The night was thick with silence.
No moon shone above the palace towers, and the clouds smothered even the faintest trace of starlight. In the narrow passage behind the outer walls, two shadows stood close together, their voices barely louder than the wind brushing against stone.
A soldier, clad in dull armor damp with night mist, leaned forward.
"A message has arrived from Château de Brissac," he whispered.
The man standing before him was dressed entirely in black. From head to toe, his body was concealed beneath layered garments that swallowed the light. A dark hood shadowed his face completely—no features visible, no hint of age or identity.
"Give it to me," the man said quietly. His voice was calm, controlled. "I'll deliver it to the King myself."
The soldier hesitated only for a moment before handing over the sealed parchment.
"When the time comes for the decision," the man continued, "I'll send word back."
The soldier bowed and retreated into the darkness.
The hooded man remained still.
Then, without hesitation, he lifted the parchment and held it over a small flame. The seal cracked. The paper curled. The words—whatever secrets they carried—were swallowed by fire.
Ash drifted silently to the ground.
The man watched until nothing remained.
No one would ever know what Château de Brissac had written.
He turned and disappeared into the night, leaving behind only the smell of smoke and a choice already made.
Morning came softly.
Sunlight slipped through the narrow window of Famoura's chamber, painting golden lines across the stone floor. The palace felt deceptively peaceful—birds chirped, distant bells rang, and servants moved quietly through the halls.
Famoura sat at her desk, her head resting in her hands.
The strange cloth-bound book lay open before her.
She hadn't remembered opening it.
Yet there it was.
As the sunlight touched the fabric pages, something changed.
Faint maroon letters shimmered into view—letters that had not been there before. They glowed softly against the deep crimson cloth, as if awakened by the light itself.
Famoura leaned closer, her breath catching.
"What…?" she whispered.
The symbols weren't stitched like before.
They were written.
And they were moving—slowly rearranging themselves into patterns her mind could almost understand.
Her heart pounded.
She had seen no ink.
No hand.
Yet the words lived.
Startled, Famoura snapped the book shut and stood abruptly.
"This isn't normal," she murmured.
She grabbed a shawl and hurried out of her chamber, her steps quick but careful. The corridors were already busy with morning routines, but no one paid her any special attention.
She made her way to the upper library.
The grand doors creaked open, revealing towering shelves filled with history, law, and forgotten lore. Dust floated lazily through beams of light as Famoura moved with purpose.
She searched frantically.
Books on royal lineage.
Records of wars.
Accounts of forbidden texts.
But , she didn't get anything from the library...