The murmurs of servants and maids danced around her like an unsettling melody, soft whispers that didn't dare touch the air, yet still managed to pierce through her thoughts.

She heard them, even when they thought she couldn't. They talked in hushed tones, their voices light, but the weight of their words lingered.

The stares from the aristocrats and royals—sharp, calculating—were like daggers in her skin, each gaze an invisible accusation.

France felt them all.

The eyes that tracked her every movement, that studied her with curiosity or disdain, depending on the face they chose to wear.

She couldn't escape them, no matter how many steps she took.

Then there were the looks from F.E - those devastated, guilty glances.

She could almost hear his silent apologies, but it didn't matter.

Apologies wouldn't change what had already happened.

And Spain and Ireland... they looked at her with concern, but there was something deeper, something fragile in their eyes.

Worry, yes, but also an unspoken question: What can we do?

She saw it all.

She knew they were looking, analyzing.

Their gaze was a constant weight, pressing against her spine like an invisible hand that kept her tethered to this world she no longer recognized.

She should have been used to it by now.

She should have been numb.

But today... today, it felt new again.

The sting of their eyes, the weight of their judgment.

It was unbearable, like the first breath of a new storm.

She wanted to tell herself that last night was just a dream, that it was some nightmare born from her mind's darkest corners.

 But no.

It was reality.

The cold, unforgiving reality that slapped her awake, making sure she didn't fall back into the illusion of comfort.

Her brother's voice, full of devastation, echoed in her ears.

Britain's uncertainty, the confusion laced with guilt.

The treaty, signed by the Kingdoms of France and Britain, a chain forged from her marriage to a man she didn't know.

A man she didn't love.

She wanted to scream. 

To tear the walls down, to shout at the heavens and demand freedom. 

She wanted to break free from this cage of obligations and political games. 

But there was no escape. 

Not now. 

She was trapped in a web of politics, duty, and expectations—a marriage she never agreed to, a future she had no say in.

And so, she tried to act normal. 

She hated how she had to pretend, but what choice did she have? She wasn't good at hiding her true feelings, not anymore. 

Her face, pale as moonlight, betrayed her inner turmoil. 

Her eyes, once filled with a fiery spark, were now dull, distant—reflecting a pain she couldn't hide. 

But still, she put on the mask.

 That perfect mask. 

That smile, that posture, that pretense of everything being fine. "I'm smiling. Everything's okay. Nothing's wrong. I'm not in trouble."

If I smile enough, maybe I'll believe it, she thought bitterly.

It was HRE who asked her to walk after lunch. 

Of course, she didn't want to walk after eating. 

She didn't want to be with anyone right now, but somehow, she agreed. He was a stranger to her, but then again, so was the world around her. 

At least with Ireland accompanying them, she wouldn't have to be alone with him, some foreign man who was only a fleeting presence in the grand scheme of things. 

She didn't voice this, of course. 

There was no energy left for that.

They walked, the three of them, through the wooded path near the British Palace, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the heavy silence that hung between them. 

France let them talk—about mundane things, about the stars above, the weather. 

She let their words float past her, her mind elsewhere, lost in thoughts she didn't want to face. 

It was easier to be silent, to let their conversation swirl around her like the autumn leaves falling from the trees.

HRE glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, surprised by the stark difference between this quiet, pale girl and the fiery spirit he'd expected to see. 

Where had she gone, that girl who seemed to burn with such an undeniable intensity? 

She was still beautiful, yes, but there was something cold about her now, an ice that had settled in her veins and refused to leave. 

Her steps were softer now, less certain, as if the weight of the world had forced her to move with caution, to tread carefully on a path she hadn't chosen.

Ireland, on the other hand, had no problem filling the silence with chatter. 

His voice was loud, full of energy, teasing, and animated—a stark contrast to France's solemnity. HRE couldn't help but smile at the boy's exuberance. 

In some strange way, Ireland reminded him of his own son, always speaking, always filling the room with life. 

But as he looked at France, walking silently beside him, his smile faltered. 

Something was wrong.

 It wasn't just the silence—it was her. 

There was something in the way she carried herself, something that made HRE feel a gnawing sense of unease deep in his gut.

He didn't know her well, not yet, but he sensed it. 

She was slipping away from herself, from the world around her. 

Something had shattered inside her, and no matter how many smiles she put on, how many polite nods and empty words, the crack was still there, widening, threatening to swallow her whole.

HRE watched her, trying to figure out what was happening beneath that cold exterior, but France remained distant, lost in thoughts of a future that no longer seemed like her own.