The sound of galloping hooves thundered through the dark valley.
It rolled through the night like distant thunder, heavy and relentless, shaking the earth beneath it. Dust rose in swirling clouds, carried by the wind, and somewhere within that haze came the faint metallic clink of armor—steel brushing against steel, measured and disciplined. These were not wandering riders. These were soldiers.
Lying on the cold ground, Famoura stirred.
Her body ached as though it had been shattered and remade poorly. Each breath scraped against her ribs. Her vision swam, colors bleeding into one another—gold, silver, crimson—shapes without meaning. For a long moment, she did not know where she was, or even who she was.
Then memory returned in fragments.
Fire along the castle walls. Screams tearing through stone corridors. The weight against her chest as she ran—pressed close, guarded instinctively, as if her body understood something her mind could barely grasp.
The Crimson.
Her fingers twitched.
She forced her eyes open.
Above her stretched a sky bruised with night, clouds drifting slowly across a pale moon. The valley lay quiet, almost peaceful, as though it had never known war. Grass brushed against her palms, damp with dew. Somewhere nearby, water moved softly, a gentle, unbothered sound.
Silence wrapped around her.
Too much silence.
Then the hooves came closer.
Famoura's pulse spiked violently. Fear surged through her veins, sharp and cold. For a heartbeat, she wanted to close her eyes—to let the darkness pull her under again, to believe that if she did not look, none of it would be real.
But the world did not grant her that mercy.
With a shaky breath, she pushed herself up. Pain exploded through her limbs, forcing a cry from her throat. She clenched her teeth, swallowing it back, and rose unsteadily to her knees.
That was when she saw the stream.
It curved through the valley like a silver ribbon, its surface glowing faintly beneath the moonlight. The water moved slowly, quietly, as if untouched by the violence tearing through the land beyond the hills.
Famoura turned toward it, her thoughts racing.
Against her chest, hidden beneath torn fabric and soot-stained cloth, something pulsed with a strange, subtle warmth.
The Crimson Book.
The thing kings lied for. The thing queens marched armies for. The thing that had already set the world aflame.
Her breath came faster.
They can't have it.
The rumble of hooves grew louder now. She could hear voices—orders being barked, reins pulled tight. Shadows shifted at the edge of the trees.
They were close.
Famoura staggered to her feet and stumbled toward the riverbank, every step threatening to send her crashing back to the ground. The cold air burned her lungs. Her hands shook as she knelt beside the water, moonlight reflecting in trembling ripples.
She held the book for one final moment.
Its fabric cover was dark, almost black, though faint traces of crimson shimmered beneath the surface, as if alive. She did not open it. She did not need to.
Leaning close, she whispered—not loudly, not clearly, but with all the desperate sincerity her heart could muster.
"Hide it," she murmured, her voice barely more than breath. "Protect it from their greed."
The water did not answer.
But as she released the book, it slipped from her fingers with unnatural ease.
It sank slowly, the fabric pages absorbing moonlight as it descended. For a fleeting instant, the water glowed silver and red, ripples spreading outward like quiet wings.
Then it was gone.
The stream closed over it, smooth and innocent, revealing nothing.
Famoura turned just as the soldiers arrived.
"There!" a voice shouted.
Torches flared to life, sudden and blinding. Light cut through the darkness, throwing long, twisted shadows against the trees. Horses snorted and stamped the ground as armored men surrounded her, steel and leather glinting in the firelight.
Famoura froze.
A dozen swords were trained on her, their tips steady and merciless.
She lifted her hands slowly, forcing herself to stand straight despite the tremor in her legs.
A man rode forward, his armor heavier than the others, marked with the insignia of Château de Brissac. His gaze swept over her—her torn clothes, her bloodied hands, the exhaustion etched into her face.
"There she is," he said coldly. "Alone."
He raised a gloved hand.
"Seize her."
Rough hands grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back. Pain shot through her shoulders as iron restraints snapped into place.
Famoura gasped but did not scream.
The commander leaned closer, his voice low, satisfied.
"You ran far," he said. "But not far enough."
She met his gaze, her eyes steady despite the fear roaring in her chest.
"Take her to Château de Brissac," he ordered. "She'll speak soon enough."
The soldiers mounted their horses again, dragging her with them. As they pulled her away from the river, Famoura cast one final glance over her shoulder.
The stream flowed quietly beneath the moon.
Nothing stirred its surface.
Nothing betrayed the secret buried beneath its depths.
As the valley disappeared behind her and the torches carried her toward captivity, Famoura clenched her jaw.
They could take her freedom.
They could take her blood.
But the Crimson was no longer in their reach.
And somewhere in the dark, destiny waited—patient, silent, and very much alive.