Chapter X: Whispers of Great Chaos

The cries of the Viper Gang were still echoing in the narrow alleys of Saint Antoine when another tide began to rise.

Just days earlier, these same streets had borne witness to a rebirth: the clatter of truncheons, the disciplined stomping of boots, and cries of "In the name of the Crown Prince!" had shaken the long-entrenched order of Paris's most lawless quarter. Criminals fled, residents cheered, and in a city of skepticism, hope had begun to bloom.

The police—once feared as thugs in uniform—had been transformed into guardians of the people. They were praised, brought bread and cider, cheered as they marched by. Even children had taken to shouting royal slogans when frightened, sending petty criminals scurrying.

But shadows always follow the light.

At the Royal Palace, the Duke of Orléans was in no mood to admire such progress.

He stared at the issue of Le Nouvelliste de Paris laid before him, his gloved hand tapping impatiently upon the mahogany desk. The headline was mockery incarnate:

"Crown Prince's Reforms Sweep Through Saint Antoine – Crime Plunges, People Rejoice."

Below that, further humiliations: "Royal Heir Dismantles Gangs in Ten Days", "Murder Mystery Solved in Minutes", "A New Star Rises in Paris."

The Duke's lips curled into a scowl.

The Saint Antoine District had not descended into chaos—it had become a shining example of law and order. And worst of all, the people had begun to believe in the Crown again.

He narrowed his eyes.

The Austrian woman must be behind this. The boy alone could not have done it. First the police, then the courts, then the ministries… It's a purge.

And that he could not allow.

He turned abruptly, summoning his butler.

"Deliver this to Commissioner Levebelle," he said coldly, handing over a sealed letter. "Tell him… success will not go unrewarded. I hear Normandy is in need of a new governor."

Elsewhere, in a modest villa on the Seine's eastern bank, Director Gizo was already plotting the next move.

Behind closed doors, he addressed a wiry, shifty-eyed man—the disgraced former commissioner of the Saint Antoine District, Similion, now on "sick leave."

Similion listened nervously, his eyes flicking to the door where his mistress Anna stood pretending not to eavesdrop.

"I never expected the Crown Prince to stay this long," Gizo muttered between puffs of his pipe. "But he's entrenched himself in the Police Headquarters… and that is unacceptable."

Similion's brow furrowed. "But… the mayor told me I'd be reinstated in two months…"

"That was before," Gizo replied flatly. "Now, there's only one way forward."

He leaned forward and produced a sealed bank draft, sliding it across the table.

Thirty thousand livres.

Similion gasped aloud. "This… this is…"

"Enough to buy a manor. And still a pittance compared to what's at stake."

Gizo's eyes were like flint. "You know this district better than anyone. Go to the Host Gang. Go to the Black Sheep Gang. Tell them chaos has a price. Murder, assault, arson—I don't care. I want Saint Antoine burning. I want panic. And I want the Crown Prince buried beneath it."

Similion stared, stunned. But when he looked again at the paper in his hands, he nodded slowly.

"I'll see to it."

Gizo's tone darkened. "Tell them—one thousand livres per incident. The more outrageous, the greater the reward. After a month, the most 'successful' gang gets an additional twenty thousand."

As Similion rose to leave, Gizo warned, "And if it goes wrong? You acted alone. My hands are clean."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

Gizo returned to the window, watching Similion disappear into the night.

"You could have lived a peaceful life, little prince," he muttered. "Instead, you chose war."

Three days later.

At the police station of Saint Antoine, beneath the shade of a sycamore tree, Joseph sat reading the day's letters from citizens. Most were filled with praise, thanks, and accounts of restored peace. But his expression grew tense as Inspector Magone came running toward him.

"Your Highness," Magone said, breathless, "another incident—two dead at a shoe shop on White Iris Street. The building was set ablaze."

Joseph stood at once.

This was no longer coincidence.

Two days ago—two deaths. Yesterday—three more, and injuries. Now, fire. This was deliberate.

He hurried inside to organize the response.

By nightfall, Captain Alden returned from White Iris Street, his report grim: the fire had been started intentionally, and the suspect had vanished without a trace.

Even as Alden spoke, another officer burst into the office.

"Your Highness! Trouble on Misanla Street! The Black Sheep Gang—they're attacking passersby! Seven injured already—police reinforcements requested immediately!"

Joseph's jaw tensed.

So it begins.