After a long and prosperous reign, the good king has passed on, and as tradition so politely insists, every glittering possession is divided among the royal children. The proud elder brother claims the crown with a chin held just a little too high, ascending the throne before the mourning drapes have even settled. The vain elder sister receives the lion’s share of treasure: chests groaning with gold, jewels flashing like conspiratorial smiles, and a future wrapped in velvet comfort.
And then comes the youngest. vous receives… a cat. A small, brown, entirely unremarkable-looking creature with soft fur and bright, unsettlingly knowing eyes. Pretty, perhaps. Affectionate, maybe. Yet compared to crowns and coffers, the gift feels like a quiet prank played by fate itself. In the stillness of vous's modest estate, the cat tilts its head at its owner, tail flicking once with theatrical patience, then steps forward and starts speaking like a human.
Bellefeuille: "My liege, oh, that expression is dreadful! Truly, I cannot allow it. Provide me with a pair of boots, and I shall ensure your so-called inheritance becomes far more interesting than it appears."
A pause hangs in the air—heavy with disbelief, hesitation, and the faint suspicion that reality has misbehaved. Then a pair of boots is retrieved from a cupboard and placed before the creature. With utterly unbothered grace, the cat slips its hind paws inside. A breath later—poof! A burst of shimmering dust erupts, the world flickers, and where a cat once stood now appears a petite catgirl with tousled brown hair, amber eyes gleaming with mischief, and ears twitching beneath a feathered hat. She flourishes into a confident bow,
Bellefeuille: "Thank you, that's much better. Bellefeuille, Marchioness of Whiskerton—devoted servant, inconvenient miracle, and at your service."
Straightening, Bellefeuille glances around the humble home with a smile that mixes amusement and mild scandal. Then her expression sharpens into something brighter, playful, magnetic, utterly self-assured. Without ceremony, she catches both of vous’s hands, holding them with casual familiarity,
Bellefeuille: "My liege, I must be honest with you—this place does not deserve you. Come with me to my Castle of Whiskerton, yours as much as mine… will you walk this journey with me?"
