"Come on, Princess Amira time is essence," Nora called out, already pulling open the curtains.
Amira squinted as pale morning light spilled across the stone floor. The title Princess landed in her ears with a dull thud. Her brow twitched.
"Princess?" she echoed groggily, voice rough at the edges.
"Yes," Nora said simply, like the answer should be obvious. "You're married to the First Prince now. That makes you part of the royal family. It's only proper to address you by your title."
Married.
The word made Amira's stomach feel weird and hollow, like she'd skipped a step going down a staircase. She pulled the blanket tighter around her and muttered under her breath, "Can I even call it a marriage? Nothing was done properly…"
Nora froze in place.
"Shh." She spun around, her voice low and tight. "Don't say that where anyone could hear. The king he doesn't tolerate anything that sounds like rebellion. Even a whisper."
Amira's lips pressed together. She gulped hard. Of course he didn't.
Nora didn't wait for a reply just moved toward her again, her hands quick and practiced. She undressed Amira gently but efficiently, the silk of her nightgown slipping away like water over stone. A chill ran down Amira's spine, goosebumps rising on her bare arms. Her fingers curled slightly, instinctively covering herself.
"Careful," Nora murmured. "Come now."
She helped her step down into a sunken marble tub, the steam already rising from it in soft clouds. The moment Amira's toes touched the water, her muscles started to loosen. She exhaled slowly and sank deeper, water lapping at her collarbone. Her hair floated weightless around her shoulders.
Nora moved around the bath like a quiet storm, opening small wooden cupboards, picking jars and glass bottles with steady fingers. She poured something amber-colored into the tub. The water darkened slightly, and the scent of lavender climbed into the air heady but calming.
Amira closed her eyes, breathing it in. She didn't realize how tightly she'd been holding her jaw until it finally unclenched.
Nora knelt by the bath and started scrubbing her back with a coarse cloth, slow circular motions that tugged at her skin.
"You need to be careful around the royal family," she said, voice low, like a warning carved into stone. "They're not as kind as they might seem. You misstep just once and they'll remind you you're not one of them. Not really."
Amira stayed quiet. Her nails lightly traced the edge of the bathtub. A small wave of water sloshed outward. She wanted to ask why, wanted to scream that she never wanted this, that she didn't ask to marry anyone let alone into a world full of thrones and sharpened smiles. But all she could do was nod, barely.
After the bath, she was dressed in a yellow gown so soft it felt like air. It clung gently to her frame and slipped down her shoulders. She touched the fabric absentmindedly, marveling at how it didn't itch, didn't scratch. She'd never worn anything like it. Never needed to.
Nora pulled half of Amira's hair back and secured it with a delicate embroidered pin gold and green thread sewn into a flower. It caught the light like something alive.
She caught her reflection in the standing mirror near the door and paused. Was that her? Her lips were soft pink. Her hair tamed. Her face calm. But beneath it all, something tight curled in her chest. This isn't who I'm supposed to be, she thought. I was never meant for this.
The knock came suddenly three soft taps.
Nora moved quickly to answer, and there in the doorway stood Princess Novalie, tall and graceful with an easy smile. Amira straightened fast, nearly stumbling over her feet as she dropped into a courtesy.
"Good morning, Princess," she said, trying to make her voice sound like it belonged here. Like she belonged here.
"Please," Novalie chuckled, stepping in. "We're sisters now. Call me Novalie. I'd prefer it that way."
Amira blinked. The warmth in Novalie's voice was… real. Or it sounded real. She smiled back, a bit unsure, but grateful.
Novalie didn't waste time she stepped forward and looped her arm through Amira's like they were childhood friends. Amira flinched just slightly, but didn't pull away. There was something comforting about the closeness. Nora followed them quietly, as did another girl Novalie's maid, probably.
As they walked, the halls stretched long and silent. Every step Amira took echoed faintly off the stone. She tried not to stare at the heavy tapestries or the looming portraits of grim-faced royals.
"How's Oaken Vale treating you so far?" Novalie asked, glancing sideways.
Amira hesitated. Her eyes flitted toward a window. The gardens outside were nothing like the gray wastelands she'd imagined. There were bursts of color lavender shrubs, deep green vines curling along trellises. She hadn't expected beauty here.
"It's… different than I thought," she said. "I expected it to be more… bleak."
Novalie laughed lightly. "Not as gloomy as the rumors make us, huh?"
"You've heard them?"
"Of course," Novalie grinned. "I'm not locked in a tower."
Amira smiled, caught off guard. Maybe she really is kind.
They arrived at the dining hall. A servant opened the doors. Inside, the long table stretched almost the entire length of the room, already crowded with the royal family. The noise quieted just a little when they entered. Eyes turned toward her some cool, some bored, some unreadable.
Her stomach flipped.
She tried to keep her head high, offered a greeting to the room that sounded more confident than she felt. Novalie led her to a seat beside Zyran, who was already seated next to the younger prince, Liam. The prince didn't look up.
Amira sat down slowly, hands tight in her lap.
"You know how much I value punctuality," Queen Miranda said from the far end of the table. Her voice was ice, her expression unreadable.
"Mother," Novalie said with a bright smile. "I was chatting with my sister-in-law. She's new here we shouldn't make her feel like she's already failed."
"How thoughtful," came Katia's voice from across the table. Her tone dripped with sarcasm. "You always have time to spare, Novalie. Perhaps you could put it to better use."
Novalie didn't flinch. Didn't even glance at her.
Zyran picked up his cutlery and began eating, silent. Amira hesitated. She stared down at her plate. Silverware perfectly placed. Food that looked like it belonged in a painting. Her fingers twitched she didn't know where to begin. She didn't want to look clumsy.
Then a voice cut across the room.
"What does your father do, child?" It was Royal Consort Leyla, sipping from a goblet like she hadn't just dropped a heavy stone in the middle of the table.
Amira's head snapped up. She felt a heat crawl into her cheeks. Her fingers brushed the corner of her napkin, clumsy. She wiped her lips even though they were clean.
"He's—" she started, voice thin.
But then Zyran spoke.
"I believe she owes you no explanation," he said, eyes on Leyla, cold and unflinching. "If you're so curious, you can run a background check. I doubt Father would've brought home a tyrant."
Silence.
Amira stared at him. Her chest felt strange tight and loose all at once. He didn't look at her. Didn't say anything else. Just kept eating like nothing happened.