The iron gates of the royal palace loomed before Eleanor Valmont, their intricate golden carvings catching the dying light of the setting sun. She sat in the carriage, hands clasped in her lap, the weight of her future pressing down on her like a stone.

Today, she was no longer the forgotten daughter of a disgraced noble house. Today, she became the betrothed of Prince Aldric, heir to the throne of Valeria.

A marriage of duty. A cage gilded in diamonds.

The carriage lurched forward, passing through the gates, and she swallowed hard. The scent of fresh roses mixed with the distant burn of torches. Inside, the palace was alive with whispers—servants exchanging hushed words, nobles casting glances in her direction. She was the outsider, the unwanted fiancée, and everyone in this palace knew it.

She stepped out of the carriage, chin lifted, refusing to show fear. Her father had made it clear: "You are a Valmont. You will act like one."

"Lady Eleanor Valmont," a herald announced.

Eyes turned. A sea of silk and lace. And at the top of the grand staircase, standing like a statue carved of marble, was Prince Aldric himself.

Tall. Handsome. Cold as the winter sea.

He did not move, did not smile. The silence stretched. Then, finally, he descended the steps, his boots echoing against the marble floor.

"My prince," she murmured, lowering into a curtsy.

"Rise," he commanded, his voice devoid of warmth.

She met his gaze. In that moment, she understood.

He despised her.

The court had whispered of a woman—a lover hidden away in the shadows of the palace. Eleanor was a pawn, a political tool. And she had just been placed onto the board of a game she did not yet understand.

Midnight.

The palace corridors were silent save for the soft rustling of Eleanor's gown as she walked. Servants had shown her to her chambers, a lavish prison adorned in silver and blue, but she found no comfort there.

She had spent the evening in the banquet hall, surrounded by nobles who smiled like wolves, their words honeyed, their eyes sharp. They watched her, assessing, waiting for her to falter.

A shadow moved at the end of the corridor.

Eleanor's breath caught.

She was not alone.

"Who's there?" she whispered.

The figure stepped forward, into the flickering torchlight. A man—cloaked, his face partially obscured by the hood. But she recognized him.

Prince Julian.

The king's bastard son. The one who should have been heir.

"You should not wander alone, my lady," he said, voice smooth as velvet.

"And you should not be lurking in hallways," she shot back.

A smile tugged at his lips. "Fair enough." He tilted his head, studying her. "Tell me, Lady Valmont—do you know what game you have just entered?"

Eleanor's fists clenched at her sides. "I know that I am to be Queen."

Julian's laughter was quiet, edged with something dark.

"No, my lady," he murmured, stepping closer. "You are to be sacrificed."

His words sent a chill down her spine.

And deep in her bones, Eleanor knew—her life was no longer her own.

She had just become a piece on a board far deadlier than she had imagined.