The first sound was distant.
A low thunder that did not belong to the sky.
Then came the unmistakable echo of galloping horses, followed by the clamor of armor, steel striking steel, and voices shouting in alarm. The sound swelled rapidly, rolling toward the castle like a living storm.
"What's happening?"
"Soldiers—outside the walls!"
The castle erupted into chaos.
Servants dropped what they carried. Guards rushed past one another, boots pounding up the marble staircases. Doors flew open as nobles emerged from their chambers, fear written across their faces.
Famoura barely had time to react before hands seized hers.
Princess Marie and Princess Catherine appeared beside her, their expressions pale but determined.
"Famoura, come with us," Marie said urgently.
Catherine tightened her grip. "Don't let go."
Together, they were pulled along with the crowd toward the upper levels. The air grew heavy with tension as they reached the balcony overlooking the fields beyond the castle walls.
Famoura stepped forward—
And froze.
Below them stretched an army vast enough to swallow the horizon.
Rows upon rows of soldiers stood in formation, black banners snapping violently in the wind. Spears rose like a forest of iron. Siege towers loomed in the distance, already rolling forward. The ground trembled beneath the sheer weight of their numbers.
At the front rode a woman clad in crimson and steel.
She removed her helmet slowly, her sharp eyes lifting toward the balcony.
Queen Isabella.
Her voice carried across the battlefield, clear and merciless.
"Now is the time, Francis," she declared. "Hand over the Crimson Book, or we will take both your kingdom and your town of Crimson."
A murmur spread through the nobles.
King Francis stepped forward, gripping the stone railing.
"How did this happen so suddenly?" he demanded, his voice low. "Henry?"
Prince Henry stood rigid, eyes fixed on the enemy ranks.
Before he could answer, Minister William rushed forward, holding charred remains between trembling fingers.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing hastily, "an urgent message from Château de Brissac was destroyed. Showed signs of deliberate burning. Whoever did this wanted us unprepared—wanted us to lose."
The realization struck like a blade.
Someone inside the castle had betrayed them.
Eyes shifted. Whispers spread.
Famoura felt the weight of those glances, sharp and accusing.
"Why are you looking at me?" she protested. "I didn't do anything!"
King Francis raised a hand sharply. "Enough. Whoever is responsible will answer for it later."
Queen Isabella laughed—a cold, cutting sound.
"Still pretending?" she called. "Give me the Crimson, Francis, and I will spare Château de Chambord."
King Francis straightened.
"The Crimson no longer exists," he said firmly. "It was destroyed long ago—along with Queen Margaret."
"Lies," Isabella replied. "The Crimson still exists. And if you will not surrender it, we will claim it ourselves—along with your castle."
Prince Henry's breath caught.
If she's certain… he thought, then the Crimson must be somewhere here.
Without warning, he turned and left the balcony.
Famoura noticed immediately.
Her heart sank.
Something was wrong.
She moved to follow, slipping away as the crowd erupted in renewed panic.
Behind her, Catherine called out, "Famoura—wait!"
But the sounds of war drowned everything else.
The battle had begun.
At the borders, soldiers clashed violently. Arrows flew. Fire caught along the outer walls. Smoke rose, dark and suffocating.
Amid the confusion, enemy soldiers slipped through breached passages, flooding into the castle's lower levels.
Famoura hurried through torch-lit corridors, her thoughts racing.
Then she saw Henry again.
They crossed paths suddenly, both halting in shock.
Henry's hand flew to his sword.
"So you're here," he said sharply.
Famoura stiffened. "What are you doing?"
Henry's eyes burned with urgency. "You know what everyone is looking for."
Famoura's pulse thundered, but she said nothing.
Their blades clashed without another word.
Steel rang through the corridor as they fought—Henry desperate, Famoura precise but restrained. Neither spoke. Neither revealed more than necessary.
At last, exhaustion forced them apart.
They broke away, fleeing in opposite directions.
Elsewhere in the chaos, an invading soldier prowled the corridors, eyes sharp and greedy. Something had drawn his attention—something faintly glowing in the shadows.
He stepped closer.
Prince Henry stood only a few paces away, unaware.
The soldier raised his blade—
But before it could fall, steel flashed.
The soldier collapsed, blood pooling at his feet.
Famoura stood behind him, breathless, her sword still raised.
Henry turned, stunned.
"You—" he began.
She cut him off. "If he had killed you, this castle would already be lost."
A roar echoed down the hall.
"Henry!" Prince Louis shouted, staggering toward them. "Half our army is gone! They've breached the inner gates—run!"
Flames spread rapidly now. Smoke filled the air.
Famoura didn't wait.
She ran.
Through burning corridors. Through collapsing halls. Through shadows filled with enemy soldiers.
She burst through the main gates—
Only to stop short.
An entire division stood waiting outside.
She turned—
A rough hand grabbed her from behind.
Cold steel pressed against her throat.
"You're coming with us," a voice snarled.
"I don't have what you want," she gasped.
"We'll decide that," the man hissed.
Suddenly—
A dagger flew from the mist.
It struck the man cleanly. He fell without a sound.
From the fog emerged a figure dressed entirely in black, his face hidden beneath a hood.
For a heartbeat, Famoura stared.
Then she ran.
She ran until the castle vanished behind her.
Until the shouts faded.
Until her legs failed and the world spun.
At the edge of her strength, she collapsed onto the cold earth, darkness closing in.
Far away, the Crimson pulsed softly—unseen, unread, waiting.
And Famoura slipped into unconsciousness, carrying a fate no one yet understood.