(Daciana POV)
The lower house of Northridge smelled of soap, firewood, wet stone, and secrets hidden beneath the footsteps of busy servants.
I wore a plain brown dress, a white apron, and a cloth around my hair, yet every wolf who passed still stared too long.
They had been ordered to treat me as a servant, but rumors had already given me a crown I did not want.
Tala placed a bucket in my hands before sunrise, and her eyes warned me not to make sure to be safe for peace.
“If you want servants to speak near you, then your hands must work harder than your name,” she said quietly.
I nodded because I had learned in Blackfang that people trusted bent backs more than raised heads.
So, I scrubbed floors.
I carried water.
I washed blood from training shirts while noble wolves walked past
