The flames of destruction covered France in a layer of darkness. Between the English, and the Holy Roman Empire, France had been a battleground ripe for the conquest for years.
After decades of bloodshed, France won the ultimate battle, but at a terrible cost. Nobles were displaced all across Europe.
The Royal family was in shambles, and a majority of the French countryside had been reduced to rubble, scorched earth reflecting the sadness within the French people.
One man rose from the ashes. One man declared he would rebuild a new France, a France that would shine brighter than any diamond.
"To Francis!" A man's voice cried, while he slammed his tankard of ale against the large wooden table. Echoes of 'To Francis' rose from around their makeshift meeting hall.
It was the only room left intact in Chateau de Blois.
Francis rose, smiling, from his seat near the head of the table. His golden curls were the only outward reflection of his age, making him appear younger than his true years.
A simple circlet of gold crowned his head, the only adornment marking him as King he would wear, albeit grudgingly.
The real indication of his might and strength was his father's sword, hanging imperiously from the worn leather scabbard at this waist.
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