LESSON II: GUARD YOUR LETTERS AS YOU GUARD YOUR LIFE.

The early morning air of Chamonix was crisp and biting, as it so often was in the distant countryside, laden with the scent of dew-damp earth and wildflowers that sprawled unchecked along the edges of the fields. The sun hung high in a watercolour sky, marking the morn, the light glowing along the jagged peaks of the French Alps in the distance. Its mountains had always reminded Delphine Chevalier of ancient sentinels, snow-kissed crowns gleaming in the distance, eternal and unyielding. Below them was a sight she was well acquainted with - the valley swathed in a patchwork of green pastures and modest farmsteads, the heart of a quiet village she had never quite felt she truly belonged to. It thrived under the shadow of the grandeur of the Alps, but Delphine wanted to be where the grandeur was, not merely live in the shade it casted.

She would fly too close to the sun if it meant basking in its fire for whatever temporal moment a human life was.

Her boots crunched lightly against the uneven stones of the low wall that bordered her family's farm. Not the farm of her childhood, which was sold after her father's passing... but she was nothing if not her mother's daughter, and she had her optimism. One day, she would buy that farm back, when she was a successful musketeer vanquishing the criminals of Paris. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even a year from now, but one day. One day was that spark on the horizon, and as she lifted a thumb to measure the horizon, one eye closed, she found comfort in knowing that it was always there. For now, this slightly smaller farm would be adequate training grounds.

Steps unconsciously attuned to the dips and rises of the wall, her balance was a certain thing, born of years spent walking that same line. In one hand she held a wooden sword, the hilt carved by her father shortly before his death - maybe it wasn't as impressive as the sword she one day would hold, but it somehow meant so much more. It was an invaluable relic of her childhood, an extension of herself, a symbol of her ambition. The blade cut through the air with a sharp whistle as Delphine swung it in a precise, practiced arc, the motion deliberate. She imagined an opponent before her, and her body followed the rhythm of an unseen dance, pivoting and lunging, each motion driven by the fierce determination that had taken root years ago.

The imaginary opponent now apprehended, she paused for a moment, resting the tip of the wooden sword against the wall as she gazed out over the expanse of their farm. Land stretched wide and verdant, dotted with a few sheep grazing in the morning light, soft bleats mingling with the faraway hum of village life. She loved this place, loved it more than words could express. But it was not enough. Not anymore.

"You can't stay forever," she murmured as she leaned on the wooden sword, resting her cheek against the back of her hand where it gripped the sword. The words felt heavy. She had always known her path would lead her away from here - away from the rolling hills and the safety of her mother's warm kitchen, away from familiar faces. Chamonix was her home, her heart, but it was also a tether, and Delphine was made for roaming free. You cannot keep a tiger in a cage. It was a sentence her father had often used on her mother as a justification for whatever wild adventure he wanted to take his daughter on, the times when he was around. No, you cannot keep a tiger in a cage. She was made to run free, to live, and not merely to stay alive.

If I die young, I will have died a protector, doing what I love. Making the world safer for you and our daughter. Fighting words. Those had always been fighting words for Lucien to say to Colette when she expressed her worries about the ups and downs that came with being a musketeer. Delphine had overheard him speak them once, when they thought she was asleep, tucked behind a hay bale while she had been playing espionage. Stranger still was that her mother had understood - it was why Delphine had always maintained that her mother was her strongest parent. It is one thing to live a reckless life. It is another thing entirely to be the person who must live with the wreckage someone leaves in their wake.

Yet, she understood her father. She understood him with her whole heart. Now, standing atop the low wall with the vastness of Chamonix at her feet, she understood in a way she hadn't fully back then. It was never about recklessness, or seeking glory - it was about purpose. About living a life that mattered. And she would live a life that really mattered, or die trying.

Delphine slid down from the wall and landed lightly on the soft earth as she made her way toward the stables, where her mother would be. As she approached, that warm, familiar scent of hay and leather greeted her, and soon the sight of Colette came into view as the woman brushed down a stallion whose coat gleamed like polished mahogany in the golden morning light. The horse tossed its head, nickering softly, and Delphine felt a familiar pull in her chest at the sight of it. He was the offspring of her father's mount: a living piece of Lucien Chevalier's legacy, just as she was.

"Maman," Delphine greeted, her voice steady but softer than usual. Today, she would say goodbye to her mother. Colette turned, her face framed by dark tendrils of hair that escaped her braid - she was a woman weathered by years of labour and loss, yet her eyes shone with unyielding warmth. Of all things about Chamonix, Delphine would miss this sight the most.

"Good morning, my love," Colette replied, setting the brush aside. She stepped forward now, taking her daughter's face gently in her hands as she tilted her face towards the stallion. "I have prepared him for you. Strong and sure-footed, like his father. He will carry you safely to Paris."

Before Delphine could find the words to thank her, her mother was holding up a hand, turning away with shaking hands as she went to take something out of her apron. It was a beautiful velvet ribbon, a vibrant deep red that matched Delphine's attire - red always had been her colour, it was the colour of bravery to her, somehow. "This," Colette began, voice thick with emotion, "was something your father had bought for you. It was to be a part of your eighteenth birthday gift. But..." She paused, smiling softly as her gaze traced her only daughter's features, really took her in, committing her to memory. "I saved it. I saved it for this very day."

Delphine bit down on her lip to keep the surprise out of her voice, or maybe to keep the tears from forming. Musketeers don't cry because their late father bought a pretty ribbon for them. Then again, maybe the crying part would not have been the surprising thing in that scenario. She was snapped away from her thoughts as her mother appeared behind her, tying the ribbon into her dark hair with careful hands, making sure the updo was secure. Colette seemed to leave those shorter strands that framed her face free - it was that untamed quality that made her daughter who she was, those small details which reminded her of Lucien. Ones she would always treasure.

Colette stepped back, eyes glistening as she surveyed her daughter and cupped her face again. "You are so much like him. Your father would be so proud of you. Brave, headstrong, and full of fire, just like him. Never lose that."

The younger woman leaned into her mother's touch, blinking slowly as she let her reddened lips curl into a smile, pretending that she couldn't feel the slight tremor in them. "I hope I make him proud," she whispered.

"You already do, my love. You already do," Colette spoke firmly as her hands, textured from years of work, brushed over Delphine's face comfortingly, her eyes not leaving her daughter's. They remained like that for a moment longer, elongating the seconds, before Colette stepped back to pick up a small leather bag from a nearby hook, and pressed it into Delphine's hands. "What remains of your father's savings. It should help you in Paris."

"Mother, I can't—"

"You can, and you will," Colette interrupted resolutely. "You are my daughter, Delphine Chevalier. You have the courage and justice of your papa, but you have also my stubbornness. It will see you through when nothing else will."

Delphine blinked back the tears as she hugged her mother tightly in an iron grip, dropping her head into the crook of the woman's neck as she felt the firm press of arms around her. When she could finally bring herself to break away after Colette pressed a kiss to her forehead, she took strides towards the stallion that would lead her to Paris, half reluctant, half excited. One boot against the stirrup, the leather creaked softly under her touch as she swung herself up onto the horse's back. The familiar scent of the animal, the rush of adrenaline, and the quiet strength of her mother watching her made the moment feel almost surreal - both final and infinite. Colette stood below her, eyes a mixture of pride and sorrow, the weight of years and the risks associated with letting her daughter make the perilous journey pressing into the lines of her face.

Drawing a deep breath, Delphine pulled herself tall and proud in the saddle. Her voice, steady and unshaken, broke the silence that had settled between them. "I will return. I swear it."

The words felt familiar, like a refrain that had been uttered hundreds of times before - something her father had said when he left, something her mother had clung to when Lucien ventured off on his daring missions. It was a vow that Colette knew well, but hearing them from Delphine, her daughter, sitting tall like her father once had, carried an entirely different resonance. She was anxious, like any doting mother would be, but it was more than that. There was something so hopelessly sweet there, in the knowledge that her husband's legacy was not gone. It lived on in the fire of their daughter's heart. And she knew he would have been immensely proud.

As the horse was set into motion, Delphine's figure becoming smaller with each gallop, Colette stood frozen for a moment, watching her daughter ride toward the horizon, Paris-bound. In that moment, she relived every moment of Lucien - the feel of his strong hands, the sight of the confidence in his eyes as he set off on his own adventures. The stallion's rhythmic stride carried Delphine farther from Chamonix, but she had a promise to keep. And Colette knew in her soul that her daughter would keep it. Just like Lucien, Delphine was meant to leave, to venture into the world and make it her own.

But, also like her father, she would always do everything it took to return. The blood that flowed through her veins was proof enough of that promise.

『 ❖ 』 『 ❖ 』 『 ❖ 』

"Do you see it, Eloise? There lies Paris," Delphine exhaled, her voice filled with a sense of awe as she gazed upon the sprawling metropolis. The ginger cat, Eloise, stretched excitedly in the lap of Lucien's cavalier hat, nestled in her lap - she had been a companion for the last few days of her journey, a stray she had found wandering the countryside roads. She had been a comfort that Delphine hadn't realised she was beginning to need. Eloise, with her wild orange coat that looked like it belonged against the backdrop of vibrant green grass, and her curious green and amber eyes, had perched herself atop Delphine's satchel, eventually earning her place beside her during the ride.

It had been nearly twenty days since she had left Chamonix, the time a blur of sunrises and sunsets, roads that stretched endlessly toward the unknown, and nights spent in inns with only the stars for company. Paris was no longer just a dream, a far-off hope she had built in her mind, or a distant memory from one childhood adventure with her father. It was a reality now - chaotic, beautiful, and alive. Riding into the heart of the city was an experience she could see herself reliving for years. The architecture of Paris spread out before her was almost a dizzying display - buildings, grand and imposing, stood shoulder to shoulder with the majestic towers of the church steeples, their sharp angles rising to greet the sky. The streets buzzed with the clatter of horse-drawn carriages, the hum of merchants calling their wares, and the endless footfalls of Parisians weaving through the maze of narrow alleyways and broad boulevards. It was everything she had imagined and then some. Although...

The sharp stares she drew were not something she remembered from the nostalgia of her childhood visit. True enough, her attire was markedly different from the fashionably dressed women who strolled the streets of Paris. No dress, no lace, no soft fabrics. Instead, she wore a tunic tucked into breeches, the red vest she had been given by her mother now weathered by the days of travel - her dark hair had been tied up with the red ribbon once more, but strands fell loose, catching the breeze as she rode through the city, more unkempt than ever was considered ladylike. The boots that tucked into her breeches had traveled miles and were streaked with dust and mud. Her appearance, though practical and abound with character, drew wide-eyed looks from Parisians - her presence itself so out of place amid delicate silks and polished leather.

But Delphine paid no mind to their shocked expressions. She was here for something far greater than their judgement. This was the next chapter of her life - the most exciting one, she hoped. She guided her horse toward a stable tucked away in the narrow streets, dismounting him after making her payment for him to be looked after, both hands full. A certain hat, with its distinctive red feather, and an envelope in the other - her mother's words, written for Étienne de Riviere himself to read, requesting that he train Delphine. It burned like a promise she had yet to fulfill, and her fingers tightened around it.

Eloise following to heel, the two made their way towards the Place Royale, the major square in Paris where public events were held, usually a residential area, but at times used for anything from military parades to public drills by the Musketeers of the Guard themselves. Its grand expanse stretched before her now, the symmetry and towering buildings creating an almost majestic sense of order. The square was lined with elegant residences, each one standing in perfect alignment, their facades adorned with wrought-iron balconies and the warm red bricks that characterised the architecture of Paris. At the centre of it all was the expansive open space - a perfect stage for the hustle of daily life, but today, the grounds for one of those aforementioned public drills, transformed by the rhythmic clanking of iron on iron.

Delphine made her way through the crowd that had gathered to watch, speaking rushed apologies to the people gesticulating in annoyance as she made her way to the front, carving a path for Eloise to follow. Her gaze was immediately drawn to the pair of men who stood at the heart of the square, training under the watchful eye of a figure she immediately recognised: Monsieur Étienne de Riviere, the Head of the Musketeers and one of the men who had known her father the most in the world. His presence was tall and proud as he observed the two young musketeers training before him.

They both moved in tandem, swords flashing in the light as they practiced their drills, creating elegant whirls of silver in the afternoon sun. Each strike was calculated, each block a perfect response to the previous. Both men were of the same stature, imposing and broad-shouldered, though noticeably different in their appearance - one reminded Delphine of the Monsieur himself, brushing back his dark hair with a good-natured laugh as he dodged a well-placed riposte by his comrade. He moved with the practiced ease of someone who had spent his entire life mastering swordsmanship, looking rather like someone who had stepped out of a painting of the Knights of the Round Table and had been placed in seventeenth century Paris.

Opposite him, the second man was similarly masculine but also a stark contrast. Skin paler than the olive hues of his opponent, his hair shorter and lighter too - a straw-coloured blond that matched the stubble which covered his jawline. His frame was less streamlined and more of a powerhouse, the way he swung skillful and well-trained. There was more strength in his blows, while the dark-haired man seemed to prioritise showy footwork over the determination that embodied the blond's every move. An odd gentleness marked his gaze, though his expression was focused as he pressed forward.

Well, either way, they were only men.

It was not their appearance that struck Delphine, but the quiet, underlying camaraderie between the two, even as they interacted in the midst of combat. As the blond took a step back to adjust his hat, she saw him offer a brief, almost imperceptible nod to the brown-haired man, who didn't miss the gesture and returned it. There was no bitterness in the exchange, only a quiet recognition of the other's strengths - a bond built on years of shared struggle a triumph, one she dreamed of one day experiencing with her own comrades. One just like her own father and the Musketeers he served alongside.

As she made her way over to Monsieur de Riviere - whose gaze seemed particularly fixed on the Musketeer without his hat on, so much so that he didn't appear to notice her approach - Delphine felt a strange pang of something close to grief. This man knew her father. His closest friend - it sparked a sharp ache in her that culminated into a fierce sense of purpose. She could almost hear Lucien's laughter in the wind, the way his eyes would sparkle when he spoke of his comrades, his brothers, his family in the Musketeers. She could almost feel his hand on her shoulder as he told her that the path was one of honour and courage - but that hand had long since gone cold, and now, in front of her, stood a man who had once fought by his side. And the gatekeeper to the future Delphine wished to carve for herself.

With all the confidence a girl could muster, she took a steady step forward, her boots striking the cobblestones with a firm, purposeful rhythm. The crowd around her parted as she moved through them, their gazes lingering on her with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. "A damsel in distress, perhaps?" she heard a passer-by whisper to his friend, shooting a glare over her shoulder that stifled any speculation of that kind. She was an enigma here, she knew. A woman in breeches too outspoken for her own good, looking out of place in a city that thrived on polish and grace. Yet, she didn't falter. There was no room for hesitation. Not now.

She drew closer and heard the exchange between the two men now as she walked toward Monsieur de Riviere, casting a curious glance their way. They seemed to be conversing over the clash of swords - it was a humbling reminder that what seemed so grand to her was just another regular day for the King's Guard.

"...Speaking of, where are Sukru and Léandre, Julian?" One man spoke, voice raised to be heard but somehow still low, slightly gruff in sound but not unkind.

"You would find better luck asking the Oracle of Delphi," the other man - Julian - responded back, voice rich and resonant but relatively neutral in tone, albeit with a warm undertone. "Who knows? You know Léandre does as he wishes, and Sukru disappears as often as he appears."

"Lucien."

It was a name that had Delphine stopping in her tracks, though the person it came from was not either of the two men training. She willed herself to locate who had spoken it, and her gaze landed on the very man she was walking towards. Étienne's eyebrows were furrowed, weary eyes fixed on the hat she was holding - her father's hat. The mention of her father's name stilled her for a moment. The air seemed to thicken as she swallowed, her throat dry as she took the final steps towards Monsieur de Riviere, forcing herself to meet his eyes filled with something between sorrow and recognition. He did not look at her immediately, his focus still lingering on the memento of her father, as if he could feel Lucien's presence there with them, just out of reach.

"Mademoiselle Chevalier, it is a pleasant surprise to see you. You seem more like your father by the day. But so far from home?" Étienne finally spoke as his attention shifted to her, leaning over the gate which separated the two of them. His smile was warm now, if a little saddened, full of the fondness he had once shown her father.

"Monsieur de Riviere," Delphine gave a polite curtsy, overcome by one of those rare moments of immense respect. Adrenaline propelled her forward, and though she was struggling to find her words all of a sudden, she stretched out one arm over the gate, holding out the envelope she had guarded so closely on her journey here. "I- I wish to become a musketeer."

There was a moment of complete silence.

It stretched on far too long for comfort.

Delphine could already feel the blood reaching her cheeks.

But laughter? Laughter, she hadn't expected. Étienne gave an earnest laugh, which transitioned into something more like a soft chuckle, and then trailed off into complete silence as he looked at her fallen expression and realised she was serious. He cleared his throat apologetically and hesitantly took the envelope from her, raising a brow. "...I see. We have never had a woman be a part of the King's Guard in all our history, Delphine."

"No time like the present, so they say."

"Indeed," Étienne responded with a frown. He understood adversity well enough - nothing close to the likes of being confined by one's sex - but he too had been doubted on the offset for being a countryman with no military history. And so, for that reason, and for the sake of the treasured friendship he had with Delphine's father, he neatly opened the sealed letter, reading through its contents.

"I am glad your mother is in good health," he began, his words halted, still wearing a frown, like he was carefully considering his options. It only made Delphine's heart beat faster, the anticipation of what she had come to Paris for mixing with a simmering anxiety. It can't have all been for nothing. "Making the long journey here is impressive. I commend you for it. Even so, I must warn you... if you desire the tides of change to turn, you must give them reason to."

"Julian, Toré," Étienne called out, the sound of swords clashing suddenly stilling as the two men made their way over towards their superior. Delphine, despite the embarrassment she felt at not immediately being taken seriously, lifted her chin and looked them in the eye resolutely, as an equal. Though it was not returned by Julian, who only narrowed his eyes down at her discerningly, nor Toré, who though he offered a subtle nod, albeit more out of politeness for her as a lady than as a potential comrade.

"Chevalier's daughter?" Julian spoke after a moment, looking Delphine up and down in a way that made her at least somewhat feel like she was being measured up for skill, although it was unnerving. "I remember you. A decade and some odd years ago, you travelled with your father here. We sparred, if I recall. You almost beat me," he chuckled, folding his arms over his chest. "Almost."

"Delphine Chevalier," she corrected hotly, mirroring his stance and almost letting her tongue loose even further before remembering she was in the presence of Monsieur de Riviere, who she wanted to take her seriously, despite it all.

"That is what I said."

"No, it is not, you said 'Chevalier's daughter'-"

"Are you not his daughter? It is the same thing. Just as I am my father's son," Julian retorted, earning a gentle nudge from Toré, though Étienne simply placed a hand on his son's shoulder and beamed.

"That is true, you are my son," he agreed with a chuckle, patting Julian's shoulder, and Toré's too for good measure, as though to say the sentiment extended to him too. He might not have noticed the way the Musketeer's gaze softened at the gesture, though Delphine did. "You two are more alike than you realise, though I doubt either of you would admit it. Returning to the matter at hand... being a musketeer takes grit, Delphine. Toré, answer me this, what hour of the day did you wake for training?"

"At the hour of Lauds. An hour before dawn, sir," Toré answered dutifully, tone inexpressive as usual, although now that Delphine looked closer, she could see the slight darkness that gathered underneath his eyes.

"Indeed. And Jules," Étienne continued, turning to his son with an expectant smile, "what would you say is the most important quality for a musketeer to possess?"

Julian straightened, his expression becoming serious as he looked from his father to Delphine, gaze slightly skeptical. "Discipline, father. Without it, the most skilled swordsman may be rendered useless. As a feather is to a smith's hammer. Graceful, perhaps, but utterly incapable of withstanding the forge," he finished, tone cutting but poetic.

"Precisely," Étienne nodded approvingly, looking down to Delphine now, holding the letter out to her with an apologetic expression. "I have no doubts you are a capable woman, Mademoiselle. And yet I must decline your request, though you are welcome to board here with us for as long as you remain in Paris. It is what Lucien would have wanted."

Delphine's heart, already thrumming with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness, sank at the words. A quiet knot twisted in her stomach as she heard Étienne's gentle refusal, a palpable sense of weight descending upon her. But she wasn't going to let it end like this. Not when she had come so far, not when she had already braved so much to stand here, the wind in her hair, the city of Paris bustling around her like a faraway dream. She felt, for a moment, as though Lucien was standing right beside her, his laughter in her ears, urging her to act, to prove herself. No, she thought, I will not be dismissed so easily.

Without a second thought, she seized one of the sheathed swords leaning against a nearby crate, drawing the blade out, its weight unfamiliar in her hand. The hilt was colder, heavier than what she was used to, and yet, the moment her fingers closed around it, she could hear her father's voice in the back of her mind: Do not hesitate, Delphi.

Drawing a deep breath, she held the sword out in front of her, her posture steady as she planted her feet firmly in the square. Then, with the fluid grace she had so often practiced in the fields of Chamonix, she moved. The world around her seemed to slow as her body responded to instinct, the blade arcing through the air in delicate motions. She twirled, each movement sharp and deliberate, her mind focused entirely on the dance of the sword in her grip. The crowd began to notice, their whispers turning to murmurs of surprise, and then a hush as they watched her. She could feel their eyes on her, feel their uncertainty shifting into curiosity. Even Julian and Toré were no longer speaking, their gazes locked on her with something like interest - skepticism, perhaps, but laced with intrigue and a willingness to see what she could do. Étienne, too, was watching closely, his brows slightly furrowed.

For a brief moment, Delphine felt powerful. She felt the eyes of the city on her, felt the blade become an extension of herself. This is it, she thought. This is how I will show them all I am capable of.

Soon, she was standing atop a crate, her balance teetering slightly as she prepared for her next move, one she had practiced so often in Chamonix. A sense of exhilaration filled her, the adrenaline of the moment pushing her forward - she could not do this by half measures. She had to show them that she was more than just a farm girl dreaming of adventure. She was a force to be reckoned with. Running forward, she launched herself into a front flip, the sword held high in a flourish. She sailed through the air, her hair ribbon trailing behind her like a streak of fire, her feet leaving the crate with the grace of a bird in flight. For a moment, she felt weightless, as if the crowd's attention could carry her upward, lifting her into the very heavens.

And then, reality came crashing down. Far too literally for her liking.

As her feet touched the ground, the unfamiliar weight of the sword threw off her landing. She felt herself pitching forward, arms flailing as she tried to correct her fall. In that split second of chaos, she collided with the edge of a nearby wagon, sending it rocking dangerously to one side. A startled shout came from the vendor, a grizzled old man who had been selling bread and fresh fruit from his cart. Delphine's sword, still clasped tightly in her hands, swung out of control, striking the side of the cart and knocking over a basket of apples. The apples tumbled to the cobblestone with a series of sharp, hollow thuds, rolling in every direction. The vendor cursed loudly, his hands scrambling to try and salvage his scattered wares. Delphine, her face flushed with both embarrassment and adrenaline, attempted to recover, but only managed to stumble backward into a neighboring stall, knocking over a crate of wooden bowls. They toppled over one by one, clattering against the cobblestones with a series of ear-splitting crashes.

The crowd, which had been so temporarily captivated by her earlier display, burst into a wave of laughter that rang in her ears. Some gasped in shock, others pointed and snickered. For one of few times in her life, she wanted the very ground beneath her to swallow her whole. She could hear the merchants' shouts as they scrambled to collect their goods, the vendor with the apples shaking his fist in her direction.

"Oh, by the stars. No - curse the stars," she muttered to herself, instinctively shifting her gaze over to where Monsieur de Riviere and his boys stood. The man gave her a sympathetic nod, almost a half acknowledgement. You tried, but it was not enough. That stung almost worse than simply being disregarded as a whole.

Then there was Julian. His lips twitched upward in a barely perceptible smile, the edges of his mouth curving in a way that could have been misinterpreted as admiration - had it not been for the slow clap of his hands that followed. The sound was deliberate, loud enough to reach her ears over the laughter of the crowd, and in that moment, it felt like a cruel mockery. But there was a glimmer of something - was it amusement? Or perhaps a test of patience? His gaze locked onto hers, a silent challenge, before he looked away, murmuring something to Toré. Half disappointed, as though he had let himself believe for a second there that she had something.

Delphine's jaw tightened, her chest rising and falling with the heat of embarrassment and the simmering edge of frustration. She wanted to scream, to defy the laughable spectacle she had created. But she could only stand there, mortified, her grip tightening on the sword as though the hilt could offer her some semblance of control over the chaos she had caused.

She had been so determined. So sure of herself.

A slight movement caught her attention, and her eyes flicked to the side, where Toré was stepping forward. His towering frame, solid and steady, seemed to loom over the wreckage she had caused. He reached out a hand toward her, the gesture gentle, unassuming, but it was a hand of pity. Delphine stiffened immediately, her insides clenching. She did not want his pity. "Here," Toré's voice was low, his face unreadable, as usual, but his eyes held something softer now - an expression of kindness that stung even more than Julian's mocking applause. Part of her felt guilty for the flare of pride she felt as she recoiled, but then again: she was not some helpless girl who needed to be lifted from the ground. She was not weak.

Though the gesture was well-intentioned, she pushed herself up from the cobblestones without assistance and regained her footing. Toré simply gave a low bow and stepped away, not returning the defiant glare she gave him as her heart thud violently in her chest. "I do not need help," she muttered, more to herself than to anyone around her. Her voice was thick with the sting of pride and humiliation all at once. She brushed her hands against her tunic, her movements sharper than necessary, as if to do away with the remains of the fall like it didn't matter. Like she didn't care.

But she did. Oh, how she did.

"I would like the letter back," she announced as she approached the gate again, resisting the urge to sit down from the soreness spreading up her back from the bad fall. She met Monsieur de Riviere's eyes and he nodded, handing the letter to Toré, who walked out of the open gate and held it out towards her. Just as Toré extended the letter to her, the air shifted, the low hum of the marketplace suddenly interrupted by a thundering sound that made the ground tremble. A Great Pyrenees, a massive white dog the size of a small horse, burst through the gate with a burst of energy. It barreled forward, a blur of white fur and wagging tail, sending a ripple through the crowd as people jumped out of its way in surprise.

Delphine had barely a moment to react before the dog, with remarkable precision, snatched the letter right from Toré's hand with its teeth. "Mon dieu," the Musketeer exclaimed, though less in surprise, and more in light of the absurdity of the situation - the whole situation, really.

The crowd gasped and chuckled, and Delphine's eyes widened, her heart sinking at the thought of her already-rejected letter being carried away by the dog. But before she could even formulate a plan, the Great Pyrenees turned sharply, setting its sights on something new: Eloise, who had been leisurely grooming herself next to the wagon with its spilled contents. The cat's eyes went wide as the dog lunged, its massive form charging toward her, the letter still clenched tightly in its teeth. Eloise let out a startled yowl, leaping into the air with a graceful twist, and the chase was on. The dog bounded after her, its paws pounding the cobblestone streets, a blur of motion. Delphine cursed as she turned back to Monsieur de Riviere, determination in her eyes despite the embarrassment still lingering in her chest.

"I will return, Monsieur. Please, I-" she started, but then the dog barked and the chase veered dangerously close to a passing cart. Delphine did not wait for his answer.

She bolted forward, her legs moving before her mind had fully caught up with the decision. The crowd parted to make way for her as she sprinted down the street, her feet pounding the cobblestones in time with the dog's heavy footfalls. The scene was chaos now, but all that mattered was Eloise and the letter. Her mother's carefully written letter. Her earlier fall, her embarrassment - it all faded away as she focused on the mission at hand: catch the dog, retrieve the letter, save Eloise, and salvage whatever dignity she had left.

This was not over. And she would be back.

As she brushed away whatever embarrassed - maybe even angry - tears threatened to take form as she sprinted through the winding streets, she felt a strange, ethereal presence settle around her, as though the air itself had shifted. It was as though the wind carried with it a memory, a whisper from the past—her father's voice. She could hear it as clearly as if he were standing beside her, the comforting strength of his words woven with the warmth only a father could provide. We all fall, Delphi. I fell a thousand times. I picked myself up a thousand times more. The path is never easy, but you will never be alone on it. I am always here.

The voice lent her strength. The crowd might have laughed, but they would not be the ones to define her. She was more than a moment of humiliation. She was more than a fall.

She was Lucien's daughter. And she would make him proud.