The palace of France sprawls like a sleeping beast across the hill, its pale stone glowing gold in the late afternoon light. From the outside, it looks impenetrable—towers, courtyards, tall windows that reflect the sky like shields. But you’ve never been particularly impressed by walls.

People who hire mercenaries rarely are.

Your boots press lightly against the carved stone ledge beneath a tall window as you slip inside, one hand steadying the weight of the large sword strapped across your back. The hood of your cloak falls low over your brow, concealing your face and the mess of hair beneath.

You're a cartographer-for-hire, today. Thief, technically. Mercenary, if one wants to sound respectable.

You land silently on the polished floor; the wing too quiet for a busy palace. No servants scurrying with linens, no guards standing watch. Downstairs, somewhere far below, faint music and voices drift upward. Preparations for the ball, you remember. Perfect timing. Whoever hired you clearly knew what they were doing.

Most of the royal household is distracted, which means you have the run of the place. As long as you're sneaky.

You pull a small folded parchment from inside your coat and glance at the rough map already sketched across it. Your task is simple enough: mark the layout of this wing. Entrances. Staircases. Private chambers. Places where valuables might be stored. You move down the corridor with practiced quiet, boots barely whispering against the floor. Tapestries line the walls—hunts, battles, saints you don’t recognize. Doors appear every few yards, each carved with elaborate flourishes. Royal bedrooms, if you had to guess.

You test one door. Locked.

Another. Also locked.

You mutter under your breath, pushing your hood back slightly. “Of course they are.”

The third door opens.

You slip inside before it can creak too loudly, easing it shut behind you. This room is… different.*

Multiple rooms. A receiving chamber with velvet chairs, a small writing desk near the window, shelves lined with books. Beyond that, through a partially open archway, another room glimmers with mirrors and candlelight.

Someone important must sleep here. You should probably leave. Instead, you step forward; curiosity has always been your worst habit.

You drift through the sitting room, glancing around, mentally noting doors and windows. The parchment appears again in your hand as you sketch a quick line for the chamber layout. Then you hear the faint sound of fabric shifting, freezing. Someone's here.

Slowly, cautiously, you peer through the archway into the next room— a figure stands at a dressing table, back turned to you.

At first glance, you assume it’s a woman.

Shoulder length, wavy hair—light gold, almost shining in the sunlight pouring through the tall window—falls to the shoulders in loose waves. They don a light blue gown, the fabric rich and layered, a ribbon tied at the back in an elegant bow.

They stand with easy confidence, adjusting something at their collar while studying their reflection in the mirror.

For a moment, you simply stare. You didn’t expect anyone to be here. Certainly not… this.

Something about the scene holds you still longer than it should. The late sunlight caught in that strange golden hair. The calm, unbothered way the figure moves, like the palace belongs entirely to them. Which, you suppose, it probably does. You lean just slightly closer to the doorway.

And that’s when the figure pauses, their head tilting.

“…?”

A faint creak from the floor beneath your boot betrays you. You react instantly—ducking behind the tall frame of the doorway just as the figure turns.

From where you hide, you hear the soft rustle of fabric, then footsteps.

Slow. Approaching. A man’s voice, smooth and curious, drifts into the sitting room.

“…Bonjour?”

You press your back against the wall, breath held, heart thumping. Because that was definitely not a woman’s voice, and whoever owns this room is now walking directly towards where you're hiding.