Chapter XII: The Thread Unravels

The winds that had once carried whispers of reform now bore the scent of gunpowder and blood. Saint Antoine District had become a crucible, and within it, the Crown Prince hammered out his will against a tide of darkness.

After days of simmering unrest, the tide had turned.

In broad daylight, in alleyways once ruled by gangs and vice, musket volleys cracked through the air. The Royal Guard, clad in polished steel and bearing the crest of House Bourbon, patrolled not with indifference but with grim purpose.

Their orders were unambiguous: "If they do not surrender, fire to kill."

And so they did.

Two thugs from the Host Gang had laughed as they fled a bloody robbery. But they did not laugh long—a coordinated volley dropped them in their tracks, their blood darkening the cobblestones like ink spilled upon a royal edict.

It was not just force—it was a message.

The criminals understood it clearly.

By mid-morning, six were dead. By nightfall, Saint Antoine was silent.

The Black Sheep Gang, once intoxicated by their sudden wealth, pulled their men off the streets. The Host Gang, slower to retreat, mourned seventeen fallen by sunset and did not emerge again.

Their leaders sat in shadowed rooms, clutching goblets they could no longer raise with pride.

"Since when did we deserve an army?" one muttered.

But even amidst the silence, Joseph knew this was but a lull. Fear might quell violence, but it could not root out corruption. The Royal Guard—noble-born and unfamiliar with the city's twisted arteries—were not detectives. Nor were they suited for long-term policing. They were a show of force, not a scalpel.

And whoever had orchestrated this coordinated unrest—they had yet to reveal their face.

That evening, as the oil lamps were lit and the scent of sealing wax drifted through the police station, Security Inspector Alden entered the office.

"Your Highness," he said, saluting crisply, "we have questioned all captured gang members. Most know little, but they all mention the same thing—a payment of one thousand livres per job. Promised through their bosses."

Joseph folded his arms. "So it was a bounty."

A thousand livres per act of terror. Generous. Deliberate.

Calculated chaos.

As he pondered, a sharp knock came at the door. A Royal Guard officer stepped inside, armor dusted from the day's work.

"Your Highness, we apprehended a man named Vallian. His name rang a bell—your inspector here recognized him as second-in-command of the Black Sheep Gang."

Alden's eyes lit up. "How did you catch him?"

"At a gambling den. My men surrounded the building. He tried to flee—we shot three of his escort. Only by surrendering his name did he survive."

Joseph gave a slow nod. "Bring him in for questioning."

Within the hour, Inspector Magone returned, bloodied but breathless, a written confession in hand.

"We have it, Your Highness," he said triumphantly. "We have the thread."

Joseph scanned the page. The words were hurried, ink smudged, but the content was unmistakable:

A man named Raymond had delivered the bribes.

One thousand livres per act of violence.

An additional twenty thousand livres promised to whichever gang sowed more mayhem.

"And who is this Raymond?" Joseph asked aloud.

The answer came not from Alden, but from a soft-spoken clerk in the corner.

"He is the cousin of… Mr. Similion, Your Highness. The former Police Commissioner of this very district."

Joseph's eyes narrowed. It all aligned.

The sudden mass resignation. The strategic gaps in patrol. The brazen unrest.

Similion. The man he had replaced.

Alden leaned in. "Should we arrest him?"

Joseph paused. "How much did Similion earn?"

The clerk replied, "Thirty livres a month, Your Highness. A modest civil servant. His father was of the lower administration."

Joseph's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Then how does such a man have the gall to distribute thirty thousand livres to street criminals?"

Alden froze. "You mean… there's someone else?"

Joseph nodded solemnly. "Someone richer. More powerful. Someone hiding behind Similion's petty ambition."

He stood, retrieving a map of Paris from the wall. "We must find out where the money came from. Vallian mentioned something… what was it?"

"He said Raymond showed them a bank certificate. Deposited at Havre Bank," Alden recalled.

Joseph marked it with a pin.

"There are only two branches in Paris. Let's start with the one nearest the city hall."

He turned, then hesitated.

"Eman, prepare my carriage."

"Your Highness?" Alden said in surprise. "You'll go yourself?"

Joseph's voice was calm but edged with iron. "Yes. A prince who cannot pursue the truth himself does not deserve the loyalty of those who do."

The Havre Bank's white stone facade glowed in the afternoon light as Joseph stepped from his carriage, flanked by two guards.

At first, the manager refused to cooperate.

Then Joseph laid a gloved hand upon the counter, revealing the Bourbon seal.

"If you will not oblige His Majesty's son," he said softly, "then the Secret Police shall pay your accounts a visit."

Pale and perspiring, the manager yielded.

What followed was anticlimactic in its ease.

Similion's account showed a banker's draft—thirty thousand livres, deposited and then split into smaller accounts.

The source?

Joseph's fingers curled around the parchment.

Viscount Gizo.

Director of the Paris Police.

A long silence filled the room.

So it was not simply Similion.

It was Gizo, the man who just days ago had smiled and feigned concern. Who had watched gangs run wild while whispering excuses. Who had tried to sway Joseph's reforms with sweet wine and bureaucratic obstruction.

Joseph lowered the paper and let out a quiet breath.

The serpent was coiled much deeper than he had expected.

And now, he had it by the tail.