The cold wind howled through the endless corridors of Château de Chambord, carrying with it the distant screams of the dead.
Once celebrated for its grand feasts and dazzling halls, the castle had become a fortress of fear. Torches flickered weakly along the stone walls, their flames trembling as though even fire feared what waited beyond the gates.
Princess Famoura Felóenz followed closely behind Prince Henry, her heartbeat growing heavier with every step.
Hidden beneath her dark cloak rested the Crimson.
The relic for which kingdoms had bled.
The relic Queen Isabella had awakened the dead to obtain.
And now, somehow, it was in Famoura's possession.
Henry knew nothing about it.
At least, she prayed he did not.
"Famoura."
His sudden voice made her freeze.
For one terrible moment, she thought he had discovered everything.
Slowly, she turned around.
Instead of accusation, she found him holding an old parchment map.
Relief swept through her so quickly that she nearly sighed aloud.
Henry examined the map before lifting his gaze toward her.
"And where exactly did this come from?"
Famoura forced herself to remain calm.
"Princess Marie gave it to me years ago."
Henry raised an eyebrow.
"My mother?"
She nodded.
Without another word, he unfolded the parchment.
The map looked ancient. Time had worn away its edges, while faded markings stretched across its surface like forgotten secrets. Strange symbols decorated the corners, and thin lines traced roads connecting distant castles and villages.
Suddenly, Henry's eyes narrowed.
"Do you think this could lead to the Crimson?"
Famoura laughed immediately.
A little too quickly.
"A map to the most sought-after relic in the kingdom?" she replied. "Why would Princess Marie entrust something like that to me?"
For a moment, Henry simply stared at her.
Then he laughed.
"I was joking."
Looking back at the parchment, he shrugged.
"It appears to be nothing more than a route between Château de Brassic and Chambord."
With little interest, he tossed the map onto a nearby table and walked out of the room.
Famoura remained still for several seconds.
Her heart was still racing.
For one dreadful moment, she had believed everything would end.
That he would discover the Crimson.
That he would see through every lie she had told.
Quickly, she followed after him.
The castle seemed unnaturally quiet despite the chaos outside.
Every so often, distant screams echoed through the halls.
The dead were still there.
Waiting.
Searching.
Hunting.
Henry walked ahead, his growing frustration evident upon his face. His eyes moved constantly, examining every shelf, every cabinet, every hidden corner.
He was searching for the Crimson.
Famoura pretended to do the same.
Whenever Henry investigated a room, she would examine the furniture, glance beneath tables, and open dusty drawers.
But her reasons were entirely different.
She wasn't searching for the relic.
She was searching for somewhere to hide it.
The Crimson felt heavier with every passing hour.
At times she considered leaving it behind.
Burying it somewhere within the castle.
Throwing it into a locked chamber.
Yet every time she tried, something stopped her.
A strange feeling.
A silent pull.
As though the relic itself refused to leave her possession.
Why had Princess Marie chosen her?
Why had she been trusted with something so dangerous?
And why did the Crimson feel alive whenever she touched it?
The questions haunted her.
Then suddenly, Henry stopped.
Famoura nearly walked into him.
He turned slowly.
The friendliness that usually softened his features had vanished.
In its place was something far more unsettling.
Determination.
Obsession.
"If you discover the Crimson before I do," he said quietly, "remember one thing."
The nearby torches flickered violently.
"It belongs to me."
Famoura stared at him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
There was something in his eyes that disturbed her.
Not simple greed.
Not curiosity.
Something deeper.
Something darker.
As though the relic had already begun influencing him despite never being in his hands.
Famoura folded her arms.
"No."
Henry frowned.
"The Crimson will decide who it belongs to."
For several moments, they stared at one another.
Then Famoura gestured toward the corridor ahead.
"Now continue your search."
A faint look of annoyance crossed Henry's face before he turned away.
Together, they continued deeper into the castle.
Ancient portraits watched from the walls.
Moonlight spilled through tall windows.
Below them, distant pounding echoed through the stone floors.
The undead were trying to break through the gates.
And they were getting closer.
At last, they arrived before the royal chamber of King Francis.
The enormous wooden doors stood partially open.
Darkness filled the room beyond.
Famoura hesitated.
Then she stepped inside.
The scent of old parchment, candle wax, and steel lingered in the air. Moonlight streamed through the towering windows, illuminating the king's grand chair near the far side of the chamber.
Then she saw it.
A shadow.
Someone stood motionless in the darkness.
Her breath caught instantly.
Henry remained distracted near the entrance, searching through a shelf of documents.
This was her chance.
Moving carefully, Famoura slipped behind the king's chair.
She reached beneath her cloak and removed the Crimson.
Even wrapped in cloth, it felt strangely warm.
Almost alive.
For a brief moment, the deep red surface seemed to pulse beneath her fingertips.
Quickly, she hid it behind the chair.
Then she turned—
And nearly froze.
Henry now stood much closer than before.
At the same moment, her gaze drifted back toward the shadow.
This time she saw clearly what it held.
A sword.
Rust-covered.
Sharp.
And clutched within the decayed hand of one of the undead.
Famoura's blood ran cold.
The creature stood perfectly still.
Seconds passed.
Then slowly—
It raised the blade.
Before she could react, Henry turned around.
His scream shattered the silence.
The undead soldier stood only a few steps away.
Its hollow eyes glowed faintly within the darkness.
Rotting flesh hung from its face.
A terrible growl escaped its throat.
Then it lunged.
"Famoura!"
Henry stumbled backward.
The moment she heard her name, she moved.
Yet even then, her eyes instinctively darted toward the hidden Crimson.
Only afterward toward Henry.
Fear gripped her chest.
If the creature discovered the relic—
Or worse—
If Henry saw where she had hidden it—
Everything would be lost.
Her gaze landed upon the ceremonial weapons displayed along the chamber wall.
Without hesitation, she ran toward them.
Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of a sword.
Steel sang through the room as she unsheathed it.
The undead swung at Henry.
He barely escaped.
Famoura charged forward.
The creature turned toward her.
Its glowing eyes locked onto hers.
Then she struck.
The blade sliced through the undead soldier's chest.
A horrifying shriek echoed through the chamber.
The creature collapsed heavily onto the stone floor.
Silence followed.
Only their breathing remained.
Henry stared at the corpse before slowly looking toward her.
Relief flooded his face.
"You have my deepest thanks," he said between breaths.
"For saving my life."
Famoura remained still, gripping the sword tightly.
Then she forced a smile.
"No."
Her eyes briefly shifted toward the hidden Crimson.
"For saving all our lives."
Henry smiled, believing she spoke of the kingdom.
But Famoura knew the truth.
Her fear.
Her lies.
Her desperate actions.
None of it had been for Henry alone.
Everything she had done was for a single purpose.
To protect the Crimson.
Because deep within her heart, a terrifying realization had already begun to take shape.
The Crimson had not merely survived.
It had waited.
And somehow—
It had chosen her.