Chapter XI: The Crown Prince’s Guard

The wind that passed through the alleys of the Saint Antoine District carried a new scent—blood and smoke, yes, but also insubordination. To the trained eye, the patterns were unmistakable. And Joseph was no fool.

Within the dimly lit office of the commissioner, he stood over a cluttered desk, letters of complaint and field reports strewn about like cards in a game of chance.

"This is no ordinary disorder," he murmured, eyes narrowed. "It's too coordinated. These gangs… it's as if they've all lost their senses at once."

Captain Alden, his uniform damp with sweat, stood stiffly before him.

"Your Highness, what are your orders?"

Joseph didn't hesitate. "Extend patrol hours immediately. Double performance bonuses. Night watches must be reinforced. Tell our men—they must endure this storm, and the Crown shall not forget their service."

"Yes, Your Highness!" Alden pressed his fist to his chest and turned to leave—but before his foot had touched the threshold, another officer came rushing in, face pale, gasping for breath.

"Your Highness! A great many officers have requested leave. Nearly one hundred!"

Alden stopped in his tracks, his expression darkening. "A hundred?"

That was a quarter of their force—gone, at the hour of greatest need.

Joseph took the leave roster from the officer's trembling hands and flipped through it quickly. His eyes grew cold. These were not his newly trained men. No—this was the old guard, the ones who had bought their commissions. And at the head of the list?

Bono, his assistant and second-in-command.

"So," Joseph said, voice low, "this is how they choose to strike."

It was not a mutiny. It was something worse—a slow, silent sabotage, timed to ensure maximum pressure and minimal accountability.

"They think I'll crumble," he said coolly. "Let's prove them wrong."

He handed the list to his steward, Eman.

"Verify every leave with a physician. Any man found to be feigning illness or exaggerating hardship—dismiss them immediately. No pensions, no leniency."

"Yes, Your Highness," Eman replied with a deep bow, his lips tight with determination.

Joseph turned to Alden. "See to the patrols. Every man in the field is to double his vigilance. Order must not break, no matter the cost."

Then, turning, he gestured to a quiet figure standing five paces away: Viscount Kesode, Captain of the Crown Prince's Guard.

"Viscount, how many of my guards are presently in the district?"

Kesode straightened instantly. "One hundred and five, Your Highness. Ready and in position."

Joseph nodded. "I want ninety of them deployed to the streets, reinforcing Alden's patrols."

The captain blinked. "Your Highness… such a deployment would be highly irregular—"

"Protocol," Joseph said lightly, "was written by courtiers. I am not here to flatter tradition—I am here to protect my people."

Kesode's face stiffened. "Your father, His Majesty the King, would surely object to—"

But Joseph had already anticipated the argument. With a flick of his wrist, he retrieved a letter from a drawer and laid it before the captain, tapping a specific line in the King's own hand.

"Do what you need to do. If trouble comes, I've got your back."

Kesode's mouth opened, then closed. "But… Your Highness…"

Joseph smiled—charming, but sharp. "If you refuse, I'll ride out myself. I hear Misanla Street is under siege."

"You must not!" Kesode's composure cracked.

"Then obey."

After a tense pause, Kesode relented. "Very well. But please, Your Highness—remain within the station. I beg you."

"Agreed."

Minutes later, the silence of the square outside the station was shattered by a sharp whistle.

From alleyways, rooftops, and market corners, over a hundred men emerged in formation, their uniforms crisp, their arms gleaming. They were the Crown Prince's Guard, the elite chosen by Joseph himself. Within moments, they had formed five solid lines before their captain.

Kesode issued swift, quiet orders. Squad leaders saluted and dispersed, each leading ten or more down separate streets. Among them rode a small contingent of cavalrymen, hooves striking stone like hammers.

Paris had rarely seen such military grace in the slums.

Meanwhile, in a filthy hovel in the Huaike District, the leaders of the Black Sheep Gang drank themselves into delirium.

Foul laughter filled the air, the stench of sweat, liquor, and unwashed bodies thickening the walls like fog. The gang had grown bold. Too bold.

They held up their spoils with glee.

"We've made two thousand livres this week alone!"

"Wait until Similion brings the next batch!"

"Haha, tomorrow I'll set fire to two bakeries—just for the prize money!"

Their boss—a burly man with cracked teeth and a braggart's voice—roared over them.

"Shut up, all of you. The Host Gang thinks they'll win the reward? Bah! We'll show them who rules Saint Antoine!"

More laughter, more boasting.

They sang ribald songs long into the night, their bellies full and their minds dulled.

But dawn brought no victory.

The first knock came like thunder.

"Boss! Boss! Trouble!"

A grumble. A curse. A crash of bottles.

"What is it now?"

"They're dead—three of our boys—stabbed clean through!"

"What?! By who? The Host Gang?"

The messenger shook his head, pale and trembling. "No… The Royal Guard."

The words hit like a cannonball.

Within minutes, the Black Sheep Gang's leaders were scrambling out the door. Down the street, they caught sight of them:

Men in royal blue, wearing the Crown's crest, marching with precision. Tricorne hats glinted in the morning light. Sabers at their sides. Pistols on their belts. Discipline in every step.

Every alley, every corner—they were there.

"What are they doing in Saint Antoine?" whispered one of the gangsters.

"They're keeping order," muttered another, his voice dry with fear. "Every street is full of them."

The gang leader's face went white.

The Crown had answered.