The following morning arrived far too swiftly.
The palace had barely awakened, yet the air already carried tension—heavy and sharp, like the scent of iron before blood is spilled.
Even the servants moved quietly, as though the walls themselves were listening.
And within the heart of Château de Chambord…
a decision was about to be made.
By the King's command, a gathering was arranged without delay.
Prince Philip.
Prince Charles.
And the three royal heirs—
Prince Henry.
Prince Lucien.
Prince Louis.
All were summoned into King Francis's private chamber.
The room was vast and regal, lined with golden curtains and carved oak furniture. The marble floor shone like polished ice, reflecting the dim morning light.
Yet despite its beauty…
it felt suffocating.
A place where truth could not breathe.
King Francis sat upon his chair of authority, his cane resting at his side.
His face was calm.
Too calm.
Minister William stood near the grand window, his hands folded behind his back, as though he were preparing to deliver judgment itself.
The storm outside had faded…
but inside this room—
another storm was forming.
At last, Minister William spoke.
"This is not an ordinary matter," he said gravely. "Princess Famoura may place us all in danger."
His eyes narrowed.
"If one day, in front of the people, our true face is revealed…"
He paused, letting the weight fall.
"…then the throne itself may tremble."
A dark silence followed.
Even Prince Philip's usual smirk faded.
Then Prince Henry stepped forward, his expression stiff with anger.
"The townspeople were already prepared to believe our words," Henry said sharply. "Yet because of Famoura, we were forced to suffer humiliation."
Prince Louis scoffed, crossing his arms.
"We worked tirelessly to forge those accounts," he muttered bitterly. "And what did we receive in return? Nothing."
His eyes darkened.
"Instead, we were made to apologize before the entire court."
Henry's jaw tightened.
"This girl is becoming a disturbance," he hissed. "A thorn that refuses to be pulled out."
Prince Philip, seated casually, leaned back with amusement.
His eyes glittered with mockery as he turned toward Prince Charles.
"You have only one daughter," Philip said, smiling broadly.
"And yet you cannot even manage her."
Prince Charles's expression darkened instantly.
His fists clenched.
"What would you have me do?" he snapped. "Shall I forbid her from stepping beyond the castle gates?"
At that moment—
Prince Lucien's lips curved into a faint, almost cruel side smile.
His eyes held no warmth.
Only calculation.
"No," Lucien said softly.
"That would achieve nothing."
The room fell still.
King Francis's gaze shifted toward him.
Even Minister William's posture straightened.
Lucien spoke calmly, but the words that followed carried poison.
"There is a method," he continued. "When men wish to slaughter an animal…"
His smile deepened.
"…they do not chase it endlessly."
He paused.
"They feed it first. They comfort it. They make it believe it is safe."
Prince Henry narrowed his eyes.
"And how does that apply to Famoura?" he asked.
Lucien's voice remained smooth.
"I have observed her," he replied. "She is… unusually fond of study."
His eyes gleamed.
"She thirsts for knowledge."
Then he leaned slightly forward, as if sharing wisdom.
"If we drown her in books, in education, in false opportunities…"
He smiled.
"…she will remain distracted."
A cold silence filled the chamber.
Lucien's voice lowered.
"She will believe she is rising…"
His eyes hardened.
"…while in truth, she will simply be trapped."
Prince Louis chuckled quietly, impressed.
Prince Henry's lips curved slowly.
The idea pleased him.
And then—
King Francis rose from his seat, his cane striking the marble floor.
Tap.
His voice filled the room with satisfaction.
"Splendid," the King said. "That is how a true prince speaks."
His gaze fell proudly upon Lucien.
"Well done, my lion."
Minister William bowed slightly.
"Then I shall begin preparations today," he said.
And just like that…
the decision was sealed.
The fate of Famoura Felóenz had been decided like a document signed in blood.
And Famoura…
who believed herself victorious…
had no idea the crown had already begun weaving her chains.
---
A False Permission
Not long after—
Princess Famoura stepped out of her chamber.
She had barely taken three steps into the corridor when she saw Prince Charles standing outside her door, as though he had been waiting for her.
His face was calm.
But his eyes were cold.
"Famoura," he said.
His voice was almost gentle.
"You may continue your studies."
Famoura stared at him silently.
Prince Charles continued.
"But only under one condition."
His gaze narrowed.
"You will not involve yourself in family matters… nor in royal matters."
Famoura's lips curved faintly.
Not in happiness.
Only in bitter understanding.
"I knew it," she replied.
Prince Charles folded his hands behind his back, trying to sound generous.
"Think carefully," he said. "You will be the first girl in this entire castle to complete her education."
Famoura's eyes hardened.
"I understand everything," she said. "There is no need for you to pretend to be kind."
Her voice sharpened.
"And I have no interest in attending your false gatherings either."
Prince Charles's expression tightened.
"Believe what you wish," he said coldly.
And with that—
he turned and walked away.
Leaving Famoura behind in the corridor…
standing like a prisoner disguised as a princess.
---
The Map of War
Later, Famoura went to Princess Catherine's chamber.
The moment she entered…
she sensed something unusual.
A massive paper lay spread across the table.
A map.
So large it covered half the surface.
Princess Catherine and Princess Marie stood over it, their faces serious.
Famoura approached quickly and sat beside her mother.
"What is this?" she asked. "What are you both looking at?"
Princess Marie motioned her closer.
"Come," she said gently, pulling Famoura to sit beside her.
Marie pointed to the upper edge of the map.
"This," she explained, "is the eastern side. Here lies Château de Brassic."
Then her finger moved downward.
"And here… on the southwest… is our castle, Château de Chambord."
Famoura listened, her brows furrowing.
Princess Marie's voice lowered, almost cautious.
"The Queen of Brassic… Queen Isabella… believes we possess the Crimson Book."
Famoura blinked.
"And she wants it?" she asked.
Marie nodded.
"She has desired it for years," she replied. "She has long wished to wage war against us."
Her gaze sharpened.
"The last time she attacked… was the night you were born."
Famoura's breath caught.
The words struck her like a dagger.
Marie continued.
"However… Isabella never begins war without sending a message first."
She looked toward Catherine.
"Until now, no message has arrived. So there is no need to panic."
Famoura's eyes narrowed.
"Crimson Book…" she repeated. "And… what is Kira?"
Princess Catherine finally spoke.
Her voice was quiet.
But heavy, like hidden history.
"Kira means…" Catherine said slowly, "…the one who wins."
Famoura's confusion deepened.
"And the Crimson Book?" she asked again.
Catherine's gaze darkened.
"The Crimson Book is a deep red book," she said. "Filled with… many things."
She paused, as if remembering something painful.
"But truthfully… I have never understood what makes it so valuable."
Famoura leaned closer.
Catherine continued.
"During Queen Margret's execution… it was said she held the Crimson Book in her hands."
Her voice lowered.
"When she was burned… the book burned with her."
Famoura's eyes widened.
"But Queen Isabella believes it still exists?" she asked.
Catherine nodded slowly.
"She believes it is still with us," she murmured.
Famoura fell silent.
A book that was supposedly burned…
yet still hunted like treasure.
And suddenly—
Famoura felt as if the shadows of Queen Margret had never truly left the castle.
As if they had only been buried beneath the stones.
Waiting.
Watching.
---
The Staircase That Should Not Exist
After the conversation, Famoura left quietly.
She began walking down toward her chamber.
But as she reached the ground floor—
her steps halted.
Her eyes widened.
Because something was wrong.
A staircase.
A staircase that had never existed before.
It had appeared as though the castle itself had grown new bones overnight.
Famoura stared at it.
"What is this…?" she whispered.
Without hesitation, she hurried down.
The sound of construction echoed below.
Hammering.
Wood.
Stone.
The voices of workers.
Famoura stepped into the open underground area—
shocked.
And then she saw him.
King Francis stood there.
Watching.
Waiting.
The moment he noticed Famoura, he turned toward her.
And he smiled.
A smile so warm…
it almost seemed fatherly.
"Congratulations, Famoura," the King said proudly.
Famoura did not respond.
She only stared.
King Francis spread his arms as though presenting a miracle.
"All of this…" he said, "I have done for you."
He pointed toward a space near the wall.
"Here shall be your desk."
Then he pointed again.
"Here will be a cupboard for your books."
Then he gestured to the side.
"And here…"
His voice softened.
"…will be your room."
Famoura's heart pounded.
The King's smile widened.
"We have built a university beneath the castle," he announced.
"Your teachers will come here to educate you."
Famoura's fingers tightened at her side.
King Francis stepped closer.
His voice turned gentler.
"And no… there is no need to thank me."
He leaned slightly forward.
"You are my beloved princess."
With those words—
King Francis turned and walked away.
His footsteps echoed down the staircase…
like the closing of a prison gate.
Famoura stood frozen.
She stared at the unfinished walls.
At the fresh staircase.
At the underground "university."
Her throat tightened.
Then slowly…
her lips curved into a faint, bitter smile.
In her mind, she whispered—
As if I would ever thank you.
Because she understood.
This was not a gift.
This was not kindness.
This was not love.
This was a cage…
built from books.
A prison disguised as education.
And she had just been locked inside it.