At the summons of Prince Charles, Princess Marie—known as Famoura—quietly made her way to his chamber.
The room was dimly lit, heavy with authority. Without a word of greeting, Prince Charles 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."
He paused briefly before adding, "And the accounts of Château de Chambord—those are your responsibility. Submit them by tomorrow."
With that, he turned to leave.
But Famoura stepped forward, blocking his path.
"What about my studies?" she asked, her voice steady but firm.
Prince Charles stopped. Slowly, he turned back, his expression unreadable.
"We have already made you capable enough—to understand language and manage accounts."
Famoura's eyes sharpened instantly.
"Prince Henry, Louis, and Lucien know these things too," she replied. "Yet they are still allowed to study."
A flicker of irritation crossed his face.
"It is precisely because of excuses like these," he said sharply, "that we do not educate girls further."
Famoura did not hesitate.
"Then say it clearly," she shot back. "You cannot bear to see us rise."
For a moment, silence filled the room.
Prince Charles's gaze turned cold.
"Finish your work. And mind your place."
With that, he stormed out.
Famoura stood there for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, with a quiet sigh, she returned to her chamber.
She began copying the town accounts diligently, line after line, until—
Knock. Knock.
Without looking up, she said, "Come in."
The door opened, and Prince Lucien stepped inside, carrying several books in his arms.
He walked over and placed them gently on her desk.
"I've already read these last year," he said with a soft smile. "You can read them if you'd like."
Famoura looked up, surprised.
"Thank you," she said sincerely.
Lucien smiled again—but then paused.
"Wait… look behind you."
Confused, she turned slightly.
"Your fireplace has gone cold."
He raised his hand toward it and murmured softly,
"Firedoesia."
At once, flames flickered to life, warming the room.
"There," he said gently. "You won't feel cold now."
Famoura smiled faintly. "Thank you… again."
Carefully, she set aside the books he had given her—almost as if they were treasures—and returned to her work.
By nightfall, she had completed every account Prince Charles had assigned.
But just as silence settled over the castle—
A scream pierced through the night.
Famoura froze.
Then, without hesitation, she rushed toward the sound.
She arrived to find Princess Catherine lying on the bed, her body still—but her face twisted in distress.
Prince Charles stood beside her, trying to wake her.
"Mother!" he called. "Wake up!"
But she wouldn't respond.
Her voice trembled faintly as she cried out—trapped in a nightmare.
Famoura stepped forward immediately.
"This… looks like a demonic visitation."
Prince Charles turned sharply. "What is that?"
"It happens," Famoura explained quickly, "when a witch-like presence presses upon your chest. You cannot move… your voice gets suppressed… and it can disturb the mind deeply."
She took a breath.
"I am a oneirokinesis user. Let me handle this."
Without waiting, she sat beside her mother.
Gently, she took Princess Catherine's hands and placed them over her chest. Closing her eyes, Famoura focused deeply—her mind reaching into the dream itself.
Slowly… carefully…
She began to change it.
The tension in Catherine's face eased.
Her breathing softened.
And within moments—she fell into a peaceful sleep.
Prince Charles watched in silence.
Then, slowly, he placed a hand on Famoura's head.
"…Thank you."
Famoura opened her eyes.
"I changed her dream," she said quietly. "She will sleep peacefully now."
But then her expression darkened.
"Still… something feels wrong. A demonic visitation doesn't happen without reason. Someone… must be behind this."
Prince Charles straightened.
"This is not something you should concern yourself with," he said calmly. "You are too young for such matters."
He gave her a faint smile.
"Go and rest."
Famoura said nothing.
She simply nodded… and left.
Back in her room, exhaustion finally claimed her, and 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.
Soon, the sound of galloping hooves broke the silence.
A group of riders approached and stopped before the figure.
"We bring a message from Château de Brassic," one of them said. "Deliver it to King Francis."
The cloaked figure said nothing.
It simply accepted the message.
The riders turned and left.
And then—
Without hesitation—
The figure burned the message to ashes.
Mounting a horse, it vanished into the night.
Something had begun.
And the castle had no idea what was coming next.