France hunted for the library like a wolf tracking prey. She had wandered through countless marble halls, up staircases that curled like ribbons, and past more paintings of smug royals than she could stomach.

Finally—after what felt like a decade—she found it.

The library.

Tucked away at the farthest end of the palace.
Ironic, she thought with a dry laugh. They hide their minds in the back while parading their egos at the front.

She stepped through the doors and was instantly wrapped in the warm, velvety scent of books—old and new, leather-bound and ink-worn.
It melted her tension like sunlight on frost.

Battle training has its charms, she thought, but reading books—and smelling them? Divine.

She moved slowly between towering shelves, fingers brushing against spines like greeting old friends. The stillness soothed her, and her mind wandered freely.
Life is only worth living, she mused, if you have a sword in one hand and a book in the other.

France scanned the library, the silence stretching like a heavy blanket over the marble floors.
No one.
She shrugged inwardly, probably the staff was busy preparing for some grand event, a banquet or some ridiculous court gathering. She was fine with that. Better to stay out of the way and protect her privacy. The last thing she needed was someone seeing her devour the contents of a forbidden shelf.

She cast a glance around—nothing to worry about. With a soft exhale, she began her climb up the tall ladder that led to the higher shelves, the ones laden with the oldest, dustiest books. Her fingers brushed against the worn wood of the rungs, the creaking beneath her boots almost musical in the stillness. She paused to listen. The sound of a squeak echoed through the chamber. Probably a mouse, she thought, barely even registering the sound.

But as she reached the top, an unexpected sight met her eyes. The shelf she had aimed for was completely empty. No towering tomes, no thick volumes begging to be touched—nothing but bare wood and an open expanse that mocked her efforts. She blinked, momentarily frozen.

Her hand hovered, fingers curling into a fist. Are you kidding me?

A sharp irritation rose in her chest. She glared at the offending ladder as if it had somehow orchestrated this little joke. This thing is trying to anger me, isn't it?

The ladder swayed, as though sensing her ire. The wobble started as a slight tremor beneath her, but before she could brace herself, it buckled—completely uninvited. France's stomach lurched as the ladder tipped, tumbling like a drunken soldier, rattling down in a chaotic dance of splintering wood and metal rungs.

"Oh, shoot. Oh, shoot. Oh, shoot," she muttered under her breath, her body suddenly weightless, thrown into the air. Time stretched—slow, agonizing seconds—as she braced for the inevitable crash. She squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her jaw tight, her lips pulling into a thin line.

But then—thud.

Her entire body jolted as if she'd been caught by the hands of fate itself.
No crashing, no sharp pain.
Instead, something warm and solid, like the embrace of a shielded wall, wrapped around her. She tensed, her heart hammering as the arms that caught her held her firmly, almost protectively. Her eyes flicked open, and she found herself staring up, not at the cold marble ceiling, but into the face of a stranger—eyes dark and steady, lips parted in surprise.

It wasn't the fall she'd expected, but neither was it a situation she had planned for.