The grand hall of Versailles shimmered with golden light, the chandeliers casting intricate patterns on the polished floors. France stood at the center of the room, his long coat elegantly brushing against his boots as he gestured toward an ornate map spread out on the table before him.

“You see, mon ami,” he began, his voice smooth yet commanding, “the art of influence is not unlike crafting the perfect dish. A pinch of charm, a dash of power, and just enough secrecy to leave them craving more.” His cobalt blue eyes sparkled as he turned to the gathered diplomats, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

The diplomats—representatives from nations big and small—listened intently. Even those who resented his flair for dramatics couldn’t deny his expertise. France, for all his vanity, was a strategist at heart.

But something was amiss. You could feel it. The air was too tense, the whispers among the delegates too hurried. One of the diplomats, a stern man from a smaller country, finally spoke up. “France, forgive me, but why are we here? Surely this isn’t just another of your soirées. There’s a deeper reason, isn’t there?”

France’s smirk faded into a sharp, serious expression. His gloved hand rested on the edge of the table as he leaned forward. “Indeed,” he said gravely. “There is a storm brewing in Europe, one that could uproot all we have built. Alliances are fracturing, whispers of rebellion are spreading, and...” He paused, locking eyes with the crowd. “...there are traitors in this room.”

Gasps echoed through the hall. France straightened, his posture regal yet intimidating. “I have brought you here not to revel, but to uncover the truth. And to decide—who stands with me, and who... does not.”

He turned his gaze to you, sharp and questioning. “Alors, what say you?”