Chapter 12: Lady Naya’s Position

"Your Majesty. Forgive me, but this cannot wait."

Ronan pulled back so quickly Naya nearly lost her balance. Whatever had softened in his face a moment before vanished instantly, replaced by the familiar mask she’d grown used to.

A senior council member stood a short distance away, his expression grave.

"What is it," Ronan said, his voice flat.

"Several nobles have formally challenged Lady Naya’s position."

Naya’s stomach dropped. Every eye in the hall seemed to sharpen on her at once, and she became painfully aware of how close she and Ronan had been standing only seconds ago.

"Explain," Ronan said.

The council member cleared his throat. "They question whether she should retain the privileges traditionally granted to the King’s wife. Given the circumstances of the marriage."

A cluster of nobles had gathered nearby, watching the exchange with barely concealed satisfaction. One of them, an older man with a sharp face, stepped forward.

"Her sister murdered the woman Your Majesty loved," he said. "Some believe allowing her sister to stand at your side, wearing your name, dishonors Seraphine’s memory."

The hall went quiet, waiting.

"She carries the same blood as the woman who murdered the King’s beloved," another added.

Naya braced herself, certain Ronan would finally agree with them, would finally admit what he’d told her privately dozens of times already. That she meant nothing. That she was simply the price of avoiding war.

"She is my wife," Ronan said instead.

"A marriage born of her sister’s crime," the older noble pressed.

"That doesn’t make it less legal."

The noble hesitated, clearly not expecting resistance. Ronan’s voice hardened further as he continued, making it plain that Naya’s standing wasn’t a matter open for debate among his court.

Before he could finish, Naya stepped forward.

"I’d like to answer them myself," she said quietly.

Ronan glanced at her. He didn’t stop her.

Naya turned to face the gathered nobles, her spine straight despite the tremor she refused to let reach her voice.

"I didn’t poison Seraphine," she said. "I didn’t flee in the night like a coward. I didn’t make my sister’s choices, and I have spent every day since my wedding paying for a crime that isn’t mine." She let her gaze sweep across the room. "I won’t spend the rest of my life apologizing for something I didn’t do."

The older noble opened his mouth to interrupt.

"If you believe I am unfit to stand beside your King," Naya continued, cutting him off, "then say it to my face. But don’t hide behind the name of my sister to do it."

Silence swallowed the hall whole.

Naya didn’t cry. She didn’t tremble. She simply stood there, waiting, refusing to look away from the men who’d spent the evening deciding her worth without ever asking her a single question.

Ronan watched her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. Whatever he’d expected to see, it clearly wasn’t this — not the frightened replacement bride his council had painted for him, but a woman capable of holding her ground in front of the entire kingdom.

"My decision stands," Ronan said finally, addressing the nobles directly. "She remains my wife. Her position, her privileges, all of it remain intact. If anyone has further objections, they can bring them to me personally."

The council had no room left to argue. The matter was dismissed with a stiff nod, and the nobles dispersed, murmuring among themselves.

Naya barely registered leaving the hall, her mind still turning over everything that had happened in the span of a single evening. The dance. The almost-kiss. Now this.

Once they were alone in the corridor outside, she finally turned to him.

"Why did you defend me?"

Ronan looked at her steadily. "Because you’re my wife."

"That’s always your answer."

"Because you keep asking questions you already know the answer to."

Naya frowned, trying to make sense of what he meant. "You hate me. You’ve made that clear more than once."

He didn’t deny it.

"Whatever I feel," he said, "the world will respect my wife because I command it to. That has nothing to do with affection."

He turned and walked away before she could respond, leaving her standing there with more questions than she’d started with.

The palace had gone quiet by the time Naya returned to her room that night. Mira was nowhere in sight, and the silence felt heavier than usual, thick with everything she couldn’t stop replaying in her mind.

Ronan had almost kissed her. Then defended her in front of his entire court. Then reduced it all to nothing more than obligation.

She sat at the edge of the bed, trying to sort through the tangle of it, when a soft knock interrupted her thoughts. A servant entered, one of the palace cleaners, his head bowed low as he moved to collect a few discarded linens near the door.

Naya barely paid him any attention, too absorbed in her own thoughts to care.

He worked quietly, methodically, until he passed close beside her. As he did, he set something small down among her belongings without breaking stride.

Naya glanced down. A folded letter.

"From home," he murmured, so quietly she almost missed it.

Her breath caught. She looked up, but the man was already moving toward the door, his face carefully turned away from her.

Her heart began pounding as recognition settled in. The handwriting on the fold was unmistakable, even from a glance.

Her father’s.

Why would he send her something in secret, smuggled in by a servant disguised as a cleaner, rather than through the normal channels every other correspondence used?

She glanced toward the door just as it closed softly behind him, leaving her alone with the silence and her racing pulse.

Naya waited a moment longer, listening for footsteps, for any sign someone might return. When none came, she finally reached for the letter, her fingers trembling slightly as she broke the seal.

She unfolded the paper carefully.

Her eyes dropped to the first line.