The rain began without warning.
At first, it was gentle — a soft patter against the palace rooftops, like whispered secrets brushing stone. Then it grew heavier, louder, angrier, drumming against the world as if the sky itself were furious.
Famoura stood by the window of her chamber, her fingers resting lightly against the cold stone frame. The candle behind her flickered, its flame struggling against the wind sneaking through the narrow opening. Outside, the palace courtyard blurred beneath sheets of rain, torches trembling as guards hurried to take shelter.
Thunder rolled across the sky.
Famoura's thoughts were still tangled in the words her father had spoken earlier — sharp, dismissive, final. Her chest felt tight, as though something unseen pressed against her heart.
Then she saw them.
Three figures moved swiftly through the rain.
They wore long black coats, their hoods drawn low, rainwater streaming from their shoulders as they ran toward the royal chamber. Their steps were urgent, rehearsed — not the clumsy rush of messengers, but the confident stride of those who knew exactly where they were going.
Famoura leaned closer to the window.
Her breath caught.
Even through the storm, she recognized them.
Prince Henry.
Prince Lucien.
Prince Louis.
Her cousin brothers.
Her blood ran cold.
Why were they here? At this hour? In secret?
The thunder cracked again, lightning slicing the sky open for a heartbeat. In that brief flash of white light, Famoura saw their faces clearly — not worried, not fearful, but eager.
Satisfied.
Her instincts screamed.
Before she could stop herself, Famoura wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and slipped quietly from her chamber. She moved through the corridors like a shadow, the palace unusually silent as most servants had retreated from the storm.
The rain masked all sound.
She pressed herself against the stone wall near the royal chamber, hidden behind a tall pillar carved with ancient sigils. The door ahead stood slightly ajar, golden light spilling into the dark hallway.
Voices echoed from within.
Prince Henry spoke first.
"Grandfather," he said smoothly, his voice confident. "Here are your accounts. All the details are written perfectly."
Famoura's fingers clenched around her cloak.
Accounts.
Prince Louis laughed softly. "And don't forget to reward us well for the hard work. It wasn't easy making everything align so neatly."
The sound of the King's cane tapping against the marble floor followed.
"You boys have done well," the King said. His voice was old, yet sharp — a blade dulled by age but still dangerous. "Very well."
A pause.
Then the King spoke again.
"Prince Lucien," he said. "Won't you say anything?"
Famoura's heart pounded.
Lucien.
The same Lucien who had brought her books. Who had smiled kindly. Who had spoken gently of knowledge and freedom.
Lucien sighed, as if modesty were required.
"I'm just happy to see you, Grandfather," he said calmly. "We manipulated the town's records carefully — adjusted the taxes, erased certain transactions. No blame will ever fall on you."
Famoura felt the world tilt.
Manipulated.
Erased.
No blame.
The rain outside roared louder, as if the heavens themselves were reacting. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the hallway — and Famoura's eyes.
They were no longer soft.
They were sharp.
"So," Prince Henry continued, "even if the people complain, the fault will appear to be theirs. Illiteracy is a blessing when ruled correctly."
Prince Louis chuckled. "They'll starve quietly. And if they don't… well, they never do."
The King laughed — low, satisfied.
"You are true sons of this bloodline," he said. "Clever. Ruthless. Just as rulers should be."
Famoura pressed her back harder against the wall.
Her thoughts raced.
The ledger.
The accounts her father had forced her to write.
The town's suffering.
The questions she was punished for asking.
So this was the truth.
Her family didn't simply ignore injustice.
They engineered it.
The King spoke again. "And the girl?"
Silence followed.
Prince Henry scoffed. "Famoura? She knows nothing."
Prince Louis added lazily, "She writes what she's told. She's useful — nothing more."
Lucien hesitated.
Just for a moment.
"She won't interfere," he said finally. "She's been trained to obey."
That was when something inside Famoura shattered.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
But completely.
Thunder exploded overhead, shaking the palace walls. Rain poured harder, as if trying to wash the kingdom clean.
Famoura lowered her head, her lips curling into a faint smile.
Not of amusement.
Of understanding.
"So this is the truth…" she whispered.
The truth that had been hidden behind silk curtains and golden crowns.
The truth that men with power wrote history — and forced others to copy it obediently.
Her smile faded.
In its place rose something darker.
Something resolute.
Famoura slipped away silently, returning to her chamber as if nothing had happened. Her cloak hung heavy with rain when she closed the door behind her.
She stood in the center of the room, water dripping onto the stone floor.
Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror — hair damp, eyes burning, face pale but unafraid.
She removed the ledger from the cupboard.
Opened it.
Ran her fingers across the ink she had written.
Perfectly written lies.
She closed the book slowly.
"They think I'm obedient," she murmured. "They think I'm blind."
She stepped back to the window.
The moon struggled to shine through the storm clouds, its pale light fractured by rain.
Famoura lifted her chin.
"But even the moon," she whispered, "moves the tides."
Lightning flashed again.
And somewhere deep within the palace, unseen and unheard, the beginning of rebellion took root.
Not with swords.
Not with armies.
But with truth.
And Famoura would be the one to wield it.