Chapter Text
Sketch I: "Arrival at Court"
Paris, 1740
Count Théodore d'Alien stood in the shadow of gilded carriages, watching the sunlight play on the spires and carved facades of Versailles. A gentle breeze stirred his perfectly tailored velvet coat, a deep burgundy adorned with silver embroidery. The scent of autumn leaves mingled with the aromas of fresh grass and the perfumes of courtly ladies that lingered in the air.
The palace loomed on the horizon like a mirage, gleaming in golden rays. Its grandeur was striking: windows gleamed like watchful eyes, reflecting light, while ornate balustrades and sculptures framed the alleys, harmoniously blending with the landscape. Versailles was not merely a seat of power — it was a symbol, a monument to ambition that coursed through the veins of everyone who dreamed of entering its gates.
Théodore involuntarily held his breath, feeling a mix of emotions. Though he had seen the grand palaces of Vienna, Prague, and London, Versailles remained unparalleled. This was not just a palace — it was an arena. Here, in these halls, destinies were woven like webs, and downfalls became part of the spectacle played out before the king and his court.
He ran a hand over the button on his cuff, a subtle gesture reminding himself: You are ready. Beneath his coat, in the folds of his attire, lay a steely resolve. He was no longer merely a man; he was Count Théodore d'Alien. His new name shone like a polished shield, hiding the truth of who he had once been — Maglor, a man whose roots stretched into shadow.
As he approached the gates, Théodore lifted his gaze. The massive iron gates, adorned with the Bourbon crest, stood before him, both inviting and forewarning. Beyond these gates lay a world where every gesture and word could become a weapon.
The palace alleys teemed with life. Men in vibrant coats strutted with airs of self-importance, directing footmen to retrieve discarded cloaks or gloves. Ladies, living portraits of grace, moved elegantly, their jewel-encrusted gowns shimmering in the sunlight. Laughter mingled with whispers, yet no movement here was accidental. These people were like chess pieces, and every smile could conceal cold calculation.
Théodore knew: to become part of this world, he would need to play by its rules. Confidence was his armor, and intellect his weapon. His gaze swept over the courtiers. Towering wigs, strings of pearls, gilded brooches — all disguising the true nature of those who might prove far more dangerous than they appeared.
A royal valet, dressed in a dark blue livery trimmed with silver, bowed respectfully and gestured for him to follow. The soft rustle of silk shoes accompanied their steps as they entered the massive doors of the reception hall.
The hall dazzled. Chandeliers adorned with hundreds of candles bathed the room in soft light. Enormous mirrors along the walls created an illusion of infinite space, while the floor, inlaid with rare marble, reflected the light like a rippling pond. Louis XV sat on a dais at the far end of the hall. His gilded throne resembled a theatrical prop — too grand, too opulent, but undeniably imposing.
Courtiers surrounding the king, like a flock of bright birds, watched each new guest with hawklike intensity. Their faces masked hidden intentions, their gestures pompous yet meticulously calculated.
"Count Théodore d'Alien," the steward announced loudly, and the murmur of conversation abruptly ceased.
Théodore stepped forward. His movements were precise, like those of a dancer, each step resonating in the hall. He stopped at a respectful distance from the throne and executed a deep bow, ensuring the sweep of his cloak accentuated the lines of his attire without appearing contrived.
"Your Majesty," he began, his voice steady and polished, like the notes of a finely tuned violin, "it is an honor to stand before you and offer my services to the Crown of France."
The king lifted his gaze to him. His eyes, weary yet sharp, glimmered with a flicker of interest.
"Count d'Alien," Louis said softly, with a hint of challenge in his tone, "your reputation precedes you. Europe has given you knowledge, but can you prove your worth to France?"
Théodore inclined his head slightly, holding the pause with calculated grace.
"Your Majesty," he replied, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips, "as a sculptor sees beauty in unshaped stone, so too am I prepared to use all my knowledge to craft a new vision of grandeur for your crown. All I have gained abroad — connections, mastery of negotiation, the art of persuasion — now belongs to France."
The king, his expression unchanged, seemed to ponder the words. His entourage remained still, betraying no emotion.
"Time will tell," Louis XV said, "what you can offer. But your mind, Count, has already earned you a place at court."
These words were, in essence, his ticket into the game. Théodore felt the gazes of the courtiers pierce him once more, like spears testing his resilience. Behind their courteous smiles, plans were already forming — to exploit or to destroy him.
Thus began the service of Count Théodore d'Alien at the court of the French king. Beneath the name of an aristocrat lay a man ready to become a master of intrigue. Here, among the gold and silks, every step was not just a movement — it was a strike or a defense. And Théodore knew: to survive in this world, one must not only play but also win.