The Hall of Mirrors was a river of gold and diamonds, where the air was thick with the scent of powdered wigs and expensive musk. The Marquis de Valois moved through the crowd like a shark in a sea of silk. He was a man of exquisite manners and a heart made of flint.

France was starving. Outside the gates of Versailles, the peasants were eating grass and boiling leather. Inside, the nobility were debating the correct shade of blue for the Queen's new ballroom.

To maintain the illusion of stability, the King had introduced the "Survival Allotment." Because the royal granaries were nearly empty, the state could no longer feed the nobility. Instead, the King declared a game: a series of social and political challenges. The winners would receive the "Allotment"—the right to food and wine for the coming year. The losers would be "retired" to the provinces, which was a polite term for being left to starve in the mud.

Valois excelled at the game. He didn't play for food; he played for the thrill of the kill. He spent his nights forging letters, whispering lies into the ears of ministers, and orchestrating the social ruin of his peers. He watched with a cold smile as the Comtesse de Mornay was cast out after he leaked a fake diary of her affairs. He watched as the Duke of Orleans was stripped of his title after Valois framed him for treason.

"It is a simple matter of efficiency," Valois told his reflection in a mirror. "The weak are merely obstacles to the strong."

By the final round, Valois was the only one left. He had outmaneuvered every courtier in France. He stood before the King, the sole winner of the Survival Allotment. He expected a crown, a title, perhaps the premiership.

Instead, the King looked at him with a mixture of pity and boredom.

"Congratulations, Marquis," the King said, sipping a glass of champagne. "You have proven yourself to be the most ruthless man in my kingdom. Which is why you are the perfect candidate for my final request."

The King pointed to the window. On the horizon, a line of fire was approaching. The revolution had finally breached the outer walls. The peasants were no longer asking for bread; they were coming for heads.

"The Allotment is not food, Valois," the King whispered. "The 'Allotment' is the honor of staying behind to lead the defense of the palace while I and the rest of the court escape through the secret tunnels. You have won the right to be the last man standing in Versailles."

As the doors burst open and the screams of the mob filled the hall, Valois looked at the gold-leafed walls and the diamonds on his fingers. He realized that the game had been rigged from the start. He had fought so hard to win a prize that was actually a death sentence.

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