Prince Charles did not answer immediately.
Instead—
he held the items forward.
A thick bundle of papers.
Several leather-bound account books.
And a wooden box sealed with the royal crest of Château de Chambord.
Famoura stared at them suspiciously.
Then her eyes moved back to her father.
"What am I supposed to do with these?"
Prince Charles exhaled slowly.
The sound carried exhaustion more than irritation.
"Work."
Famoura groaned immediately.
Prince Phillip laughed.
"Poor girl. Your peaceful morning has officially died."
Famoura shot him a look.
"I noticed."
Prince Charles ignored both of them.
He placed the books upon a nearby table.
"The annual records of the western district."
Then another stack.
"The agricultural reports."
Another.
"The trade accounts."
Famoura's eyes widened.
"Are you trying to bury me beneath paper?"
Prince Phillip coughed to hide his laughter.
Prince Charles remained completely serious.
"You wished to be treated equally."
Famoura instantly regretted every argument she had ever won.
Her father continued.
"Prince Henry, Prince Lucien, and Prince Louis review these records every year."
He folded his arms.
"Therefore, so shall you."
The hall became silent.
Famoura looked at the endless pile.
Then at Prince Charles.
Then back at the pile.
Then once again at Prince Charles.
"This is revenge."
"It is responsibility."
"This is definitely revenge."
Prince Phillip laughed openly this time.
Even Prince Charles seemed close to losing his composure.
Almost.
But only almost.
Then his gaze shifted toward the sealed wooden box.
"That," he said quietly, "is different."
Famoura immediately became interested.
The books no longer mattered.
The box did.
"What is inside?"
"You will discover that yourself."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I dislike mysteries."
Prince Phillip raised an eyebrow.
"No, you don't."
Famoura paused.
Then reluctantly admitted,
"Fine. I love mysteries."
Prince Phillip smiled triumphantly.
"I knew it."
Prince Charles pushed the box toward her.
"Open it later."
The strange seriousness in his voice made her suspicious again.
Before she could ask another question, he turned away.
"The records are due within three days."
Then he walked out of the hall.
Just like that.
Leaving behind confusion.
Silence.
And entirely too much paperwork.
Prince Phillip watched him disappear.
Then he looked at Famoura.
"Well."
He pointed toward the mountain of documents.
"My condolences."
Famoura glared.
"I hope a horse steps on your foot."
Phillip laughed.
"I've missed our conversations."
---
Later that afternoon—
Famoura returned to her chamber carrying enough books to collapse a shelf.
The servants watched her pass with expressions ranging from sympathy to amusement.
One maid even whispered,
"Poor princess."
Famoura heard it.
She agreed.
The moment she entered her room, she dropped everything onto the desk.
The sound echoed loudly.
Then she sat down and stared.
The books stared back.
A battle had begun.
One she was already losing.
Her eyes eventually drifted toward the wooden box.
Still sealed.
Still mysterious.
Still infinitely more interesting than tax records.
Curiosity won.
It always did.
Carefully, she broke the wax seal.
The lid opened.
Inside rested several objects.
A silver compass.
An old key.
And a folded piece of parchment.
Famoura blinked.
"What?"
She picked up the compass first.
It looked ancient.
The metal was worn with age.
Strangely, the needle did not point north.
Instead, it spun slowly in circles.
As though searching for something.
Her frown deepened.
Then she unfolded the parchment.
Only one sentence had been written upon it.
The handwriting was elegant.
Old-fashioned.
Almost familiar.
"When the path is hidden, follow what seeks the truth."
Famoura stared.
Then read it again.
And again.
"What does that even mean?"
The parchment offered no answer.
Which was incredibly rude.
She picked up the key next.
It was old.
Very old.
Its silver surface carried intricate carvings she didn't recognize.
Nothing about the box made sense.
And that alone guaranteed she would become obsessed with it.
---
As evening approached, rain began falling beyond the castle walls.
Soft at first.
Then heavier.
The sound echoed against the windows.
Famoura worked reluctantly through the account books.
Numbers.
Names.
Taxes.
Harvest records.
More numbers.
More names.
More suffering.
Half the kingdom apparently existed only to generate paperwork.
Eventually she rubbed her eyes.
Exhausted.
Then something caught her attention.
A particular name.
Verinz.
Her posture straightened immediately.
She recognized it.
Alexander Verinz.
The man she had rescued.
Slowly she flipped through additional records.
Her eyes narrowed.
The figures didn't match.
Certain entries had been altered.
Amounts erased.
Values rewritten.
Famoura sat forward.
The same feeling returned.
The feeling she always experienced when something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Again.
Another discrepancy.
Then another.
And another.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Someone had been changing records.
Not carelessly.
Deliberately.
The numbers were subtle enough that most people would never notice.
But Famoura noticed.
Because she spent hours copying documents.
Because details mattered.
Because lies always left footprints.
The rain intensified outside.
Thunder rolled across the sky.
Famoura grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and began writing notes.
One inconsistency after another.
One missing amount after another.
The pattern slowly emerged.
And the more she discovered—
the less she liked what she was finding.
---
Night settled over Château de Chambord.
Most of the castle slept.
Famoura did not.
Candles burned around her desk.
The strange compass rested beside her papers.
The crimson cloth book remained hidden beneath her bed.
And somewhere inside the castle—
someone was walking.
The sound reached her faintly.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Moving through the corridor.
Famoura paused.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence followed.
Then—
three soft knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Famoura frowned.
It was late.
Very late.
Carefully she stood.
Then approached the door.
"Who is it?"
No answer.
Her hand moved toward the handle.
Slowly—
she opened it.
The corridor was empty.
No servants.
No guards.
No family.
Nothing.
Only darkness.
And silence.
Famoura stepped outside.
The candlelight spilled into the hallway.
Still nothing.
Then her eyes lowered.
A folded paper rested on the floor.
Right outside her chamber.
Her heart skipped.
Carefully she picked it up.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
The message was short.
Terrifyingly short.
Stop searching the records.
Famoura stared at the words.
The rain crashed against the windows.
Thunder growled overhead.
She read the sentence again.
Then slowly looked down the empty corridor.
Someone had delivered this.
Someone inside the castle.
Someone who knew exactly what she was investigating.
For a moment, fear stirred within her.
A natural fear.
A reasonable fear.
Then it disappeared.
Because Famoura Felóenz had never been particularly reasonable.
Instead, a faint smile appeared.
The sort of smile that usually preceded trouble.
She folded the note carefully.
Placed it inside her pocket.
And whispered into the darkness—
"No."
Then she closed the door.
Locked it.
Returned to her desk.
And continued reading every record she could find.
Because whoever had sent the warning had made one terrible mistake.
They believed fear would stop her.
But fear had never stopped Famoura before.
And it certainly wasn't about to start now.