The next morning found me upright in my own private bedroom, staring down a full-length mirror that seemed almost to shimmer with silent ridicule. The reflection showed a stranger: A new periwinkle silk dress hung from my shoulders like expensive drapery, its bodice pinching beneath my arms while the hem swished against my calves. The perfectly painful stiletto heels—glossy as wet asphalt—added three precarious inches to my height. My hair, a wild mane of dark, disobedient waves, was still damp from the panic-shower I'd taken to scrub away the memory of Natalia's too-white smile and the dozen pairs of councilor eyes raking over my every movement.
Derick had left at dawn for a security briefing—something about an attempted break-in at the palace gates. He'd held my hand for a long time before leaving, thumb tracing the inside of my wrist like he was memorizing the map of my veins. "Just get through today," he'd whispered into my hair. "I'll meet you for lunch. You'll be amazing." It was the kind of easy confidence only someone like him could have, born with a crown and never made to wear it until the weight felt like a guillotine.
I spent the next hour practicing the three expressions I'd seen in Queen Lisa's arsenal: the pleasant, the neutral, and the "I'm about to eviscerate you with a single glance." I never managed to nail the last one. The best I could muster was a tight-lipped grimace that looked more like I'd accidentally bitten into a lemon.
The clock on the wall—a grotesque, silver contraption shaped like a wolf howling at the moon—ticked through the seconds with sadistic precision. I checked my phone: 8:56. Four minutes until I was expected in the "small parlor" for my first etiquette lesson. I patted down the flyaways on my head, forced my mouth into a semblance of a smile, and exited the suite.
The halls of the palace were largely empty at this hour, save for the occasional servant zipping by with a tray of breakfast or a bouquet of cut flowers to replace yesterday's arrangement. They all kept their eyes down, but I felt their curiosity clinging to me like static. When I reached the parlor, the doors were already slightly ajar, as if someone was daring me to just walk away and never look back.
Inside, Natalia waited, immaculately perched on the edge of an upholstered chair like a predatory bird. She wore a dress the color of old sapphires and had pinned her hair back with a string of pearls. A clipboard rested on her lap, and she was writing something—probably an inventory of my imminent failures.
The room itself was a stage set for humiliation. A practice lectern stood at the far end, flanked by two gold-trimmed flags. In the center, a massive dining table had been set for a formal breakfast: gleaming silver, white porcelain, at least six different forks arrayed in hostile formation on either side of each plate. At the sideboard, a traditional English tea service steamed in a way that managed to be both welcoming and deeply menacing.
"Miss Blackwater," Natalia said, her voice silk over steel, "you are three minutes early. A promising start."
I heard the compliment, but the way she pronounced my name—so clinical, so stripped of its usual warmth—set my nerves on edge. "Good morning," I managed, smoothing down the front of my borrowed skirt, already regretting my choice of wardrobe. The dress was too tight across the chest, too loose everywhere else. I had no idea how royals did it—maybe they just never sat down.
"Please, take a seat at the table," she directed. "We will begin with the basics."
As I sat, she made a note on her clipboard, eyes flicking over me with professional detachment. "First, posture. A future Luna does not hunch like a schoolgirl awaiting punishment. Sit at the very edge of your chair. Shoulders back, chin parallel to the floor."
I did as told, but the muscles at the base of my neck immediately started to burn. Natalia circled behind me, a silent orbit, and then reached forward with both hands to forcibly adjust my shoulders. The chill of her fingers lingered after she let go. "Better. It will feel unnatural at first, but eventually it will become second nature. As will everything else you learn here, if you apply yourself."
She moved to the head of the table and indicated I should observe as she demonstrated. "Today's lesson is table manners. Your current… background is less than ideal for the position you now occupy. We will have to work twice as hard to compensate."
I nodded, the sting in her words sharper than the china in front of me. "I understand."
"Do you?" Her head tilted. "I do not say this to be cruel, Cassandra. But the moment you step outside these walls, the world will be watching for any sign that you are unfit. And Derick—our future King—has made it clear that you are his only mate. The bar, therefore, is very high."
She picked up a fork—one of the middle ones, I noted—and spun it between her fingers with dazzling ease. "There are two schools of etiquette in the Silvermoon courts. The first, modeled after the old European nobility, is formal and precise." She demonstrated, cutting into a scone with surgical accuracy, then using the side of her fork to ferry it to her mouth. "The second, more common among the American packs, is a ghastly informality that I find… lamentable." Her eyes flashed over me. "I trust you can guess which style I favor."
I managed a thin smile. "I can."
She set down the fork and leaned forward, elbows not quite touching the table. "I want you to know that I am rooting for you," she lied. "But my loyalty will always be to the Silvermoon line. If I seem harsh, it is because I care deeply about our kingdom and the stability of its leadership." She smiled then, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Shall we begin?"
The next hour passed in a blur of correction and repetition. Natalia barked orders with the speed and precision of a military drill instructor. "The napkin is folded thus—no, no, like this. Always on your lap before you touch a single utensil. When buttering bread, never use your own knife. And for goddess' sake, never reach across the table." She rapped my knuckles, gently but firmly, each time I forgot.
By the time the actual breakfast was served—three delicate courses, each more intimidating than the last—my head throbbed from the sheer volume of rules. Natalia observed every motion, pen at the ready, noting every misstep in her tidy, looping script.
She didn't hold back on the personal slights, either. "I am sure your old pack did things differently, but here, we pour tea before adding milk." Or, "A Crown Princess never raises her voice. If you must speak up, do so with calm authority, not… desperation."
When I finally managed to butter a roll without violating the Geneva Convention of Table Manners, she said, "Better. One day, perhaps, you will even eat like you were born to it."
Throughout it all, I answered with "Yes, Natalia," or "Thank you, Natalia," refusing to let my voice tremble even as the resentment curled hot under my ribs. I thought of Derick and how proud he'd be if I made it through without crying or flipping the table in a rage.
After breakfast came the practical: the practice lectern, where Natalia ran me through mock greetings and speeches. "When receiving a visiting dignitary, your curtsy must be exactly forty-five degrees—no more, no less. To error is an insult to both your host and your kingdom." She demonstrated, her back forming a perfect line as she dipped, then straightened with the mechanical grace of a ballet dancer.
"Your turn," she said, stepping aside.
I tried to mimic her, keeping my feet parallel and my hands at my sides. My knees locked, and I nearly tipped forward onto my face. "Again," Natalia commanded, and I obeyed, the embarrassment blossoming across my cheeks until my skin was raw.
"Better," she conceded after the sixth attempt. "We'll practice again after lunch. Next, tea service." She led me to the sideboard and demonstrated the proper sequence: how to lift the pot, how to pour without spilling, how to offer sugar and lemon without overreaching.
When I fumbled the sugar tongs and dropped a cube into the saucer, Natalia tsked. "You have the hands of a pack pup. I suggest you practice with marbles tonight before bed. Otherwise, tomorrow will be worse."
The words stung, but I bit down the retort that wanted to leap out. Instead, I forced myself to thank her, then focused all my energy on the next task.
The lesson wore on for what felt like years. My arms ached from maintaining perfect posture, my knees throbbed from repeated curtsies, and my fingers were numb from the grip of porcelain and silver. But with each small success, I felt the tiniest flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I could survive this.
When the grandfather clock in the hall finally struck noon, Natalia straightened her skirt and closed her clipboard with a crisp snap. "We'll continue tomorrow," she said, voice flat, "with hopefully some improvement." She didn't say goodbye—just gathered her things and swept out of the room, leaving a faint trail of perfume and judgment behind her.
For a long moment I just sat there, hands clenched in my lap, the room spinning around me. The silence felt like a luxury. I breathed in, slow and deliberate, willing my racing heart to slow.
Only when the echo of her heels had faded did I stand and allow my shoulders to slump. My reflection in the tea set's silver tray showed a girl who looked more exhausted than regal. But my chin was still parallel to the floor.
"Again," I whispered to myself, and I resolved to try harder tomorrow. For Derick, yes, but more for myself. I would not let Natalia—or anyone—decide what I was capable of. Not anymore.