Chapter 8: Mira

Naya woke with Ronan’s words still echoing in her head.

Paper doesn’t change what belongs to me.

She stared at the ceiling, turning the sentence over and over, trying to make sense of a man who insisted he didn’t want her while acting like he’d burn the palace down before letting anyone else touch her. It made no sense. He’d told her plainly that he didn’t desire her, that their marriage existed on paper alone, that she meant nothing beyond obligation.

And yet.

A knock interrupted her thoughts before she could untangle any of it further.

A servant stepped inside. "My lady, His Majesty has assigned you a personal maid."

Naya sat up, instantly wary. "Why would I need one?"

"As the King’s wife, you require someone assigned specifically to your care."

"I’ve had servants."

"Servants, yes. Not someone responsible for you specifically." The woman stepped aside as another figure entered the room.

The new arrival was younger than Naya expected, composed in a way that suggested competence rather than nervousness. She dropped a brief, efficient curtsy.

"Mira," she said simply. "I’ll be attending you from now on."

Naya studied her carefully. "Are you here to watch me?"

If the question offended her, Mira didn’t show it. "I’m not here to watch you."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because someone needs to make sure you don’t accidentally insult half the palace before breakfast."

Naya blinked. For one unguarded second, the corner of her mouth almost lifted.

"I’ll be helping you adjust," Mira continued, already moving toward the wardrobe with brisk efficiency. "Palace life has its own rules. Best you learn them quickly."

There was no forced deference in her tone, no careful tiptoeing around the fact that Naya was the woman half the household still whispered about. Mira simply treated her like a job to be done properly, and Naya found the ordinariness of it strangely steadying.

As Mira worked, she began laying out the practical realities of Naya’s new position. Which corridors were open to her. Which rooms she should avoid without invitation. Which council members would look for any excuse to challenge her. What formal appearances required her presence, and what was expected of the King’s wife when she stood before the pack.

Naya listened, realizing with quiet unease how little she actually knew. Everything had happened so fast — the dress, the altar, the vows — that nobody had bothered explaining what came after.

"Does Ronan actually expect me to perform all of this?" she asked.

"His Majesty expects everyone in this palace to perform their duties," Mira said, not looking up from the garments she was arranging.

Naya scoffed. "He barely considers me his wife."

Mira didn’t argue the point. "The palace doesn’t concern itself with what happens behind closed doors," she said instead. "Publicly, you are the King’s wife. People will judge you according to that position, whether His Majesty acknowledges you privately or not."

Naya turned the thought over slowly. She hadn’t chosen this marriage. But it had handed her a position, one that apparently carried more weight than she’d realized. If she wanted to survive here, she would need to understand exactly what that meant.

Mira helped her into a fresh dress, and as she adjusted the sleeves, her hands paused over the marks left from the day before. Naya stiffened instinctively, bracing for questions.

"Does it hurt?" Mira asked quietly, without looking up.

"I’m fine," Naya said.

Mira’s expression made it clear she didn’t believe a word of it, but she said nothing further, simply working around the injuries with careful, practiced movements that drew no attention to them.

The gentleness of it caught Naya off guard. Nobody in this house had offered her anything close to simple kindness since she’d arrived.

"Did you serve Seraphine?" Naya asked suddenly.

Mira’s hands stilled for the briefest moment. "I did."

"What was she like?"

Mira considered the question longer than Naya expected. "Kind, in some ways," she finally said. "Difficult, in others. She had a temper when she wanted one. She wasn’t the flawless woman everyone likes to remember now that she’s gone." She paused. "But His Majesty loved her deeply. That part isn’t exaggeration."

Naya absorbed that quietly. For the first time, she began to understand the true weight of what Ronan had lost, and how little space that left for anyone standing in Seraphine’s place.

"Did he treat her the way he treats me?" Naya asked.

Mira’s answer came slowly. "He was different with her. Softer. More open." She glanced at Naya. "Not perfect. But different."

Naya looked down at her hands, the confirmation landing exactly where she expected it to. She would never replace what Seraphine had been to him. She’d known that already, but hearing it stated so plainly still stung.

Then Mira said something that caught her off guard entirely.

"His Majesty has never treated another woman the way he treats you."

Naya almost laughed. "He hates me."

Mira didn’t deny it.

"He’s humiliated me," Naya continued. "Punished me. Told me outright he doesn’t want me."

"Exactly," Mira said.

Naya frowned. "That’s not an answer."

Mira didn’t offer one. She wasn’t suggesting Ronan secretly cared for her, wasn’t hinting at some hidden affection buried beneath all his coldness. She was simply pointing out, quietly and without agenda, that whatever existed between Naya and Ronan didn’t resemble anything ordinary.

Naya dismissed the thought before it could take root. Whatever strange possessiveness Ronan displayed had nothing to do with affection. He was territorial because she was legally his, nothing more. Mira let the silence stand rather than argue the point.

Once Naya was finally dressed, Mira stepped back to inspect her work with a critical eye, then nodded, satisfied.

"You have duties waiting," Mira reminded her. "You can’t spend every day simply reacting to whatever His Majesty does next."

Naya understood the truth in that. If she wanted to survive this place, she needed to stop thinking only in terms of surviving Ronan. She needed to understand the palace itself. The council. The pack. The responsibilities that came stitched into her new title.

A knock sounded at the door before she could dwell on it further. A servant entered, delivering a brief message from Ronan — Naya was expected to begin performing one of her formal duties the following morning.

Naya turned to Mira. "What duty?"

Mira’s mouth curved into a small, knowing smile. "You’ll learn."

"Why do you sound amused?"

"Because tomorrow," Mira said, "they’re going to stop treating you like the replacement bride."

Naya studied her carefully. "Then what will they treat me as?"

Mira’s smile faded into something steadier, more serious.

"The King’s wife."