Cold air with the smell of mold and ancient candle smoke was Eleanor's earliest memory of the palace.

She knelt in the shadow of the royal crypt, facing the enormous coffin made of obsidian, carved with the empire's intricate emblem—an eagle entwined with flames.

The coffin remained uncovered, and her sister, Empress Elenor, lay quietly inside, her face as serene as if she were merely sleeping, with only the bloodless hue of her lips betraying death's final claim.

Eleanor wore a coarse linen nun's habit that seemed utterly out of place in this golden, splendid crypt that reeked of power and luxury.

Her fingertips were ice-cold as she clutched the corner of her garment, knuckles white from the effort. Just hours earlier, she had been in that isolated monastery on the northern border, reciting morning prayers before a damaged holy icon. Then the empire's iron cavalry and that man called Lucius—like a nightmare tearing through morning mist—had ripped her from the only world she knew.

"She needs a queen, the empire needs a queen." That's what Lucius had said, his voice steady and emotionless, as if stating a fact that had nothing to do with him.

Now, that man stood behind her—the Prime Minister who answered to only one person in the entire empire.

He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, his gray-white hair meticulously arranged, the gaze behind his monocle as precise and cold as a surgeon's blade.

"Have you seen enough, Lady Eleanor?" Lucius's voice echoed through the empty mausoleum with undeniable authority. "Or should I address you as 'Your Majesty' in advance?"

Eleanor turned abruptly, her violet eyes filled with terror and unshed tears.

"She was my sister!" Her voice trembled. "We barely even met... you can't possibly—"

"We can, and we must." Lucius cut her off, stepping forward as his shadow loomed over her like a storm cloud. "Queen Elenor has suddenly fallen ill and passed away. His Majesty the Emperor is gravely ill and unable to govern. The Empire teeters between internal chaos and external threats, with those northern savages who—despite their hostages—have never abandoned their predatory ambitions. The Queen's 'presence' steadies the public. And you, Eleanor, are the... only suitable replacement."

He waved his hand, and an attendant stepped forward with a velvet-covered tray bearing gleaming silver scissors.

"Your hair, miss." Lucius's tone left no room for negotiation. "Her Majesty cherishes her waist-length, slightly curled hair, but to show mourning, she always wears it pinned up in public. Your length... is somewhat lacking."

Eleanor stared at the scissors, instinctively shrinking back.

This long hair was her only possession for nineteen years, the only thing that made her feel like an ordinary girl in the cold monastery. Cutting it meant severing the last connection to her past.

"No..." she protested weakly.

Lucius leaned down, his voice dropping to a viper-like hiss: "Think, Miss Eleanor. If you refuse this role, what value do you have to the Empire or the monastery that raised you? An orphan abandoned due to 'ill omen,' who now knows palace secrets... do you think... you could ever return to your previous life?"

The naked threat pierced her heart like an ice pick. She realized that from the moment they took her from the monastery, she had stepped onto a one-way path with no return.

By impersonating her sister, she might survive in this den of wolves; refusing meant certain death.

Tears slid silently down her face. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath of air laced with death and spices, then reached for the heavy scissors with trembling hands. One strand after another, hair dark as night fell to the cold floor like her withering past. With each cut, she felt as if she were severing pieces of her soul. When the last strand fell, an unfamiliar coldness swept across her nape, as if she'd lost her final shield.

Lucius looked at her with satisfaction, his gaze like an artist admiring work nearing completion. "Very good. Remember, from this moment on, you are Empress Elenor. Your every word and action affects the empire's stability—and your own survival."

At the emperor's sickbed came Eleanor's first informal Royal Council meeting—more accurately, her public scrutiny.

She wore her sister's elaborate ceremonial gown—deep purple velvet with sleeves and collar adorned with pearls and small amethysts. The dress still carried her sister's cold gardenia fragrance, a scent that made her head swim.

She sat on a smaller chair beside the emperor's sickbed, mimicking her sister's dignified posture from memory—back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap, fingernails digging into her palms, using pain to maintain alertness and composure.

The spacious imperial chamber teemed with people. The empire's most powerful nobles and ministers swept their gazes over her like searchlights, full of curiosity, scrutiny, and naked suspicion.

She read the silent questions in their flickering gazes: Has the Empress somehow changed? Is it exhaustion from excessive grief?

Chancellor Lucius stood at the forefront, handling state affairs with ease. His speech was clear and organized, his decisions resolute—already the empire's de facto ruler. Yet Eleanor sensed his peripheral vision remained fixed on her, like a coiled viper ready to strike at the first sign of weakness.

"...Regarding the placement of Kai, the hostage from the Northern Realm, we shall proceed according to the established plan." Lucius concluded, his gaze sweeping casually over Eleanor. "Your Majesty, do you have anything to add?"

All eyes instantly focused on her. Eleanor's heart nearly leaped from her chest.

She forced herself to lift her eyes, meeting Lucius's gaze, and with all her might imitated her sister's gentle yet distant tone: "The Prime Minister has handled it appropriately. I have no objections." Her voice wasn't loud, but carried clearly throughout the hall.

She tried her best, but the barely perceptible tremor at the end of her words left her terrified.

Just then, her gaze inadvertently swept across the crowd's edge, colliding with a pair of eyes.

Ice-blue eyes, belonging to a young man standing in the shadows.

He had short platinum blonde hair that seemed out of place in this luxurious court—slightly disheveled, his figure tall and straight as the Northern Realm's snow cedars, exuding a lone wolf aura even in the crowd. His simple, almost shabby attire formed a stark contrast with the bejeweled nobles surrounding him.

The hostage from the Northern Realm. Kai.

He didn't examine her with scrutiny or curiosity like the others; his gaze was calm, even cold, but deep within those ice-blue eyes lay a power that seemed to pierce through souls. He simply gazed at her indifferently, showing no reaction, yet Eleanor felt completely exposed before him, all her disguises stripped away with just one glance.

Did he see through me? Does he know I'm not my sister?

This thought plunged her into an icy abyss. An enemy nation's hostage, a pawn abandoned by his homeland—he had become the first person to make her feel naked with nowhere to hide. There was no threat in his gaze, no scrutiny, only a calm understanding that seemed to perceive everything, which frightened her more than any obvious hostility could.

She hastily averted her gaze, lowering her head to stare at her folded hands, feeling those ice-blue eyes still burning into her back.

The time that followed became unbearably torturous. Every noble coming forward to bow, every concerned greeting, felt like a prolonged interrogation. She could only rely on vague impressions from her sister's occasional visits and Lucius's notes about important relationships to barely manage. Sweat soaked the lining of her formal dress, and fine beads of perspiration appeared at her temples.

Finally, the meeting ended in a suffocating atmosphere. The nobles bowed and withdrew, and Lucius, before leaving, gave her a meaningful look that clearly said: "Remember your place."

Attendants escorted her back to the Queen's luxurious yet cold chambers.

Only when the heavy carved doors closed behind her, shutting out all gazes, did Eleanor finally allow her taut nerves to break.

She stumbled to the enormous silver mirror. It reflected a face identical to her sister's—exquisite makeup, hair styled into a perfect bun, an incomparably magnificent ceremonial gown. But those violet eyes contained none of her sister's composure and dignity, only overwhelming fear, confusion, and bone-deep exhaustion.

She reached out, trembling as she caressed the mirror's surface, her fingertips meeting nothing but cold glass.

"Sister..." she addressed that unfamiliar version of herself, her voice utterly broken, choked with tears. "What am I supposed to do? I can't do this... I'll get everyone killed..."

The person in the mirror offered no answers. Only the fading lights of the imperial capital outside the window, like countless prying eyes, coldly observed this golden cage that imprisoned her.

Her only twin sister, her last blood relative in this world, lay cold in the sepulcher.

And she, banished since childhood as a person of "ill omen," was now thrust to the pinnacle of power—a realm she knew nothing about, filled with thorns.

Loneliness and despair engulfed her like a tide. She slid down onto the cold floor, burying her face between her knees, her shoulders violently trembling in silence.

Tonight, no one would sleep.

In her extreme solitude and fear, Eleanor's fingers accidentally touched something hard in her sleeve.

Feeling around, she retrieved a small ornament from the hidden pocket of her sister's ceremonial robe—made of neither metal nor wood. The ornament had a peculiar design: a Frost Crystal Bird with wings spread—the totem of the Northern Realm alliance.

Why would her sister have an enemy nation's totem in her personal garments?

A chill more piercing than the floor crept up her spine and instantly spread throughout her body.

The Hostage Prince and the Puppet Empress — Chapter 4

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