At the summons of Prince Charles, Princess Marie—known within the castle by her true name, Famoura—quietly made her way to his chamber.
The corridor felt colder than usual.
The servants lowered their eyes as she passed, as if even her footsteps were forbidden to witness.
When she entered the chamber, the air itself felt heavy.
The room was dimly lit, shadowed by authority and silence. Candle flames trembled faintly, casting long shapes against the walls.
Prince Charles stood by his desk, his expression stern.
Without even offering her a greeting…
He handed her a thick stack of papers.
"These," he said coldly, "contain the accounts of the entire town for the year. Copy them neatly and return the originals to me by tonight."
Famoura's eyes lowered to the pages.
The handwriting was complex.
The numbers endless.
The responsibility heavy.
Prince Charles paused, then added—
"And the accounts of Château de Chambord… those are your responsibility. Submit them by tomorrow."
His voice carried no warmth.
Only command.
Then, as if the matter was finished, he turned to leave.
But Famoura stepped forward and blocked his path.
Her posture was calm.
Her eyes were not.
"What about my studies?" she asked.
Her voice was steady… but sharp.
Prince Charles stopped.
Slowly, he turned back.
His face remained unreadable, like stone carved into royalty.
"We have already made you capable enough," he replied, "to understand language and manage accounts."
Famoura's jaw tightened.
"Prince Henry, Louis, and Lucien know these things too," she said. "Yet they are still allowed to study."
For the first time, irritation flickered across Prince Charles's face.
His voice turned colder.
"It is precisely because of excuses like these," he snapped, "that we do not educate girls further."
Famoura's eyes narrowed instantly.
She did not bow.
She did not apologize.
Instead, she spoke the truth without fear.
"Then say it clearly," she shot back. "You cannot bear to see us rise."
Silence.
A dangerous silence.
Even the candles seemed to freeze.
Prince Charles stared at her as if she had crossed a sacred boundary.
Then his gaze hardened.
"Finish your work," he said sharply. "And mind your place."
And with that—
he stormed out.
The door shut with a heavy sound.
Famoura remained still for a moment, her fingers slowly curling into a fist.
Then she exhaled.
A quiet sigh.
Not of defeat…
but of restraint.
She turned back toward her chamber.
---
The Books from Lucien
Hours passed.
Famoura sat at her desk, copying the accounts line after line.
Numbers.
Taxes.
Land costs.
Trade records.
Livestock purchases.
She wrote until her fingers ached.
She wrote until her eyes blurred.
Yet she did not stop.
Because if she failed…
they would call her weak.
And Famoura Felóenz refused to be weak.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
Without looking up, she said calmly,
"Come in."
The door opened.
Prince Lucien stepped inside.
He carried several books in his arms.
His expression was gentle, far different from the coldness of the rest of the family.
He walked toward her desk and placed the books down carefully.
"I've already read these last year," he said softly. "You can read them if you'd like."
Famoura looked up, surprised.
The books were old.
Heavy.
Titles of history, politics, languages, and philosophy.
The kind of knowledge forbidden to royal girls.
Her eyes widened slightly.
Then she spoke with sincerity.
"Thank you."
Lucien smiled.
But suddenly his gaze shifted.
His eyes moved past her shoulder.
Then he paused.
"Wait…" he murmured. "Look behind you."
Famoura frowned slightly and turned her head.
Her fireplace—
was cold.
The room felt like winter had entered it.
Lucien raised his hand toward the empty hearth and whispered a word, almost like a prayer.
"Firedoesia."
At once—
flames flickered to life.
Warmth spread across the chamber.
The fire burned gently, like obedient magic.
Lucien lowered his hand.
"There," he said. "You won't feel cold now."
Famoura's lips curved faintly.
"Thank you… again."
Lucien nodded quietly and stepped back.
Then he left without another word.
Famoura stared at the books for a moment.
Not like paper.
Like treasure.
Then she placed them aside carefully, almost as if they were sacred.
And returned to her work.
---
A Scream in the Night
By nightfall, Famoura had completed every account Prince Charles had demanded.
Her writing was clean.
Perfect.
Not a single mistake.
But just as silence settled over the castle…
A scream pierced the night.
Famoura froze.
Her blood turned cold.
She didn't hesitate.
She ran.
Through corridors.
Through shadowed halls.
Past servants who stood in fear.
She followed the sound until she reached a chamber—
Her mother's chamber.
The door was open.
Inside, Princess Catherine lay on the bed.
Her body was still.
But her face twisted in agony.
Her lips trembled.
Her breathing was uneven.
Prince Charles stood beside her, shaking her shoulders.
"Mother!" he called desperately. "Wake up!"
But Catherine did not respond.
Instead—
her voice escaped in a faint cry.
A cry trapped between sleep and terror.
Famoura stepped forward.
Her gaze sharpened.
"This…" she said quietly.
Prince Charles turned toward her instantly.
"What is happening to her?"
Famoura's voice lowered.
"This looks like a demonic visitation."
Prince Charles stiffened.
"What is that?"
Famoura explained quickly, her eyes locked on Catherine.
"It happens when a witch-like presence presses upon your chest. You cannot move… your voice gets suppressed… and it can disturb the mind deeply."
Prince Charles's face darkened.
Famoura inhaled slowly.
"I am a Oneirokinesis user," she said. "Let me handle this."
Without waiting for permission—
she sat beside her mother.
She gently took Catherine's trembling hands and placed them over her chest.
Then Famoura closed her eyes.
Her expression became still.
Like a girl falling into death.
But her mind…
her mind entered the dream.
The nightmare.
The prison.
She focused.
And slowly… carefully…
she began to change it.
The tension in Catherine's face eased.
Her trembling stopped.
Her breathing softened.
The invisible pressure around her seemed to vanish.
And within moments—
Princess Catherine fell into peaceful sleep.
The room grew quiet.
Prince Charles stared at Famoura in silence.
Then slowly…
he placed his hand on Famoura's head.
His voice was quiet.
Almost broken.
"…Thank you."
Famoura opened her eyes.
Her face looked tired.
But her voice remained calm.
"I changed her dream," she said. "She will sleep peacefully now."
Then her expression darkened.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Still… something feels wrong."
Prince Charles looked at her.
Famoura continued.
"A demonic visitation doesn't happen without reason. Someone… must be behind this."
Prince Charles straightened immediately.
His voice turned firm.
"This is not something you should concern yourself with," he said. "You are too young for such matters."
He forced a faint smile.
"Go and rest."
Famoura said nothing.
She simply nodded.
And left.
But her eyes…
did not believe him.
---
The Cloaked Figure
Back in her room, exhaustion finally claimed her.
Famoura lay down.
The fire still burned softly.
Lucien's books rested quietly on her desk.
And beneath her bed…
the crimson stitched book waited like a sleeping curse.
Famoura's eyes closed.
She drifted into sleep.
But outside…
Under the dark cloak of midnight…
a figure stood beyond the gates of Château de Chambord.
Tall.
Silent.
Wrapped in a long black cloak.
Its face completely hidden.
Not a servant.
Not a soldier.
Not a messenger.
Something else.
Something unknown.
Soon, the sound of galloping hooves shattered the silence.
A group of riders approached and stopped before the figure.
Their horses snorted.
Their armor clinked.
One of them stepped forward.
"We bring a message from Château de Brassic," he announced. "Deliver it to King Francis."
The cloaked figure said nothing.
It simply extended its hand.
The rider handed over the sealed letter.
The figure took it.
And for a moment, the air felt colder.
The riders turned their horses and left without question, vanishing into the night.
The cloaked figure remained still.
Then, without hesitation…
it opened the message.
Its unseen eyes scanned the words.
And then—
it burned the letter.
The paper turned black.
The seal melted.
The message became ash.
The wind carried the ashes away.
As if the warning had never existed.
The cloaked figure mounted a horse.
And vanished into the darkness.
Not toward the castle…
but away from it.
Away from light.
Away from truth.
Something had begun.
And Château de Chambord had no idea what was coming next.
Because some storms do not arrive with thunder.
They arrive with silence.