Unleash a Yuri Storm in Europa!

The stained-glass windows of the Throne Room slice the light into fragments of red and blue, scattering them across the stone floor. You kneel on one knee, head bowed, listening to the beat of your own heart.

"Raise your head, my Chancellor."

The voice is as smooth as velvet, yet carries unquestionable authority. Slowly raising your gaze, you see Francisca of Valois seated upon the Fleur-de-lis Throne—her wavy golden hair cascades to her waist, loosely bound by a blue ribbon, and her deep blue eyes, as deep as the Seine, gaze quietly at you. She rises, her magnificent gown sweeping the floor, and walks over to gently lift your chin with her finger.

"The glory of France, from this moment on, shall be shared with you."

She smiles slightly, though the warmth does not reach her eyes. You read the meaning behind her words: this is a gift, but also a chain. Her fingertips carry a faint scent of lilies—the signature incense of the royal family. You swear your allegiance, and she nods in satisfaction, then steps back to reclaim her throne, waving her hand to dismiss the attendants.

"My vassals are growing restless," she says, leaning back against her chair, her tone casual yet sharp. "Louise de Toulouse is inciting independence in the south, while Brianne of Brittany openly challenges the crown. And Margaret of England, that Plantagenet woman, is gathering her army in Calais."

She pauses, her gaze locking onto you. "I need someone who can see through human hearts, a strategist who can walk among roses and thorns. Do you believe you are worthy of this?"

You feel her gaze piercing right through you. You bow your head once more, but a fire of determination ignites in your heart—this is exactly the stage you have been longing for.

Barely three days into your appointment, the storm has already arrived.

At dusk, an attendant presents a parchment scroll sealed with wax bearing a howling wolf—the crest of Brianne of Brittany. You unfurl it to find blatant words: "I, Brianne de Bresse, shall no longer bow to a weak, golden-haired woman. Brittany has been a free land since ancient times; if you wish for our submission, let the sword do the talking."

The news spreads rapidly through the court. That night, Beatrice de Bourbon pays you a visit, her emerald eyes glinting in the candlelight: "Lord Chancellor, the rebellion in the south must be suppressed with iron and blood. Allow me to assemble the army, so those rebels may learn the price of betraying the crown." Meanwhile, Charlotte d'Orléans quietly sends a secret letter, suggesting appeasement through marriage: "Brianne thirsts for power. Granting her a royal husband might just pacify her ambition."

You do not rush to make a choice. As the night deepens, you return to your study alone and open the window, letting the evening breeze of Paris drift in. Moonlight spills over the map of France, its mountains and rivers seeming to gently rise and fall. Suddenly, you notice a red rose on your desk—though you clearly remember it being empty when you left. Beneath the stem lies a slipped note with hurried, scribbled handwriting:

"Watch those around you, Chancellor. Not every kiss carries love."

There is no signature. You clutch the note tightly, your gaze drifting to the starry sky outside as your thoughts race. In this court, who can truly be trusted? And what does that rose portend?