The sun was sinking behind the tall towers of Castle Chambord, its fading light painting the marble walls in hues of crimson and gold. The war had ended only a day ago — or so everyone believed. Smoke still lingered in the air, and the scent of burnt wood and iron clung to the corridors.
Inside the grand chamber, Princess Catherine ran forward the moment she saw her queen.
"Oh, my queen — you're safe!" she cried, throwing her arms around Princess Marie.
Marie smiled faintly, exhaustion softening her voice. "Thank God… it's finally over."
But standing a little apart, Princess Famoura's eyes wandered toward the courtyard window. Beyond it, she could see the old stone well, its dark circle glinting faintly under the sunset. The same well where, only hours ago, she had thrown the true Crimson Kira — the mysterious book that everyone sought.
Her eyes lingered there, full of quiet fear.
Across the room, Prince Henry noticed. He tilted his head slightly, watching her carefully.
She's been acting strange since the battle, he thought. Distant… distracted. What is she hiding?
Before he could say anything, the great doors of the hall swung open.
King Francis entered, his golden cloak flowing behind him, his face still shadowed by the weight of war.
"Everyone, listen," he said, his deep voice echoing across the marble floor. "Our castle remains in danger. Do not be deceived by silence — this war is not yet won."
A tense hush spread through the room.
Then the sound of hurried footsteps broke the stillness. Minister William, breathless and pale, ran into the chamber, holding a parchment sealed in red wax.
"Your Majesty!" he gasped, bowing deeply. "Terrible news!"
King Francis turned sharply. "Speak, William. What has happened?"
William caught his breath and held out the parchment. "They know, Your Majesty. The enemy has discovered the truth — they know the Crimson Kira we sent to them was a fake."
A murmur of shock spread across the hall.
Princess Marie's hand flew to her mouth.
Catherine whispered, "Oh no… they found out already?"
The king broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Written in blood-red ink, the message was short but chilling.
He read it aloud:
> "The war is not over.
— Queen Isabella."
The words hung heavy in the air like a curse.
King Francis lowered the parchment slowly. "She knows," he murmured. "And she intends to strike again."
Princess Marie pressed a hand to her heart. "She'll come for revenge."
Famoura, standing near the window, spoke softly — too calmly. "Of course she knows. You can't deceive Queen Isabella forever."
Catherine frowned. "But how could she find out so quickly?"
King Francis began to pace. "That is exactly what troubles me. Someone within our walls may have betrayed us."
A deep silence followed. Torches flickered against the cold stone walls, throwing restless shadows across the royal faces.
Prince Henry looked again toward Famoura. He didn't want to suspect his own sister, but her calmness felt… unnatural. She hadn't even flinched at the mention of Queen Isabella's vengeance.
---
The next morning dawned gray and cold. A mist lay over the castle grounds like a ghostly shroud.
Inside the throne room, King Francis sat upon his seat, weary and sleepless. The echo of approaching footsteps broke the silence as the Commander of the Royal Army entered — his armor glinting faintly in the morning light.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing deeply, "forgive me for bringing dark news at this hour — but you must hear this at once."
The king frowned. "What is it, Commander?"
The man straightened. "Queen Isabella is dead."
The king froze. "What did you say?"
"She was found murdered in her chambers," the Commander replied gravely. "Last night. No one saw the killer. The guards were found unconscious at the doors."
King Francis stood, disbelief clouding his face. "Impossible… her fortress was said to be unbreakable."
"It is true, Your Majesty," the Commander said quietly. "Her heart was pierced, yet no weapon was found. Her lips were black as if burned by some poison, but there was no trace of it."
A heavy silence settled over the hall.
Then Prince Charles, sharp-eyed and always cautious, stepped forward. "This sounds like a conspiracy," he said. "Someone wanted her dead — not on the battlefield, but in secret."
Prince Henry clenched his fists. "That was supposed to be my task. So who did it… before me?"
King Francis turned toward the flames in the hearth, his expression dark. "Whoever it was, their act will not end this war. It will only breed confusion — and chaos."
The room fell silent again except for the low crackling of fire.
---
Meanwhile, in the royal quarters, Princess Famoura lay weak and feverish upon her bed. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow. Princess Marie and Princess Catherine sat beside her, gently pressing cool cloths against her forehead.
"She hasn't eaten since dawn," Marie murmured. "I fear the sickness came from that river water."
Catherine dipped the cloth again and sighed. "She keeps muttering in her sleep… something about the well."
Marie glanced at her sister's face. "The well?" she repeated softly, puzzled, but said no more.
Moments later, the chamber door creaked open and Prince Charles entered, his boots echoing on the marble. "What happened to her?" he asked, his tone calm but wary.
Catherine looked up. "We don't know. Since morning she's had a terrible fever."
Charles studied Famoura closely. "Strange," he said. "She doesn't look sick — just… haunted."
A chuckle sounded from the doorway. Prince Lucien, the youngest and most mischievous of them all, stepped inside with his usual smirk.
"She doesn't look haunted to me," he said lightly. "She just looks like someone who didn't sleep all night."
Marie frowned. "Lucien, this isn't a time for jokes."
But Famoura stirred, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You're right, Lucien," she murmured weakly. "I didn't sleep. Not even for a moment."
Her voice, though quiet, made everyone pause. Her eyes opened — dark and deep, glowing strangely under the candlelight.
Lucien laughed softly, trying to mask his unease. "Well, that explains it."
But Henry, who had entered quietly behind them, didn't laugh. He just stared at his sister, his brow tightening. Something about her voice — calm yet cold — sent a chill down his spine.
---
That day passed under uneasy skies. Word of Queen Isabella's death spread across the kingdoms like wildfire. Courtiers whispered in corners, servants carried rumors through halls, and messengers rode day and night between castles.
Some called it divine justice. Others whispered that it was a curse — that anyone who touched the Crimson Kira would meet the same fate.
By evening, the royal family gathered for supper in the Great Hall. The long oak table glittered with golden dishes, but no one had any appetite.
King Francis sat at the head, his face pale under the candlelight. "There will be no celebrations tonight," he said. "Her death does not mean victory. It only means that the game has changed."
Prince Charles leaned forward. "Do you think her court will fall apart now that she's gone?"
Francis shook his head slowly. "Power doesn't die, Charles. It merely shifts. Someone else will rise to claim it."
As he spoke, the doors opened. Famoura entered, dressed in white silk, her long hair loose over her shoulders. She looked fragile but composed — like a ghost of the woman she'd been before the war. Every head turned toward her.
Henry rose halfway from his seat. "You should still be resting," he said softly.
Famoura smiled faintly. "I've rested enough."
She took her seat beside her mother, lowering her eyes to her plate though she barely touched her food. No one noticed how her fingers brushed lightly over the silver pendant at her neck — the one that once bore the seal of the Crimson Kira.
---
Later that night, the castle lay silent. The torches along the courtyard flickered in the wind. Prince Henry wandered alone through the moonlight, his thoughts heavy.
He stopped before the old well, staring down into its dark depths. The water below glimmered faintly, still and cold.
"I know you're hiding something, Famoura," he whispered into the night. "I can see it in your eyes. What did you really do with that book?"
The wind stirred softly, and for a moment, he thought he heard a whisper — a woman's voice, faint and echoing through the air:
The curse mirrors truth… but truth always demands its price.
Henry shuddered. He turned away from the well, his cloak sweeping the ground. Deep inside, he knew — the war was not over. The enemy might be gone, but something darker lingered… something born not of politics, but of blood.