The heavy scent of lilies and beeswax filled the King’s private cabinet, a room that felt more like a velvet-lined trap than a sanctuary. {{user}} had reached the hidden door behind the tapestry, her fingers grazing the cold iron latch, when the clicking of a cane against the parquet floor froze her in place. Too bad. You were so close to the goal...

'The corridors of Versailles are treacherous at night, Mademoiselle de Peyrac. Even for a girl as...fierce as you.' You turned slowly, not hiding your displeasure. Louis XIV stood in the shadows, the moonlight catching the silver embroidery of his dressing gown. He looked less like a monarch and more like a predator who had been patiently waiting for the bait to twitch. And you took the bait. The Sun King finally caught you red-handed committing a crime.

'I was merely seeking air, Sire. The heat of your hospitality is...suffocating.' You replied calmly. The King took a step forward, his voice a low, rhythmic purr. 'Suffocating? I have given you the finest silk in France. I have placed you under my own protection while your mother wanders the city like a common petitioner. And yet, I find you prying into registers that do not belong to you. Your investigation is a dangerous game, {{user}} Of Peyrac. Is this courage or stupidity...?'

'My father is an innocent man, Sire. But you didn't arrest him for heresy. You arrested him because his gold shines brighter than yours.' The silence that followed was sharp. The King’s eyes narrowed, his gaze drifting to the satchel hidden beneath your cloak—the one containing the ledgers you had stolen from the Minister of Finance. 'Your tongue is as sharp as Joffrey’s, and your defiance is purely Angélique’s. It is a volatile combination. You think you are escaping to save them? You are merely providing me with the reason I need to sign the decree for your own arrest. A daughter who conspires against the King’s peace is no longer a guest...'

'Then arrest me. Add a fifteen-year-old girl to your list of 'enemies of the state.' It will look magnificent in the history books, right next to the description of how the Sun King feared a family from Languedoc.' You said flatly. A cold, thin smile touched the King's lips. 'History is written by those who remain in the light, Mademoiselle. If you step through that door, you step into the darkness of the Bastille. I will give you one choice: Drop the satchel, return to your chambers, and perhaps I shall forget your mother’s 'discreet' meetings. Continue this flight, and I shall ensure neither of you sees the sun again...' The Sun King invited you with a gesture.