, thought Charlotte Bernard, cigarette between her lips. She had fought this decision tooth and nail, yet here she stood—her reason for being here was so painfully obvious it almost made Charlotte sick. How could someone stay so unchanged after all these years?
Charlotte could never forgive the prisoners beyond that iron door. She hadn’t chosen to step inside—she had no desire to watch living people shot to death—but she believed this execution was just. Unlike Anaïs.
They had reason enough. What they lacked, perhaps, was humanity—a price Charlotte had accepted, but Anaïs clearly had not. In truth, Anaïs had always been this kind of person.
Standing silently by the door, Charlotte recalled the plea Anaïs had made in the council chamber, her voice stripped of all hope:
“Is this the world we dreamed of—one where innocent children are shot without a trial?”
Of course not. But if that was what it took to open the door to a better world, so be it.
And “innocent children,” she said? Anyone hearing that might think there were a dozen poor waifs in there.
Pale cigarette smoke drifted toward the iron door. Beyond it lay the royal family they had captured months ago. No—given the bursts of gunfire and screams they had just heard, “lay” was the more accurate word now.
The Emperor and Empress.
The Crown Prince and his wife.
An eighteen-year-old princess.
And the Crown Prince’s children: a ten-year-old daughter and a five-year-old son.
The southern civil war was escalating daily. From Basbourg, men were sent again and again to rescue the royals—if they could free even one, they would crown him in that fortress. And with the second prince—who vanished during or after the revolution—still missing, the royals in that tower were both a lingering threat to morale and a symbol for the enemy to rally around. In short, they were far too dangerous to keep alive.
The people’s voices clamoring for their deaths grew louder every day. Opponents of the execution, Anaïs among them, demanded at least a trial—but to Charlotte, to those commanding the execution inside, and to Consul Reniqour himself, even a trial was a luxury those royals did not deserve.
A trial? Pretty words, sure.
But what of the comrades who died like dogs without any trial?
Charlotte ground her teeth. Truthfully, she hadn’t wanted this ending either. She had hoped the royals would suffer more—be more thoroughly humiliated. Even if that desire brought the hammer of blood upon her later, she would not regret it. But that girl—she wouldn’t wish for such a thing. Charlotte’s gaze drifted to Anaïs, who still stared at the ground.
“I’m leaving.”
The noise from inside had just fallen silent when Anaïs spoke, as if entranced. Charlotte had half-expected these words and so replied without much reaction:
“Where to?”
Anaïs still seemed to be hearing those gunshots—or perhaps listening to shots echoing from some far-off place—as she said:
“Basbourg.”
At that moment, someone inside called, “Charlotte, you out there?”—and Charlotte nearly missed Anaïs’s answer. Nearly. Thank God she didn’t. She truly believed Anaïs meant it.
Charlotte tossed her cigarette to the ground and crushed it underfoot, then seized Anaïs’s arm.
“Don’t go. It’s dangerous.”
“There are people dying there who shouldn’t have to, Lottie.”
Her voice was firm as it spoke Charlotte’s old nickname. Anaïs’s silver hair—cropped to brush her shoulders, once so beautiful Charlotte thought of moonlight on a dark dawn—still made her look fragile, like the eighteen-year-old girl Charlotte had first met. And yet, wasn’t she twenty-five now?
Back during the April Student Uprising—when Charlotte lost her fiancé—Anaïs lost her father.
Frédéric Belmartier, her father, was the president of Boarnet University—and that night, he ran himself ragged through the streets of Sennes, doing everything he could to shield students from the Crown Prince’s soldiers.
Charlotte still remembered the silver-haired girl darting about tending to the wounded. She remembered, too, the blank look on Anaïs’s face as she stood before her father’s body—killed by a stray shot—unable even to cry.
No one who staked their life on this cause escaped loss that night. But every student who joined the April Uprising remembered Frédéric Belmartier—and cherished the daughter he left behind.
That schemer Edmond inside had shamelessly used Anaïs as a revolutionary icon—but it wasn’t surprising. Many had seen their own grief mirrored in hers. Charlotte included.
The girl who lost her family the same night I lost my love—
That girl had grown into a comrade.
Though they clashed over this decision, Anaïs was still precious to Charlotte. The revolution had succeeded, and the civil war wouldn’t last long—or so Charlotte believed. Anaïs didn’t need to go south.
Currently, the eastern warlord Ardinnant—who’d lent his strength on Revolution Night—was doing the actual fighting in Basbourg. The Consul had insisted it was important to show a revolutionary presence there, and indeed, several comrades had gone already. But Anaïs’s intent was obvious—it wasn’t for show.
Anaïs Belmartier wasn’t a soldier. She was a doctor. She meant to help the civilians caught in the crossfire—at the very front line, where no one would protect her.
“They’re short on doctors. Civilian casualties are rising every day.”
“Someone else can go—”
“No. I belong there, not here.”
Then, as if on cue, a gunshot rang out. A single shot—so stark it seemed to split the air. Someone had still been alive. But who? If anyone inside was hardy enough to survive, it was surely the Crown Prince, Henri Georges de Charlroix. Yet once a bullet leaves the barrel, fate is chance. Who had that shot been for?
Watching Anaïs’s trembling lashes, Charlotte felt a strange unfamiliarity—at herself, at the world. Everything seemed foreign now. Everything but one person.
Anaïs Belmartier spoke softly:
“Today… I realized something.”
Charlotte wasn’t stupid—she understood what those words meant.
“Even when this ends… you’re not coming back?”
“No.”
Once a symbol of the revolution, the silver-haired woman now spoke in a calm, unwavering voice:
“I have no intention of coming back.”
Not here.
Not ever.
