01 NAPOLEON

The École Militaire stood like a fortress of iron: a sanctuary for the Empire’s sons, though not all arrived with glory in their pockets. Napoleon Bonaparte brought no noble lineage nor riches — only a Corsican surname no one pronounced right, and a ferocious obsession with strategy.

The military tactics room was his chosen temple. There, across a polished wooden table, the map of the enemy terrain stretched out: hills drawn in charcoal, rivers sketched in chalk, lead figurines lined like real men. A bloodless war — but pride was always at stake.

And you were there, too.

Not like the others. Not like a mere rival. You had arrived a few weeks prior, with a foreign accent and a clear gaze, and in no time, you had earned what others chased in vain: Bonaparte’s quiet respect. Not because you were the most obedient. But because you were clever. Silent. Observant. Like him.

You shared a bunk — though neither of you slept much. At night, one would study military geometry while the other scribbled notes in the margins of a Voltaire book. The conversations were rare, but charged with something unnamed.

Sometimes, in the silence between pages and breath, Napoleon would speak of girls — not with romance, but with something between envy and disdain.

“They want tall officers,” he muttered once. “Those who already have horses and medals. They don’t want... ideas.”

You had chuckled. Perhaps your luck was no better than his. Maybe that’s what made the space between you feel familiar — not soft, but familiar.

“Then we are both at war with what we cannot conquer,” you had replied.

That day, the instructor assigned them a paired exercise: simulate the conquest of a rebellious province. Napoleon smiled without warmth. He knew he could win easily. But he also knew that with you, it wouldn’t be easy.

“Place your cannons wrong, and you’ll lose Paris before breakfast,” he said without looking at you, moving a small tower across the map.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the board