France opened the door to the spare room with careful, deliberate silence. Her bare feet padded against the cool stone floor as she slipped into the corridor, her eyes sweeping over the grand halls of the British Palace.

Huh, she thought, not bad.
It was far more sensible than le père's castle—less like a shrine to ego, more like a functioning palace.
Still, it was too flamboyant for her taste. Gold trim everywhere. Velvet drapery. Opulence draped over every inch like a crown too heavy for its wearer.

Portraits of royals lined the aisles, watching her with their painted stares. Kings, princes—most of them dressed as if the world depended on their style.
They think pretty highly of themselves, France thought with a smirk.
The queens and princesses were another matter. Lovely, yes. Refined. But their eyes in those portraits were always the same—soft, fearful, distant.
Women as decorations, France scoffed inwardly, Nothing more than painted dolls in satin cages.

She moved quietly through the halls, the swish of her blue silk dress trailing behind her like a whisper.
Eyes followed her—everywhere.
Knights stiffened. Guards bowed their heads. Maids stilled mid-task. Ladies whispered behind fans. Gentlemen gave discreet nods, some murmuring compliments under their breath.

France held her head high, her spine straight, her steps measured. She would not walk like a hostage.
She was no prisoner.
She was France.

Strangely enough, their stares weren't hostile. If anything, they were... admiring.
Men looked at her as if she were a vision.
Women watched her like one might a fire—too beautiful to look away, too dangerous to touch.
Enemies, she reminded herself, scanning every face. They could all be enemies.
But admiration? That she hadn't expected.

As she turned a corner, she overheard a cluster of maids whispering furiously.

"She's the beauty of France."
"No, of all of Europe—have you seen her eyes?"
"She glows, like something from a fairy tale."
"So elegant—did you see her walk?"
"She must be impossible to talk to—so cold—so regal—"

France rolled her eyes.
Ugh. So boring.
The eternal song of "beauty, beauty, beauty."
Let her tell you something: being beautiful wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
It didn't give you freedom. It didn't grant you respect.
From the moment she could walk, they treated her like a jewel in a box.
She'd had eleven guards at once between the ages of one and twelve—not to protect her intelligence, not to guide her in politics or warcraft, but because she was "precious."
A living heirloom.
A delicate blossom.

Delicate, her ass.

What she needed wasn't lace and flattery.
She needed strength. Strategy. Power.
Skill with a blade, wit sharper than steel.
She wasn't a princess in a tower—she was a queen in the making.

France let out a long sigh, her fingers trailing along the carved wooden rail of the staircase.
The whole palace still watched her like a blooming rose in a bed of thorns.
She hated it.
Admired and underestimated—again.

This...
This is going to be a longgg day.