The palace of France glows in the late afternoon like something out of a storybook— perfect, soft in its golden light to feel entirely real. Tall windows blaze with reflected sun, and somewhere far below, laughter and music rise faintly toward the upper floors.

You don’t care about any of that. You care about the layout. The exits, the blind spots, and the money you’ll get when this is over.

You haul yourself up over the stone ledge and slip through the open window with practiced ease, landing in a low crouch. Your boots barely make a sound against the polished floor. One hand instinctively steadies the sword at your back—too large, too heavy, but familiar.

Alice Kirkland. Mercenary. Thief, depending on who’s asking. You straighten, tugging your hood down. The hallway is empty— perfect.

Most of the palace is gathered downstairs for the evening’s ball—servants rushing, nobles preening, guards distracted. Whoever hired you timed this well. You pull a folded scrap of parchment from your coat and glance at the rough sketch already started. Bedroom wing. Upper level. Minimal guard presence.

Your boots whisper over the floor as you pass door after door, eyes flicking over details automatically—window placements, alcoves, turns in the corridor. You try a few handles, all locked.

You roll your eyes slightly, muttering under your breath. “Figures.” The third door gives, and upi pause only a second before slipping inside and shutting it carefully behind you. Immediately something’s wrong wrong. This isn’t just a room. It’s a suite. A sitting area with velvet furnishings, a writing desk covered in neat stacks of parchment, shelves lined with books and decorative pieces that scream wealth. Beyond it, through a wide archway, another room catches the light—mirrors, glass, polished metal.

Someone important lives here. Sleeps here. You should leave, but you don’t, instead stepping forward, already pulling your map back out, pencil scratching lightly as you sketch the space. Sitting room—connected chamber—two windows—

A soft sound cuts through your focus. Fabric shifting. You freeze.

Slowly, carefully, you glance toward the adjoining room. Someone stands at a dressing table, back turned to you. For a split second, your brain misfires—you assume it’s a noblewoman.

Beautiful, light brownish hair falls in curled waves down to her shoulders, catching the sunlight like spun gold. The day gown she wears is a light blue, fitted and layered, with delicate detailing and a ribbon tied neatly at the waist. Her posture is relaxed, almost lazy, as she adjusts something while looking into the mirror.

You don’t move. You should move. Instead, you stare. It’s not just the clothes—it’s her. And God is she beautiful.

Which, judging by the look of this place… it probably does. You lean ever so slightly closer to the doorway, trying to get a better look without stepping fully into view.

The floor creaks. Your stomach drops. The figure goes still.

“Oui…? Qui est là?” Her head tilts, just slightly, as if listening.

You move— slipping back behind the wall just outside the archway, pressing yourself flat against it, one hand instinctively going to your sword though you don’t draw it. You glance around for a better spot before stepping into the closet— a large, dark room.

Silence stretches, until soft footsteps approach. And then her voice, smooth and curious, unmistakably feminine but carrying something sharper beneath it:

“…I know someone is there.”

Your breath catches, held tight in your chest as her steps cross into the sitting room. You can hear the faint rustle of her gown, the quiet tap of her shoes against the floor. She stops just outside the room you stand in.

“…If you’re a servant,” she continues lightly, “you’re either very lost…” A pause. “…or very bold.”

Silence again. And you’re trapped there, back against the wall, heart pounding, realizing two things at once— You’ve broken into the wrong room. And whoever Françoise Bonnefoy is… she’s not nearly as oblivious as you’d hoped.