The first sign of morning wasn’t sunlight—it was the quiet knock against the chamber doors.

  Even before he was awake, before his mind could register the unfamiliar surroundings, his attendants were already preparing for the day. His day.

  Waylen stirred, drowsy, his body reluctant to acknowledge consciousness. Back home, waking up had always been casual—silent, slow, unceremonious. He would reach for his phone, check messages, scroll mindlessly before dragging himself into motion.

  Here? He had no such luxury.

  A second knock. Firm but polite. Then the creak of wooden doors swinging open.

  The chamberlain entered first, his movements deliberate, practised. He carried a silver bowl filled with warm water, the surface rippling as he set it down near the bedside. Scented oils floated in the basin, their fragrance unfamiliar but soft.

  Waylen groggily blinked awake, and his awareness sharpened just in time to see the valet standing beside him. Too close.

  He tensed instinctively, leaning away. “What—”

  “My lord, shall we begin?” The valet’s voice was composed, devoid of hesitation.

  Waylen sat up, rubbing a hand across his face. “Begin?”

  The valet merely gestured toward the basin.

  Waylen’s mind took a moment to catch up. Oh. Right. Royal morning rituals.

  He exhaled slowly, waving a hand dismissively. “I can wash my own damn face.”

  The chamberlain barely reacted. The valet, however, lowered his gaze for half a second, confusion flickering across his composed expression. But he did not press the issue.

  Waylen reached for the water, splashing his face, inhaling the strange floral scent of the oils. He wasn’t sure if it was refreshing or overwhelming. Probably both.

  Still, the presence of the attendants loomed over the moment, watching, waiting. He could feel their patience, their quiet discipline. He wasn’t meant to do this alone. Royalty never did.

  Back home, dressing had been effortless—jeans, t-shirts, hoodies. Simple. Functional.

  Here? Dressing was ceremonial.

  The attendants moved swiftly, draping thick, structured fabric across his shoulders. The tunic, tailored to perfection, fit snugly against his frame, lined with delicate embroidery that marked his status. He tried adjusting it himself, but an attendant was already fastening the intricate clasps before he could.

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  Waylen exhaled through his nose, willing himself to tolerate it.

  The cloak came next—heavy, warm, lined with fur to guard against the northern chill. He shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight, heat lingering against his skin.

  Then the final touches—the collar adjusted, the sleeves straightened, the boots polished and secured.

  At every turn, he wanted to protest. He could dress himself.

  But the attendants remained ever patient, ever composed, their movements precise.

  And so, he relented.

  Food had always been casual. A sandwich grabbed on the way to work, coffee downed between coding sessions, and dinner eaten while scrolling through notifications.

  Now? Breakfast was a presentation.

  The meal was served on fine platters, arranged with a precision bordering on artistry. The attendants stood poised, waiting—always waiting.

  Waylen reached for a dish instinctively, only to pause halfway. He caught the subtle glance exchanged between two attendants.

  One stepped forward, lifting the tray, serving him instead.

  Waylen clenched his jaw, willing himself to remain composed. This was expected. Normal. For them.

  Still, the frustration hummed beneath his skin. Not at the attendants—they were merely doing their duty—but at the crushing realisation sinking in:

  He was not Waylen Anderson anymore.

  Not a private citizen. Not an ordinary man.

  He was royalty.

  He was someone else now.

  Waylen barely had time to adjust before he was ushered into a private chamber where Selene awaited him.

  Unlike the grand throne room—where power was displayed in gilded banners and polished stone—this space was quieter, more deliberate. The thick drapes muted the sunlight, casting soft shadows across the room’s ornate furnishings.

  Selene sat in a high-backed chair, posture poised, not stiff, but purposeful. When she looked at him, it wasn’t with indifference, nor with affection. It was with expectation.

  She had summoned him into this world. And now, she would shape his role within it.

  “This is not about politics,” she said, her tone steady but firm. “This is about control. About perception.”

  Waylen leaned back slightly, arms crossing. “Meaning…?”

  Selene exhaled, as if deciding how best to simplify the inevitable. “This is how it will happen,” she stated plainly. “When you step into court today, you will not speak until I acknowledge you. You will stand beside me, not behind. You will not react openly to whispers or scrutiny. You will maintain composure.”

  Waylen frowned. “So I just—stay quiet and look regal?”

  Selene’s lips twitched—almost a smirk, but not quite. “You are not expected to look regal. You are regal.”

  Waylen scoffed under his breath, shaking his head, but she continued without pause.

  “This court will judge you. Some will question why you were chosen. Some will expect strength, others wisdom. But all will want proof that you are worthy of standing beside me. You cannot afford to falter.”

  She paused, letting that sink in.

  “This is your first appearance as consort. You set the precedent today.”

  Waylen studied her carefully. She wasn’t cold—not in the way he first imagined her to be—but calculated. Intentional. She wasn’t simply dictating rules; she was equipping him.

  And beneath her precise instructions, there was an unspoken truth—one neither of them dared to say aloud.

  She needed him to succeed.

  Not just for his sake, but for the kingdom’s.

  Waylen straightened slightly, exhaling through his nose. “Alright. No faltering. No reacting. No making a fool of myself.” He glanced at her. “That about cover it?”

  Selene tilted her head ever so slightly. “It’s a start.”