The ballroom's warmth still clung to Elena's skin like the lingering touch of a predator. Applause, polite smiles, murmured congratulations—all of it had faded into a muffled hum as she stepped into the corridor leading away from the royal court. Her heels clicked against the marble floor, the sound sharp in the silence, each step carrying her farther from the gilded cage and deeper into the labyrinth of the palace.
She should have felt relief. After all, the performance was over. She had held her chin high, worn the crown with grace, and played the perfect queen-to-be. But instead, an unfamiliar tightness coiled in her chest. It was the look in King Cassian's eyes—dark, calculating, and entirely too knowing—that haunted her.
He had leaned close when the court had toasted her, his breath brushing her ear as he whispered, "The crown sits beautifully, Elena. But beauty is never free."
The words were not a threat. They were a promise.
Her hand unconsciously brushed the edge of the tiara, cold metal pressing against her fingertips. Even here, away from the crowd, she could feel eyes on her. Servants moved through the corridor like shadows, heads bowed, but their gazes lingered just a second too long. Someone was always watching.
---
By the time she reached the private wing, the palace's ornate grandeur gave way to quieter, dimly lit halls. This was the place where royal whispers lived and died. Elena slowed her steps, letting her ears adjust to the silence—until she caught it.
Voices. Low, urgent, coming from just around the corner.
She stopped, pressing herself against the wall, the heavy velvet drapes swallowing her figure. The voices grew clearer.
"…we can't move until the coronation," a man's voice hissed. "If we act too soon, it will all unravel."
"And if we wait?" another voice asked—lower, colder. "Do you think Cassian won't notice? The girl's already becoming a problem. She's asking questions."
Elena's heart gave a sharp, painful thud.
"She'll do what she's told. They always do," the first man muttered. "She's in too deep to back out now."
There was a pause. Then, the second voice, slow and deliberate:
"Unless she learns the truth."
---
Footsteps approached. Elena slipped deeper into the drapes, her breath shallow, until the men passed. She caught only a glimpse—both dressed in the muted black of royal guards, though their insignia was unfamiliar. Not palace guards. Not officially, at least.
When their steps faded, she stepped out, pulse still racing. What truth? The words echoed in her skull.
The urge to run straight to Damien clawed at her. But Damien… Damien was already stretched thin. Every move he made in the open was watched. Every whisper could be used against him. If she told him without proof, she would only be adding to his burdens.
No. She needed to find out more—alone.
---
Her chambers were dim when she entered, the fire reduced to embers. She closed the door softly and leaned against it, letting the shadows wrap around her. For a moment, she simply stood there, eyes shut, listening to her heartbeat.
Then came the knock.
Soft. Measured. Not a servant's hurried tap.
She opened the door only a fraction—and froze.
It was Cassian.
The King of Raevensmark stood framed in the doorway, not in the heavy regalia of the court, but in a black high-collared coat, the gold embroidery catching faint firelight. His presence filled the room even before he stepped inside.
"Your Majesty," she said carefully.
"Majesty," he echoed, almost with amusement. "That's not how you addressed me the first time we met."
She gripped the door. "That was… different."
"Was it?" His eyes swept over her—lingering, assessing. "The woman before me now is no different from the one who stood before me then. Except, perhaps…" His gaze sharpened. "…now you know how dangerous I am."
He stepped inside without invitation, and the air shifted. "You wear the crown well, Elena. But I can't help but wonder—do you understand the weight of it?"
Her chin lifted. "I understand enough."
"No," he murmured, almost pitying. "You understand what they've told you. Which is never the whole truth."
The words made her skin prickle. "And you do? You expect me to believe you're here to enlighten me?"
"I expect nothing," he said simply. "But I will warn you, since no one else will—you are a piece on a board far older and bloodier than you realize. And pieces…" His eyes darkened. "…are meant to be sacrificed."
He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. "When the time comes, Elena, ask yourself this—will Damien bleed for you, or will he bleed because of you?"
The door shut softly behind him, leaving her with the echo of his voice and a fire she couldn't name burning in her chest.
---
The next morning, the palace seemed brighter, but it was a lie. The courtiers moved with their usual grace, but their eyes flicked toward her with thinly veiled curiosity. Whispers followed her like perfume.
She played her role flawlessly—smiling, nodding, saying just enough without revealing anything. But inside, she was already plotting her next move.
She needed allies. Real ones. People not tied to the crown by oath or coin.
Her thoughts turned to Lady Miren—once a trusted friend to her late mother, now relegated to the farthest edge of the court. Miren had been among the few who dared speak her mind. If there was anyone who might know what Cassian meant, it was her.
That afternoon, under the guise of visiting the royal gardens, Elena slipped away from her escort and took the narrow servants' passage that led to the east wing.
The air there was different—colder, the light dimmer. Miren's chambers were tucked into a corner like a forgotten memory. Elena knocked, and after a long pause, the door opened.
"Elena." Miren's voice held both surprise and something like sorrow. "I didn't think you'd remember me."
"I never forgot," Elena said quietly. "I need your help."
Miren studied her for a long moment, then stepped aside. Inside, the room smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment. Shelves lined the walls, filled with scrolls and weathered books.
"You've been in the court long enough to know," Miren said as they sat. "Asking for help here is dangerous."
"I know," Elena admitted. "But I think there's something… something I'm not being told. About me. About this crown."
Miren's expression shifted, and she glanced toward the closed door before speaking. "There are truths in this palace that have outlived kings. And some of them are written in blood."
Elena's pulse quickened. "Tell me."
"You are not the first to stand where you stand," Miren said. "But you may be the last."
---
By the time Elena left, her mind was a storm. Miren hadn't told her everything—couldn't—but she'd said enough. Enough to know that her place beside Damien was not just a political move. It was part of something much older. Something dangerous.
And if Cassian was right, the day was coming when she would have to choose—not just between loyalty and survival, but between love and the truth.
Far above, from a window she couldn't see, a figure in black watched her leave the east wing, a faint smile curving their lips.
The game had begun.