December 7th, 1804.
One week later, at the Palace of Versailles, the clock struck six in the morning. The room shrouded in darkness, was suddenly bathed in the golden light of the rising sun as the Lord Chamberlain of the Imperial Household drew back the heavy curtains.
Napoleon's eyes squinted against the sudden invasion of light, reluctantly pulling him from his slumber.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," Beaumont, the Lord Chamberlain, greeted, his voice hushed but respectful.
"Good morning," Napoleon said weakly as he tried to lift his body up, but found himself unable to move. His wife, Ciela, lay beside him, her head resting on his chest, her soft breaths tickling his skin.
"Your Majesty, shall I bring you breakfast?" Beaumont inquired, noticing Napoleon's struggle to move.
