The following morning dawned beneath a sky veiled in silver mist.
The rain of the previous night had ceased, yet Château de Chambord remained cloaked in an uneasy silence. The servants moved quietly through the corridors, speaking in hushed voices, whilst the great castle itself seemed to hold its breath.
Princess Famoura Felóenz had scarcely slept.
Though her body had rested, her mind had not.
Again and again she recalled the sight of her mother lying helpless upon the bed, trapped within a nightmare from which she could not awaken. Even now, the memory stirred a cold fury within her chest.
Someone had caused it.
Of that she was certain.
And she intended to discover who.
---
At the summons of Prince Charles, Famoura made her way through the castle corridors shortly after sunrise.
The atmosphere felt strange.
Servants lowered their gazes as she passed.
Guards stood unusually still.
Even the air itself seemed heavy.
When at last she reached Prince Charles's chamber and stepped inside, she found him standing beside a large oak desk covered with documents.
Without greeting her, he immediately thrust a thick bundle of papers into her hands.
"These contain the accounts of the entire town," he said curtly. "Copy them neatly and return the originals by nightfall."
Famoura glanced down at the endless rows of figures and calculations.
Before she could respond, Prince Charles added,
"And the accounts of Château de Chambord shall also be your responsibility. I expect them completed by tomorrow."
His tone allowed no argument.
Having delivered his command, he turned toward the door.
But Famoura stepped forward.
"What of my studies?"
The question halted him.
Slowly he turned.
His expression remained impassive.
"We have educated thee sufficiently," he replied. "Thou canst read, write, and manage accounts. That is enough."
Famoura's jaw tightened.
"Prince Henry, Prince Lucien, and Prince Louis can do all these things as well."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Yet they continue their studies."
A flicker of irritation crossed his face.
"It is because of comparisons such as these," he said sharply, "that girls ought not be educated beyond necessity."
The words struck the room like a slap.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Famoura lifted her chin.
"Then speak honestly."
Her voice was calm.
Cold.
"You fear what women might become if they are given the same opportunities."
Prince Charles stared at her.
The silence that followed felt dangerous.
At last he spoke through clenched teeth.
"Finish thy work."
Then, without another word, he strode from the chamber.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Famoura remained motionless for several moments.
Then she exhaled slowly.
Not in defeat.
But in restraint.
---
The hours that followed passed beneath an endless sea of numbers.
Taxes.
Land ownership.
Livestock records.
Trade accounts.
Page after page.
Line after line.
Famoura sat diligently at her desk, copying every figure with painstaking precision.
Her fingers began to ache.
Her eyes burned from exhaustion.
Yet she refused to stop.
If she failed, they would call her incapable.
And she would never grant them that satisfaction.
The afternoon sun had begun sinking toward the horizon when a knock sounded at her door.
Without lifting her gaze from the page, she spoke.
"Enter."
The door opened quietly.
Prince Lucien stepped inside.
Several books rested within his arms.
Unlike his brothers, Lucien carried himself with an unusual calmness.
Without speaking, he approached the desk and carefully placed the books before her.
Famoura looked up.
History.
Languages.
Politics.
Philosophy.
Subjects forbidden to most women.
For a moment she simply stared.
Then she whispered,
"Thank you."
A faint smile touched Lucien's lips.
"I finished them last year."
His tone remained gentle.
"I thought perhaps thou mightest enjoy them."
Before Famoura could reply, Lucien's gaze shifted toward the far side of the chamber.
His brow furrowed.
"The fireplace."
Famoura turned.
The hearth stood cold and empty.
The room had become uncomfortably chilly.
Lucien raised one hand.
"Firedoesia."
Immediately golden flames sprang to life within the fireplace.
Warmth spread throughout the room.
The sudden firelight danced across the stone walls.
"There," Lucien said softly.
"Thou shalt not be cold now."
Famoura smiled faintly.
"My thanks."
Lucien inclined his head and quietly departed.
When the door closed behind him, Famoura glanced once more at the books.
For a brief moment they seemed more precious than jewels.
Then she carefully set them aside and returned to her work.
---
Night descended over Château de Chambord.
The castle corridors grew quiet.
Most candles had already been extinguished.
At last Famoura placed down her quill.
The accounts were complete.
Every page.
Every figure.
Every calculation.
Perfect.
A small sense of satisfaction stirred within her.
Then—
A scream shattered the silence.
Famoura froze.
The cry echoed through the castle like a knife cutting through cloth.
Without hesitation she leapt to her feet and ran.
The corridors blurred around her.
Servants stood frozen in fear.
Doors opened.
Voices shouted.
The scream had come from the royal wing.
From her mother's chambers.
Famoura arrived moments later.
The door stood open.
Inside, Princess Catherine lay upon the bed.
Her body trembled violently.
Her breathing came in uneven gasps.
Prince Charles stood beside her, desperately attempting to wake her.
"Mother!" he cried.
Yet Catherine remained trapped within sleep.
Her lips moved faintly.
Small sounds escaped her throat.
Sounds of terror.
Famoura stepped closer.
Her expression darkened.
"This resembles a demonic visitation."
Prince Charles turned sharply.
"A what?"
Famoura's eyes remained fixed upon Catherine.
"It occurs when an unseen force presses upon the body during sleep."
Her voice lowered.
"The victim cannot move."
"Cannot speak."
"Cannot wake."
Fear flashed across Prince Charles's face.
Famoura inhaled deeply.
"I possess Oneirokinesis."
She looked toward him.
"Allow me to help her."
Without waiting for permission, she sat beside the bed.
Carefully she took Catherine's trembling hands and placed them upon her chest.
Then Famoura closed her eyes.
The world vanished.
Darkness consumed her.
And she entered the dream.
The nightmare.
The prison.
Within that twisted realm she searched for the source of Catherine's terror.
Slowly.
Carefully.
She altered the dream itself.
The shadows faded.
The fear loosened.
The nightmare unraveled.
Back in the waking world, Catherine's expression gradually softened.
Her trembling ceased.
Her breathing steadied.
The tension left her face.
And at last—
She slept peacefully.
Famoura opened her eyes.
Exhaustion immediately washed over her.
Prince Charles stared in astonishment.
Then, unexpectedly, he placed a hand upon her head.
His voice was quiet.
Almost vulnerable.
"Thank you."
Famoura rose slowly.
"Her dreams are peaceful now."
She hesitated.
Then added,
"But something is wrong."
Prince Charles frowned.
"What dost thou mean?"
Famoura looked toward her sleeping mother.
"Demonic visitations rarely occur without cause."
Her gaze hardened.
"Someone may be responsible."
Immediately Prince Charles straightened.
The brief vulnerability vanished.
"This matter does not concern thee."
His tone became firm once more.
"Thou art too young."
A forced smile appeared upon his face.
"Go and rest."
Famoura nodded.
Yet inwardly she did not believe him.
Not for a moment.
---
Later that night, sleep finally claimed her.
The fire crackled softly within the hearth.
Lucien's books rested upon the desk.
And beneath her bed—
Hidden from every eye—
lay the Crimson Book.
Silent.
Waiting.
Famoura drifted into dreams.
Unaware of what stirred beyond the castle walls.
Far beyond the gates of Château de Chambord, beneath the darkness of midnight, a lone figure stood motionless.
A long black cloak concealed its form.
Its face remained hidden beneath a deep hood.
Neither servant nor soldier.
Neither noble nor messenger.
Something else entirely.
Then came the sound of approaching horses.
Several riders emerged from the darkness and halted before the stranger.
One stepped forward.
"We bring a message from Château de Brassic."
He extended a sealed letter.
"It must reach King Francis."
The cloaked figure said nothing.
A pale hand emerged from beneath the cloak and accepted the letter.
The riders immediately departed.
Soon their hoofbeats faded into silence.
The stranger remained alone.
For several moments there was only stillness.
Then slowly—
The seal was broken.
The message read.
And without hesitation—
The letter was set aflame.
The paper curled.
Blackened.
Collapsed into ash.
The wind carried the remnants into the night.
As though the warning had never existed.
The figure mounted a waiting horse.
Then disappeared into the darkness.
Not toward Château de Chambord.
But away from it.
Toward shadows deeper than night itself.
And somewhere far away—
A storm had already begun.
One that would not arrive with thunder.
But with silence.
And silence, as history often proved...
was far more dangerous.