The Name They Gave Me
? Ivy ?
Morning comes gray and cold, and the suite door is still locked from my side.
For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling above me is dark wood instead of pale plaster, the blankets are heavy wool instead of thin court linen, and the room smells like smoke, pine, and the sharp green edge of Nora’s salve.
Then memory returns all at once: Jace’s refusal, the silver arch, Roman’s hand waiting for mine, the carriage, the fortress, the lock, and the note.
Roman’s note rests on the small table beside the bed, folded once and plain enough to look like nothing important.
No one enters unless you say so. I read it again anyway.
It still hurts, but not like a wound. It feels more like proof.
When I sit up, my palm pulls beneath the clean bandage and the mark at my wrist gives one cold pulse under my sleeve, as if it objects to being ignored this early.
“Not now,” I whisper.
The mark doesn’t answer, which is the first sensible thing it’s done.
I swing my feet to the floor and cross through the open inner doorway before I can stop myself. The suite lock is still turned from inside. No one opened it while I slept. No one decided my closed door was an insult or proved Roman’s promise temporary.
I rest my fingers against the iron for one breath before I let go.
A knock sounds at the suite door, three light taps that still make my heart jump.
“It’s Nora,” she calls. “I have clothes, breakfast, and bad news about sleeves.”
My shoulders loosen, though only a little. “Come in.”
Then I remember the lock and cross the sitting room to turn it.
Nora stands outside with a tray balanced on one hand and folded clothing beneath her other arm.
Her braid is tight, her healer’s apron already stained with something green, and her expression suggests she’s been awake for hours and judged the morning personally.
Her gaze flicks over my loose hair, wrinkled robe, and probably swollen eyes, but she doesn’t mention any of it.
“You’re upright,” she says. “Good.”
I step back, and she enters only after there’s room. The tray goes on the table, the clothes on the chair. Nora checks the hearth, the untouched cup of water near the bed, and the note beside it with one quick glance.
She says nothing about the note, which is enough to make me almost like her.
“Palm.”
I give her my hand. She unwraps the bandage with brisk care. The cut is still angry, but it’s cleaner than it feels.
“Better,” she says. “You didn’t bleed through in your sleep.”
“It still hurts.”
“I know.”
A laugh catches in my throat, rusty from disuse. Nora looks pleased for half a second, then ruins it by pressing near the cut. I hiss.
“There.” Nora reties the bandage. “That’s the spot.”
“Yes.”
She applies fresh salve and wraps my palm again. When she turns toward my wrist, the humor leaves her face.
“Any changes overnight?”
I almost say no, but Nora gives me a look sharp enough to cut the lie before it forms.
“I felt it once.”
“When?”
“Roman passed by sometime in the night.” I glance toward the suite door. “He didn’t knock. He didn’t come in. I only knew.”
Nora’s brows lift. “Then it’s more than a legal mark.”
I stare at her. “How much more?”
“I don’t know yet. Hold still.”
She studies the blackened silver branching beneath my skin without touching more than she needs to.
“Still anchored,” she says at last. “Not worse. Not better.”
“So no one’s dying before breakfast.”
“Not this morning.” She nods toward the chair. “Get dressed. Roman’s outside.”
My pulse jumps, and a cold thread pulls beneath my sleeve. Nora sees it.
I cover the mark with my sleeve. “Can he feel it too?”
“Ask him.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Then ask when you’re ready.”
My mouth almost curves. Nora shakes out the clothes. “Dark underdress, wool overdress, stockings, boots that should fit better than the ones he found in a carriage compartment, and a belt with a pouch. Nothing with pearl pins, thank the moon.”
The underdress is soft black wool, and the overdress is blue-gray, plain through the body, with side laces and sleeves that button at the wrists. The boots are lined and sturdy. The belt has a dull silver clasp.
They aren’t pretty in any way Marissa would understand. They look warm and useful, like I’m expected to walk somewhere without being admired for it.
“Do you want help with the laces?” Nora asks.
The question is practical, but it still warms my face. “Yes. I don’t think I can manage them with this hand.”
She turns away while I change, then helps me into the wool without fuss. There’s no tugging me into shape, no pinching at my waist, and no whispered correction about my shoulders, chin, or grace.
The clothes settle over me like weather instead of judgment.
I stop in front of the mirror. The white gown is gone. The pearls are gone. Nora braids my hair over one shoulder in three quick motions and informs me that loose hair near hearths is an invitation to stupidity.
I don’t look like Jace’s bride.
I don’t look like Roman’s Luna either, not yet.
I look like someone expected to survive weather.
Nora appears beside my reflection. “Better. You can move in that.”
I smooth the dark wool over my hip. “That’s the idea.”
This time I smile. A knock sounds at the suite door, and I feel Roman before the guard speaks. A cold pull turns beneath my skin, tugging toward the hall.
“Lord Roman is outside, Luna.”
Nora glances at my wrist, then back at me.
I take a breath. “He can come in.”
Roman steps inside and stops just past the threshold, neither too close nor too far.
He wears a black coat, different from the one I borrowed and folded by the fire last night.
His hair is damp at the ends like he’s already been outside, and a fresh bandage wraps his wounded hand more tightly than mine.
His eyes move over me once, taking in the northern clothes, the braid, the breakfast tray, and my bandaged palm. His gaze catches briefly on the note beside the bed through the open inner doorway, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“How is your hand?” he asks.
He begins with practical care, and something in me loosens. “Still attached.”
Roman’s mouth almost moves. “Good.”
Roman ignores her. “There are things you need to know before you leave the suite.”
My body tightens before I can stop it, but Roman sees the reaction at once.
“They aren’t rules for obedience, Ivy. They’re for survival.”
“Eat when food is brought, even if it’s only a little. Rest when Nora tells you to. If the mark changes, she hears about it immediately.”
Nora lifts a finger. “Especially if you’re tempted to become convenient.”
Roman glances at her. “That too.”
He continues. “Stay out of the outer walls, patrol halls, armory, and training yard until you know the routes. People move quickly there, and some of them carry blades.”
“All right.”
Roman’s attention stays on me. “If anyone disrespects you, tell me, Dane, or Nora.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No. You’re the Luna. If disrespect toward you spreads, it becomes everyone’s problem.”
The title still feels too large.
“And if I don’t want visitors?”
“The guard enforces it.”
“Even if it’s someone important?”
“Especially then.”
My chest tightens. “What happens if I break one of these rules?”
Roman’s brow shifts slightly. “Then we fix whatever happened.”
I blink. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
Nora shoulders her satchel. “A short walk, then food. If she gets dizzy, bring her back.”
“I’ll tell you before that.”
“Do.”
Roman looks at me. “Do you want to see the fortress?”
Part of me wants to stay in this suite with the lock, the note, and the fire. Another part knows hiding will let the north build a version of me without me present: fragile court bride, prince’s castoff, Roman’s problem. I straighten. “Yes.”
Roman steps aside. He doesn’t take my hand or offer his arm like court theater. He only leaves the path open. I walk through it.
The hall outside the Luna suite is warmer than I expect. Guards stand at either end, straight-backed in dark uniforms. Both lower their heads when I step out, awkwardly, like they were instructed but haven’t decided what they feel about it yet.
That’s fine. I haven’t decided either.
Roman walks beside me, close enough that I can feel him at my shoulder but not close enough to crowd. Nora stays with us for several turns before heading toward the infirmary, leaving me with a warning look that says she expects me not to collapse out of spite.
The fortress is awake around us. Servants glance, then look away. A woman carrying folded linens lowers her head and nearly walks into a wall. Two guards straighten so sharply their armor clicks.
At court, that would’ve turned cruel within minutes. Here, people correct themselves and keep moving. I can survive that.
We descend a broad stone stair toward the lower hall. Cold air spills from a side passage where an open door carries the sounds of training: boots, shouted counts, and the hard thud of bodies against packed ground.
A group of soldiers near the entrance stops talking when they see Roman, then me. Their eyes drop to my dark northern dress, my bandaged hand, and the crescent hidden beneath my sleeve.
One broad, red-haired soldier looks away first. Another doesn’t.
He’s younger than Roman and older than me, with tired eyes and a split lip that hasn’t healed cleanly. His expression isn’t hatred. It’s resentment that has found a convenient shape.
“So that’s the prince’s leftover,” he mutters, low enough to pretend he didn’t mean to be heard.
The words hit like a slap.
My body knows this shape of shame before my mind catches up. Pretend you didn’t hear. If you react, you’re dramatic. If you complain, you’re weak. If Roman reacts, you’re trouble.
Roman stops, and the training yard quiets in pieces. A voice cuts off. A blade lowers. Boots shift against stone.
“Kerr.”
The soldier goes pale beneath his cold-reddened skin. “Alpha.”
“Kneel.”
Kerr drops to one knee. Roman’s face is calm. Too calm. “Repeat what she is.”
Kerr swallows. His eyes flick once to me, then lower. “Your wife.” Roman’s voice goes colder. “And?”
“Our Luna.”
“Again.”
“Our Luna.”
The words don’t feel like victory. They feel too loud, too public, too much attention pressing against skin that hasn’t healed.
Roman looks over the gathered soldiers. “Jace’s failure doesn’t become her name here. You don’t have to trust a stranger. You will treat your Luna with dignity.”
“Stand.”
Kerr stands. He doesn’t look at me again.
Roman turns to me without touching me or asking, in front of everyone, whether I’m all right. “Come,” he says quietly.
I walk because staying would make the moment last longer.
The hallway beyond is quieter. My hand shakes at my side, so I fold it into my skirt. Roman notices anyway.
“Was that necessary?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“They’ll resent me.”
“They can resent me. They’ll still follow the rule.”
“Because you ordered them to?”
“At first.”
The answer isn’t pretty, and it doesn’t pretend forced respect is the same as loyalty. He says at first because he knows the rest has to be earned. He’s only making sure I’m not trampled before I get the chance.
“Kerr is tired,” Dane says behind us.
He steps from a side passage, his coat unbuttoned and the scar along his jaw stark in the gray hall light.
Roman turns his head. “Tired doesn’t excuse cruelty.”
“No,” Dane says. “It tells us where to look before it spreads.”
There’s no challenge in his voice, only information. Roman studies him for a beat, then nods.
Dane’s gaze shifts to me. I brace for assessment, but it comes less sharply than before.
“Kerr lost a cousin near the eastern border last season,” he says. “He’s angry at the capital, angry at the crown, and angry at anything that walks in wearing court trouble.”
I say nothing. Dane inclines his head, not quite a bow. “The north is blunt. It shouldn’t be careless.”
It’s an apology. Not soft or polished, but real enough that I recognize the effort.
“Thank you,” I say.
Dane looks almost uncomfortable with the words.
Roman turns toward the upper hall. “Enough for today.”
“I can keep walking.”
“I know.”
He slows his pace so the return doesn’t feel like retreat.
By the time we reach the Luna corridor, my legs are tired enough that I hate them. My palm aches, and the mark has settled into a low pulse beneath my sleeve. Roman stops outside my door.
“Kerr was wrong,” he says. “It won’t happen again.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I nod.
Roman waits until I’m inside, then turns away without asking anything more of me. Once the suite lock clicks beneath my hand, I sit on the edge of the bed with my boots still on and admit that Nora was right.
I’m tired.