Ashes of the Vow

S. G. Staley

Image summary: A fantasy map titled Lands of Valken depicting a large central landmass surrounded by smaller islands and bodies of water. The terrain features a dominant central forest called The Mirewilde, mountain ranges, lakes, and various named locations including Aurevyn, Moorthwyn, Valkaroth, Caelvorn, and the Ashes of Velmira. The map includes a compass rose in the bottom left corner and illustrations of sailing ships and sea creatures in the surrounding waters.

The Lands of Valken

It began not with love, but with strategy.

Cavric Ravenov, the King of Moorthwyn, had ridden to the northern court of Aurevyn under the banner of peace. He brought no army, no threat, only words and a proposal glittering with promise.

He and Thalen Venhart had once stood shoulder to shoulder in the war that would never be forgotten, their bond tempered by fire and loss, before either of them were kings.

They had watched Wendervyn burn, its buildings collapsing in on themselves as Caelvorn's warlords rode in with flame and fury.

The war had not been clean.

It began with a vision. A Velmirian seer's warning of northern conquest. The prophecy was fragmented, fevered, spoken in a trance that left her blind. But the message was clear enough. The North would rise, and the South would fall beneath its banners.

The southern kingdom of Caelvorn struck first. The attack was swift, brutal, and unprovoked. The village burned before dawn. Survivors were few.

The South would not wait to be conquered.

Moorthwyn retaliated with chilling precision.

Then came the southern kingdom of Valkaroth.

A blade in the dark took Aurevyn's King—Thalen's father. The assassin wore Velmirian magic like a second skin. And in the wake of that death, Thalen rose, young and grieving, with vengeance in his veins.

Moorthwyn and Aurevyn united. Briefly. Brutally. Together, they turned on Velmira.

Moorthwyn's army, led by King Veyr, brought frost-fire—magic that scorched the land and froze it mid-bloom. Velmira's groves shattered. Its rivers turned to glass. Spirits split from the soil, beasts twisted into rage. The forest warped.

The Mirewilde was born.

The once-peaceful forest had been transformed into something born of ghost stories. They said the spirits left Velmira that day and seeped into the forest, possessing every beast and plant.

And though peace was signed, though treaties were inked in trembling hands, the war had carved itself into the bones of the continent.

Trade faltered. Trust fractured. The forest closed its paths.

And Cavric had returned to Moorthwyn—not with love, but with strategy.

When word spread that King Veyr had taken his own life after the death of his queen and young son—an illness no healer could remedy—no one was shocked. Only quiet. Only still.

And Cavric, ever the shadow behind the throne, stepped forward. The heir. The strategist. Now, the King. With a promising young princess.

Years of planning. Years of maneuvering. And just months before his daughter's eighteenth birthday, Cavric rode to Aurevyn.

His council had called him mad. Aurevyn had become a threat since the war's end, its loyalties murky after King Veyr unleashed frost-fire on Velmira. Trade had withered. Trust had fractured. No one believed Aurevyn could be reasoned with.

But Cavric saw the opening. Though the years had stretched and strained the alliance their kingdoms once forged—fractured by a war neither had begun—the respect between Cavric and Thalen had never fully died. It had been tempered in blood, in shared loss, in the understanding of men who had buried too many.

Cavric came not as a warlord but as a father.

He offered his daughter. He offered Mabel.

With her, a union between their houses, a gesture as daring as it was deliberate. This marriage would redraw the map. It would reopen trade routes, fortify the northern coast, and send a message to every southern kingdom watching.

The North would stand together.

Thalen, ever the strategist, saw the advantage immediately. His son, Theodore, would inherit a throne surrounded by ambition and unrest. He would need more than bloodlines.

He would need strength. And Mabel, with Moorthwyn's army behind her and Cavric's mind guiding her, was the perfect match.

Thalen knew the peace he had brokered would not last. Greed would come. War would follow. And when it did, he would need allies who could hold the line.

The kings sealed the pact with ink and laughter, beneath the weight of old war stories and the silent watch of their banners.

When Cavric returned to Moorthwyn days later, chariots of gifts trailing behind him—bolts of silk, carved ivory, wool coats—Mabel stood at the gates and watched them arrive.

She did not need to be told what this meant.

She knew what lay ahead.

1

Mabel sat under the hush of nature in the back gardens. The frigid air chilled her bones as she worked, thread in hand, sewing intricate details into her evening dress. She sat upon a cold stone bench; her dress laid out across an old wooden table that had seen better days.

Freedom danced at the edge of her reach. Just beyond the hedges, just beyond the towering stone wall that carved the castle from the forest. The trees swayed in the distance like ghosts of another life, one she might've belonged to if not for the blood in her veins and the vows waiting to be spoken.

She closed her eyes.

Today was her eighteenth birthday. And by nightfall, she'd be on her way to Aurevyn to meet the man she was meant to marry.

And still, she sat. Sewing the finishing touches into the gown she would wear that night in an attempt to impress.

She was the only child of the King of Moorthwyn. A daughter. Which meant her worth had been measured in treaties and borders since the day she could walk. Her future wasn't hers. It was a ledger, a promise, a pawn moved across maps drawn in blood.

She'd known it early.

Her uncle's death had crowned her father. At eight years old, Mabel had watched the weight of the throne settle like frost over her family. The years that followed were a slow, careful shaping—her voice softened, her spine straightened, her will bent into something palatable.

They called it preparation. One day, she'd inherit a kingdom steeped in war and legacy and blood.

And she'd be expected to smile as she did it.

She knew little of her betrothed—Theodore Venhart—only that he was “handsome,” “charming,” and heir to the gilded kingdom of Aurevyn. A realm of opulence and power. That was all anyone ever said. As if beauty and bloodlines were enough to bind a life.

Mabel understood her role. Her marriage would secure borders, stitch alliances that had seen better days.

But she had always dreamed of something quieter.

If she could slip beneath the hedges and vanish into the woods, she would. Leave behind the titles, the weight of expectation. Let the trees swallow her whole. Let the wind forget her name.

She'd tried to run once.

Three years ago, when the weight of her future felt unbearable, the forest whispered promises of freedom. But she didn't let herself linger on what came after. Not anymore.

She flinched at the memory, fingers slipping and pricking herself with the needle. She shook her hand with a wince.

Ravens perched along the garden walls, silent sentinels in the frost. They always came when she was outside, black eyes gleaming like ink.

She liked to believe it wasn't just judgment that drew them. She liked to believe they saw her—the ache beneath the silence, the unraveling stitched into every step. That they understood something no one else dared to name.

Her pain.

And they stayed. Watching. Listening. As though they knew she was already halfway gone.

She didn't hear the footsteps at first, too lost in her stitches to notice.

“Are you nearly finished?” Ada's voice cut through the air, clipped and impatient. “I've given you as much time as I can. We're late.”

Mabel threaded one final stitch, trembling hands guiding it through the wool fabric, then slowly into a knot. She took a deep breath and snapped the thread. It felt final.

She lifted her gaze toward Ada, forcing a tight-lipped smile. Ada's black hair had been braided neatly down her shoulder, pieces already falling out, no doubt from the preparations she'd been scrambling together.

Ada smiled fondly at the delicate artwork. “Beautiful as always,” she hummed, voice thick. She cleared her throat, straightening her posture as if emotion were a luxury she couldn't afford. “Come now,” she said briskly, beckoning Mabel forward. “We've much to do. A ball, of all things—imagine that. A celebration for you.”

Mabel's smile flickered, soft and fleeting, as she tucked her dress into her arms with practiced care. “It is my birthday, Ada,” she said, voice light but distant. “They must pretend it means something.”

“The birthday,” Ada added, her deep brown eyes going soft. She gently grabbed Mabel's hand and squeezed it. “You're going to do great.”

Ada wasn't just a maid.

To the court, she was a servant. To Mabel, she was something far more complicated—part caretaker, part confidante, part warden. Ada dressed her, fed her, soothed her when the weight of expectation grew too sharp. But she also ensured Mabel stayed within the lines drawn for her, eyes always watchful, always calculating.

Mabel had called her family.

She still did sometimes—on the quiet days when Ada's advice felt more like comfort than command. Ada had been nineteen when she arrived at the castle, carrying a past she never spoke of. She'd come just after Cavric took the throne, when Mabel was still a child learning how to smile on cue.

Since then, Ada had been her shadow. Her shield. Her leash.

They had grown together. Two girls shaped by silence, years apart but bound by the same ache. To be wanted, to be seen.

“We're not so different, you and I,” Ada had whispered once, when Mabel was ten and crying behind the garden wall. “We'll figure this out. Together.”

And they had.

But now, on the day of everything changing, Mabel wondered if together still meant the same thing it used to.

Mabel nodded, the motion small and uncertain, offering Ada a tight smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. As they stepped into the castle, the familiar weight of stone and silence wrapped around her.

She knew these halls intimately—every hidden passage, every servant, every guard. This place had been her entire world. And the thought of leaving it, of stepping into a kingdom where she didn't know the rhythm of the walls or the names behind the doors, made her stomach twist.

Candlelight flickered along the corridor, casting golden halos that danced across the cold stone. The sharp click of their heels echoed through the silence, steady and precise as they walked toward her room. The inevitable after. The life she hadn't chosen.

Ada eased the heavy door open with a soft creak, revealing the grandeur of Mabel's room. She had decorated the space for the season. Holly and mistletoe had been tediously strung throughout; the smell of pine and spruce filled the air as it burned in a small bowl.

Attendants moved through the room, folding silks and fastening clasps, packing for Mabel's journey to Aurevyn.

Ada stepped around her, carefully collecting the dress from Mabel's arms. Her hand dropped to Mabel's and squeezed as if sensing her nerves. It would be her first Yule away from home, away from the cold stone halls she knew, the rituals of a life not quite hers.

She longed to escape her father's suffocating gaze, the way his expectations clung to her like frost. But even freedom came with grief. She would miss the rare mornings when her mother sat alone on the balcony, breath misting in the winter air. Mabel would slip beside her without a word, hoping the silence between them might one day feel like acceptance.

Now, she was leaving.

She and Ada would remain in Aurevyn for the coming months. And if the prince found her agreeable—if she smiled just right, spoke softly enough, played her part without faltering—a wedding would be arranged.

The thought twisted her gut.

She told herself it was fear of failure. Of disappointing her family. Of not living up to the role carved out for her.

But in truth, she was afraid of her father.

Not his words that were used sparingly, like weapons. Not his silence that she'd learned to live inside, to read the chill between sentences.

It was his wrath, cold and absolute.

His love didn't come with warmth or kindness. Mabel wasn't sure it came at all. What he offered was expectation. What he demanded was control.

So, Mabel learned to survive the only way she could. By shrinking. By softening. By never giving him a reason to look too closely.

Ada stepped behind her with familiarity, fingers moving deftly to unfasten the line of buttons trailing down Mabel's spine. The candlelight flickered, casting soft shadows across the room, and Mabel exhaled slowly, more a surrender than a sound.

Her dress slipped from her body. It was an old rhythm. Worn smooth by years of repetition. Morning and evening, dressing and undressing, silence and breath. It had become a ritual.

Mabel sucked in a breath as Ada undid the strings of her corset just to tighten them once more. “Are you okay?” Ada asked, worry lacing her tone.

“I've been better.” Mabel let out a huff, shaking her head. She stepped out of the ring of fabric left around her feet.

“Is it too tight?”

“I'm not talking about the corset, Ada.”

Ada nodded and lifted the gown with practiced grace, guiding it over Mabel's shoulders, smoothing the bodice into place. Her hands moved gently, tucking Mabel's arms into the billowing sleeves, each motion rehearsed.

Mabel stared into the polished mirror. She didn't recognize the girl looking back. Maybe an echo. Maybe a mask.

She put on her best smile, her pale blue eyes scanning her reflection with reluctance. Her skin prickled in the cold, the neckline dipping low, drifting off her shoulders in a soft curve. The trim of snowy fur was more decoration than warmth. Below, the skirt whispered with each breath—simple, restrained—except for the silver feathers that danced along the hem.

Months of careful work, each thread pulled with aching precision. The embroidery curled like ivy across the fabric, delicate and proud. She'd admired it. Now it felt like a betrayal.

Ada's deft fingers continued their work, and with every lace tightened into the bodice, her nerves grew fraught. The dress clung to her, every lace cinched tight around a version of herself she no longer recognized.

She looked every bit the bride they'd promised.

“Do you think he'll like the dress?” Mabel asked, voice barely above a whisper. What if the prince found her lacking? She knew what her parents would do—shame her, hide her away, pretend she'd never existed.

Ada glanced up from fastening the final clasp, catching the flicker of doubt in Mabel's eyes.

Her smile softened. She reached out, brushing a stray curl from Mabel's cheek. “He's going to adore you. How could he not? You're radiant. And if he's smart, he'll fall for more than just the dress.” With a wicked grin, she added, “Though I imagine he'll be even more impressed when you're not wearing it.”

“Ada!” Mabel gasped, laughing as color rushed to her cheeks.

“What?” Ada scoffed, tugging her gently. “Don't be a prude. And don't worry. There's far more to love about you than your looks. He'll see that.”

Mabel smiled, but the question still lingered, trembling beneath her ribs.

What was there to love beyond her obedience? Outside of her practiced smiles, perfect curtsies, and a pretty face, she didn't know who she was. The reflection staring back at her felt more like a stranger than the prince himself.

Ada's fingers swept through Mabel's copper strands. With tender precision, she gathered the top section, smoothing it back while the rest spilled in soft waves over Mabel's shoulders.

“You're beautiful, you know that?” she hummed, turning Mabel to look at the finished product.

Mabel forced a smile as she saw herself in the mirror. “It looks great,” she said half-heartedly, barely above a whisper. But the compliment felt like a bell toll—bringing her closer to meeting the real stranger who might soon define her future. Her chest tightened, nerves spreading like a fire inside her.

“You're gonna do great,” Ada said as she helped her stand. “Your parents should be waiting for us in the carriage by now, mustn't make them wait any longer.” She smiled, almost apologetically.

Mabel nodded, clutching her cloak from a hook and pulling it over her shoulders. She hesitated at the door, every instinct urging her to turn back. Maybe—just maybe—this man would surprise her. But deep down, she doubted it. Hope, after all, had never been her strong suit.

They made their way downstairs, through dim hallways and damp air, Mabel's heart hammering louder and louder the closer they got.

Together, they stepped into the courtyard where a carriage awaited, its polished black and navy frame gleaming beneath the sun. Two black horses stood poised at the front, regal and still. Inside, Mabel's parents sat in expectant silence, their presence a final reminder of what was to come.

The driver was waiting by the door of the carriage and opened it for Mabel as she approached. She climbed in, sitting in the available seat across from her parents. Ada sat with the driver.

Her father's glare cut through her. Her throat tightened; her back straightened.

“Kept us waiting long enough,” Cavric said, folding his arms across his chest. The dark navy sleeves hid the silver raven stitched into the fine wool, but Mabel could still feel its gaze. Her eyes flickered to the crown atop his salt-and-pepper hair before falling back down to her lap. His presence was even more suffocating trapped inside the carriage.

“At least she's here,” Auor offered quietly, smoothing down a rebellious copper curl as if that alone might steady the moment. She wore the same deep blue house colors, her crown slimmer, more delicate, glinting faintly in the light. “And presentable, thank Meryth.”

Cavric cut her a pointed look. “There would be no wedding without Varkeyrish's blessing. He's the one you should be thanking.”

Ah—Varkeyrish. The god of duality. Love braided with grief, life shadowed by death, sin balanced against virtue. Mabel's gaze drifted toward the window, to the fog-thick sky beyond.

Meryth was their god. The guardian of Moorthwyn, the one who gifted her people with wisdom, cunning, resilience. Night after night, beneath the garden stars, Mabel whispered her prayers to that winged constellation—always there, always watching. Always listening.

Or so she hoped.

But Varkeyrish ruled over all the lands. His breath gave life to Valken … and he could just as easily take it back.

“Let's simply hope our daughter doesn't anger either, shall we?” Auor tilted her head, eyes sharpening on Mabel.

Her parents had always been critical of her. They had excessive expectations and left no room for error, but that was to be expected. Her father, a king, was also a highly esteemed and powerful sorcerer. Her mother, though she did not possess magical talents, was an heiress to a great fortune left by her own parents. Their loveless marriage had been arranged as well. They were a perfect example of the life Mabel did not want for herself.

Mabel's eyes cast over her lap, absently picking at her nail beds before her mother reached across and swatted at her hand.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop that? You are ruining your hands,” Auor scoffed.

Mabel opened her mouth to respond but decided against it. Nothing was worth arguing with them. She simply responded, “My apologies, mother,” and tucked her hands under her legs so she wouldn't be tempted.

Mabel remembered a time when they hadn't been so cruel and clung to those memories.

A quieter pain settled in her chest. Everything used to be different. Before the weight of duty pressed into every step. Before her father took the crown in Moorthwyn.

Her parents had been kind. In their own ways—but kind, regardless. She remembered the look on her mother's face when she was told the news.

The two were sitting together on a lounge, a familial silence between them as they embroidered cloths—time spent together that Mabel deeply missed. Conversation was short, as it always had been, but back then there was still love in small ways; a squeeze of a hand, fingers combing through hair, small affections that paid reminders of their love.

Cavric had stepped into the room, his presence demanding attention. “It is done.”

Auor looked up from her cloth, and when she caught the look on her husband's face, it was as if she'd seen a ghost. Her features had gone pale; her eyes filled with grief—but not for her brother-in-law.

Auor had looked down at Mabel, still young, still innocent, still unaware of the world she had been born into. And Mabel, only months later, would understand why.

Affections became distractions; words of affirmation turned into relentless critiques. The sudden expectation of perfection was drilled into her. Because now she was a princess. Now she was the only heir to the Moorthwyn throne.

It was easy for the anxiety to creep in and consume her. It wrapped around her bones and kept her in line. Her father's temper made sure of that. She'd taken the brunt of his malice in more ways than she'd ever care to admit.

So, she played the part.

And now, still longing for their approval, she sat in the carriage that would deliver her to the man they had chosen.

She couldn't help but feel bitter—they hadn't even mentioned her birthday.

But Ada had. Early in the morning, before she woke, Ada had snuck into her room with a sweet pastry adorning a small candle she had stabbed into it. She jumped onto Mabel's bed, singing and cheering to celebrate her.

And that made her parents' silence slightly easier. For now.

She sat quietly, eyes flickering between them, the silence thick with the words none of them would say. She took a deep breath and leaned back in her seat, head rolling to the side to watch the world pass by.

This would be a long ride.

Outside the carriage window, the world blurred into smudges of gray. Soot-streaked buildings, crooked chimney stacks, streets slick with frost. Moorthwyn was a kingdom of influence, yes—but its cobblestones told a different story. Power didn't shine here. It eroded.

Winter had sunk its teeth deep into the city. As they rolled toward its heart, the signs of suffering grew starker—bodies huddled against stone walls, children rifling through refuse, eyes dulled by hunger. Mabel watched in silence, her breath fogging the glass.

She didn't understand. Her father had the means. He had the wealth. Yet he raised taxes, always demanded more. The people paid in blood and bone while he feasted behind gilded doors.

Aurevyn was different. Opulent. The richest kingdom on the northern side of the Mirewilde. This alliance—if that's what it truly was—might bring aid. Grain, garments, relief.

Maybe that was the plan. But she knew her father. If he moved a piece on the board, it was never out of mercy. It was for power.

Still, she clung to the hope. Fragile, foolish, but hers.

The hours dragged.

The silence in the carriage was thick and brittle. Her mother stared straight ahead, lips pressed into a line. Her father read correspondence letters, the rustle of parchment the only sound. No one spoke.

No one asked how she felt. She didn't know what she would've said anyway.

Outside, the city gave way to the villages, small and scattered, their homes hunched low against the cold. Children paused in play to watch the carriage pass, their faces pale and curious. Mabel met their eyes, then looked away.

The road narrowed as they entered the forest. It was thick, ancient, the kind that swallowed sound. Moss crept over stone, and the trees grew so close they seemed to whisper to one another.

She felt the weight of it—the hush, the watching. Like the forest knew something she didn't.

And then, hours later, the trees parted.

Aurevyn rose before them like a vision.

The gates were carved from pale stone, etched with symbols she didn't recognize. Beyond them, the city spilled upward, built into the cliffs like a crown. Towers gleamed in the fading light, rooftops catching the last gold of the sun. And far below, the ocean roared—endless, wild, and blue.

It was beautiful. Terrifying.

She felt it in her chest, that strange mix of awe and dread. This was the beginning of something. She didn't know what. But she knew it would change her.

The gates groaned open.

Sunlight spilled through, warm and golden, as if the city itself had been waiting to greet them. The carriage rolled forward, and Mabel leaned slightly toward the window, her breath catching.

It was like stepping into another world.

The streets were alive—truly alive. Children darted alongside the carriage, laughing, their cheeks flushed with joy rather than cold. A pair of dogs barked playfully, weaving between their legs.

Vendors called out cheerfully from stalls bursting with color. Ripe fruit, woven fabrics. Music drifted from somewhere, light and lilting.

No one begged. No one looked away in shame.

The people of Aurevyn smiled. They waved. They danced in the streets as if the world had never known hunger.

Mabel's fingers curled in her lap.

She wanted to feel joy. To let the beauty of it wash over her. But something twisted in her chest instead—tight, bitter.

This was what life could be. This was what her people deserved. And yet, in Moorthwyn, joy was a luxury. Here, it was the air they breethd.

Her father didn't react. He barely looked up.

Her mother offered a faint smile, the kind reserved for diplomacy, not delight.

The carriage rolled onward, deeper into Aurevyn's veins.

The laughter of children faded behind them, replaced by the rhythmic clatter of hooves on polished stone. The streets widened. The buildings grew taller, more ornate.

Even the air smelled different here. Salt from the sea, jasmine from the gardens, something sweet and unfamiliar.

And then, rising slowly into view, the castle.

It loomed behind a high wall of pale stone, its towers piercing the sky. The wall itself was carved with intricate reliefs—scenes of triumph, of kings and gods and beasts. At its center stood the gate.

Gilded and gleaming. They opened with gentle grace, as if the city were welcoming her home.

Mabel's breath caught. The castle was beautiful. Terrible in its beauty.

It sat perched on the cliffs as if it had always belonged to the sea and sky. She felt small in its shadow. Insignificant. And yet, watched.

Her father straightened beside her, his posture sharpening as the gates parted. Her mother adjusted her silk gloves, her expression unreadable.

Mabel didn't move.

Guards flanked the stairway in rigid rows, their armor gleaming. At the top stood three figures, undoubtedly the prince and his parents, waiting.

The carriage doors slowly opened, evening light seeping through and brightening the interior. Her parents stepped out first. Mabel stayed in her seat. She attempted to calm her nerves, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath through her nose.

“Mabel!” Cavric snapped.

She startled, her breath catching in a sharp inhale as she stepped briskly from the carriage. Before her mother could scold her for it, she ran her hands over the fabric of her dress, pressing away any sign of travel. Her gaze lifted—and her mouth parted. The castle towered above her, vast and commanding, its grandeur swallowing her own estate in memory. Every spire, every carved cornice radiated wealth.

“Aurevyn,” Mabel whispered, looking around. It hit her at once—this was why her parents had made such a spectacle of preparation, why their words had sharpened, and their demands had grown relentlessly. It was not just about appearances. It was about the power and influence they could wield if tethered to this kind of fortune.

“Mabel, enough gawking,” Cavric quipped.

Ada, now at her side, nudged her with a comforting smile. Mabel let out a defeated breath and looked up at the family making their way down the steps.

“Cavric! Good to see you again, my old friend.” Thalen approached, embracing Cavric in a familiar hug. He had a mane of brown and silver hair and an air of authority about him.

“It has been too long, Thalen. I am happy The Old Ones have blessed us with a union of our houses,” Cavric said, stepping back from the embrace with a smile that felt strangely familiar to Mabel. She couldn't recall why, but it still unsettled her.

Thalen grinned, his gaze falling on Mabel. “Welcome to Aurevyn, Princess Mabel.”

He stepped forward, his hand reaching out to shake hers. She froze for only a breath before shaking his hand.

“It's a pleasure, King Thalen.” She dipped into a curtsy.

“Charming.” He smiled down at her, glancing at Cavric. “You did well, old friend.”

Mabel faltered just slightly but quickly straightened, her shoulders poised just as she'd been taught.

“We're so excited to have you,” the woman called out, her voice carrying with practiced grace. Her golden hair was pinned back into loose curls that bounced with each step.

“I'm Frey, it's so nice to finally meet you all,” she said, shaking their hands. “And you must be Her Majesty—Mabel,” she sang, extending a hand with an exaggerated flourish. Mabel reached for it, only to be swept into an unexpected hug. She froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, then slowly returned the embrace.

“Sorry, I must be getting ahead of myself.” Frey smiled, pulling away. “I'm just so excited.”

Frey had a loving aura surrounding her. Mabel had assumed she would have been just like her own mother, but she seemed … kind.

“Theodore, this is Mabel,” Frey said giddily as she clasped her hands together.

Beside her stood a man with matching golden-blond hair that cascaded past his chin, his frame as broad and solid as carved stone. A trimmed beard framed his tanned face proudly.

Theodore closed the distance between them, his movements smooth and assured. He took Mabel's hand gently, lifting it to his lips and pressing a lingering kiss on her knuckles. Heat bloomed across her cheeks, betraying her as she tried—and failed—to keep her expression composed. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she watched him.

“It-It's a pleasure to meet you,” she stuttered, cheeks hot.

“The pleasure's all mine.” Theodore smiled at her.

He was charming. Older, but it couldn't be by much. Her eyes fell to the slit through his right brow, then to the long pink scar tracing up his neck.

“Dinner is being prepared as we speak, we'll feast and dance, a special treat for this beautiful young woman's birthday.” Frey smiled at Mabel.

Mabel blushed, quickly offering a kind and practiced smile. She was not accustomed to such generosity.

“That sounds like a wonderful night,” Cavric spoke.

“We can head to the dining hall, the food should be ready upon our arrival.” Frey smiled.

Theodore slipped his arm through Mabel's, catching her by surprise. She glanced up at him, a flicker of uncertainty melting into a small, shy smile.

Together, their families ascended the stone steps, disappearing into the castle's grand interior.

“Happy birthday,” Theodore hummed into Mabel's ear. “I hope we can make it your best one yet.”

Mabel nodded, but her voice betrayed her as she offered a quiet, “Thank you.”

His gaze lingered on her gown, then drifted over her frame with intent. “You look stunning.”

She could feel the unyielding heat in her cheeks—bright, obvious, impossible to hide.

“Thank you,” she breethd, barely louder than a whisper.

Then he smiled. Just like that, her world shifted. Her composure scattered. It wasn't fair—he wasn't even trying. She blamed it on her lack of experience with boys her age—Ada would say it was because she was a prude.

She did not expect this—him. His voice, his face, his hair, and that smile. Suddenly, everything she'd practiced had slipped her mind.

Theodore's voice spilled out like velvet, smooth and slow. “I'll admit, I had my reservations about this blind arrangement, but I must say, I'm far from disappointed.”

Mabel's breath caught. “Oh—” she stammered, clearing her throat as she glanced upward—a mistake. His striking silver-gray eyes met hers, steady and unreadable, but glinting with something mischievous.

“I'm relieved I haven't disappointed you,” she managed, her voice wavering. “I-I could say the same of you.”

His smile curled, teasing. “Am I making you nervous?” he asked, the words too gentle to be harmless.

“I—” she faltered, catching the tremble in her own voice. Her thoughts scrambled, so she paused, drawing in a breath to steady herself. But before she could speak, Theodore's voice cut through.

“I am, aren't I?” he said with a soft chuckle, amused and knowing.

And just like that, Mabel was back to fumbling—blushing, tongue-tied, trying desperately to stitch together a defense that had already slipped through her fingers.

She opened her mouth, reaching for words that refused to cooperate, but they fluttered away like startled birds.

Theodore leaned in, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “You're very easy to read,” he said again, with a gentle chuckle. “I like that.”

She turned her face away from him. She couldn't help it. “My prince—”

“You can call me Theodore. Or Theo,” he said.

“Theodore.” She smiled, glancing back at him, caught in his beauty for a beat too long before blinking out of it and clearing her throat. “You're very charming,” she giggled.

“Comes with the title.” He winked.

Despite everything, she enjoyed his teasing. She basked in his attention, oddly thrilled by it. His gaze was bold, almost greedy, sweeping over her as though he were memorizing every detail. That smile of his—effortless and maddening—snuck past her defenses again, making her heart stutter.

It wasn't just flattery. It was something more primal. She felt admired … wanted. And part of her liked it far too much.

No one had ever looked at her like that before.

They turned the corner, and the hall unfurled before them—a vast chamber of timber and stone, humming with warmth despite the frost that clung to the world outside. It pulsed with life, laughter echoing off the rafters. The long wooden tables stretched endlessly against the walls, with a polished stone floor sprawling wide in the middle. It was crowded with nobles, kin, and curious onlookers.

Evergreen boughs draped the tabletops, woven with red ribbon and dusted with a white powder. Platters overflowed with roasted venison, and spiced fowl. Bowls brimmed with fragrant stews.

Loaves of dark bread, still warm, were torn and passed between hands. Golden mead sloshed in carved mugs, the scent of smoke and spice thick in the air. The low murmur of voices rose and fell like a tide, threaded with anticipation.

Mabel slowed, her breath catching.

The ceiling soared above them, beams carved with ancient runes, iron chandeliers swaying gently overhead.

Winter had dressed the hall in its finest. And at the far end, a towering tree stood, its branches heavy with ornaments and candlelight, reaching toward the vaulted ceiling as if it had grown there from the bones of the earth.

It was beautiful.

Theodore stepped closer beside her, voice lowered. “Aurevynian hospitality,” he hummed, with a trace of amusement. “We don't do anything halfway.”

Frey's voice rang out like a bell. “Come on, have a seat. Pick any spot—we're all family here.”

Before Mabel could respond, she felt the press of Theodore's palm against the small of her back, firm yet gentle as he steered her toward a long wooden table. His breath brushed close as he leaned in, voice a whisper meant only for her, “After you, Princess.”

A shiver danced down her spine. She eased herself onto the bench, the moment slow and measured, trying not to show how flustered she'd become. Theodore settled beside her without hesitation, his presence immediate and sure, like he belonged nowhere else.

As everyone else made themselves comfortable, the dining hall buzzed with excitement. Platters were passed, goblets filled, and laughter trickled between the candlelight and clinking dishes.

Thalen rose from his place at the head table, his presence commanding yet warm—a man carved from the same stoic wood as the hall around him. The room quieted, guests turning toward him with reverent attention.

“With winter upon us and The Old Ones ever watchful,” he began, voice deep and steady, “we gather not only to feast, but to mark a union that will strengthen our land and houses.”

His gaze shifted to Theodore, then to Mabel, and something softened in his expression.

“To my son, whose heart proves sharper than his sword, and to Mabel, whose beauty has stirred more than just admiration. Today, you begin something greater than yourselves. May Meryth and Auren grant you wisdom, passion, and unyielding devotion. May Varkeyrish be with you, as he is with us all.”

A chorus of approval rippled through the hall, mugs raised in salute. Thalen nodded once, solemn and proud, before taking his seat. The hall was alive once again.

Theodore leaned in, teasing. “Still nervous?”

Mabel giggled, giving his arm a playful swat. “No, stop it—I'm perfectly calm,” she insisted with a grin. “Eat your food.”

He chuckled, eyes twinkling as he reached for his mug. “I'd rather talk to you,” he said, taking a slow sip of his mead, still watching her like she were the feast.

“Are you always like this?” she breethd, still trying to fight the smile.

“Afraid so. You will simply have to get used to it.” He shrugged, straightening his back before wrapping an arm around her waist. “But don't worry, I'm easy to get used to.”

“I'm sure,” Mabel mused, eyeing him with a sly smile.

“Auren has never led me astray,” Theodore scoffed. He looked down at her with hooded lids as he leaned in closer. “I'm sure you'll appreciate what praying to the god of passion grants you.” His warm breath fanned across her cheek.

Oh. Mabel's cheeks, once more, flushed pink.

The shuffle of footsteps approached from behind, stopping just short. “Princess, may I take your coat?” came a gentle voice, hesitant but polite.

Mabel turned with a smile, her eyes finding the girl. “Of course,” she said warmly, fingers slipping over the clasps of her cloak.

With a soft rustle, the wool parted from her shoulders and slid down her frame, revealing the smooth line of her collarbones and bare shoulders. The fur-trimmed hem framed the reveal with a touch of softness.

Theodore's gaze traced over her glowing skin, lingering with mischievous appreciation. “You should've lost that cloak ages ago,” he said, a playful scoff tucked behind his smirk.

Mabel tilted her chin, eyes flicking up through her lashes. “Do you like it?” Her voice was soft, barely heard over the chatter that lit up the hall.

“Like it?” he breethd, not hiding the way his eyes consumed her. “Gods.” His voice was barely there before he cleared his throat, flustered—and almost failing to hide it. She caught it. Confidence bloomed in her chest.

It was exactly the reaction she craved.

“You are breathtaking.” His voice was soft. His fingers lifted slowly, and her shoulders drew tight. He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear with a gentleness that felt rehearsed.

“Relax, Princess,” he said, leaning in just enough for her to feel the heat of him. “I don't bite—unless you ask nicely.”

She turned her face, trying to hide the blush that betrayed her. “You have to stop.”

But he wasn't done. His fingers found her jaw. She flinched ever so softly, but his touch coaxed her gaze back to his. Their eyes met, and the air between them thickened.

“Unfortunately,” he said, lips curving, “you're even more stunning when you're flustered.”

She shook her head but didn't look away. Her heart stuttered. She hadn't expected this—his charm, the opulence of the room, the way he made her forget herself.

She liked it. She liked him.

“Do you talk to all women like this?” she asked, arching a brow.

He tilted his head, unapologetic. “I do.”

Her eyes widened at his honesty.

“But,” he added, voice softer now, “none have stolen my breath quite like you.”

She laughed, a surprised sound. “I've stolen your breath?”

“Have you seen yourself?” he scoffed, playful but sincere. “It's taking every ounce of restraint not to abandon civility entirely.”

Her breath caught. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, Princess.” He chuckled, and his hand slid to her thigh. She tensed instinctively but didn't pull away. His grip was firm, possessive. The gasp escaped her before she could stop it, and her stomach fluttered like wings against a cage.

She hadn't expected him to be so handsy. Not that she was complaining.

“I'll spare you the vulgar details,” he said, eyes gleaming. “At least for now.”

Then he turned to the food as if nothing had happened, leaving her suspended between fascinated and flustered.

The clatter of silverware and laughter began to fade as the soft strumming of a ballad curled through the hall. A voice followed—clear and haunting—belonging to a lone singer near the band, his words painting wistful notes of love and longing. The instruments joined one by one—a flute's gentle trill, the steady heartbeat of a drum, a fiddle crying tenderly in harmony.

Guests stirred, standing from the benches with grace. One by one, they drifted from the feast toward the open stretch of polished stone in the center of the room.

Beside Mabel, Theodore rose, turning toward her with a warmth that eclipsed the firelight. He offered a hand, palm open, expression impossibly soft.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, no teasing this time, just a thread of sincerity wrapped in charm.

2

Theodore's fingers curled gently around Mabel's as he guided her to the open space, the music weaving through them like a shared breath. Guests swayed while the singer's voice carved longing into the air.

Theodore placed a hand at the small of her back, the other holding hers in careful reverence. Mabel's touch was featherlight as she settled her grip on his shoulder. They began to move together; Mabel counted the steps in her head. The room faded to a blur of flickering candlelight and soft laughter, everything narrowing to the warmth between them.

They turned, slow and fluid, the song folding them deeper into its rhythm. And for a few minutes, beneath the vaulted ceiling and watchful stars carved in wood, time bent gently around them—gracious, hushed, and full of possibility.

Theodore dipped his head a little closer, his voice brushing her cheek. “I should warn you, Princess—you're becoming quite the distraction.”

Mabel's lips curled as she met his gaze. The intensity in his eyes could stop time. A swirl of confidence bloomed in her chest. “Well, it's my birthday, I should have your undivided attention.”

He chuckled low. “Trust me, you have it.”

“Then I don't see a problem.” She could barely hide the grin tugging at her mouth.

“You are the problem,” he teased, though the heat behind his gaze betrayed the softness in his voice. “I may be a warrior. A prince. But I'm still just a man.”

She hadn't expected him to be so forward. He'd barely known her for more than an hour, but he'd been steadily undressing her in his mind the whole time.

“This is why I pray to Meryth,” she giggled. “I at least have half a mind to know you're not serious.”

“Who says I'm not serious?” He gently tilted her chin up with his hand, his eyes steady and unwavering.

Words failed her. She was never great with them anyway. “I-I—”

“You … what?” He tilted his head to the side, leaning in. His hand at her waist gave a rough squeeze. He was inches from her face.

Bold. Entitled. Those parts of him were indisputable. And handsome—infuriatingly so. His effortless confidence steadied her for a heartbeat, loosening the knot in her chest … but each moment his silver eyes found hers, all that calm snapped tight again, nerves sparking to life.

It almost gave her whiplash how strikingly different it was here. Everyone was laughing, smiling, dancing. The ballad's final note hung in the air, fading slowly as the strings trailed off, their hum stretching through the hall like a held sigh. Mabel listened to the thrum, letting it settle something in her chest.

Theodore lifted Mabel's hand with practiced ease, brushing his lips against her knuckles—as soft as the music lingering in the air. “Thank you for the dance,” he said with that easy smile. “I'm counting on many more.”

Then he paused, eyes glinting with mischief, and turned toward the nearest table. Without another word, he hoisted a jug of mead high above his head. “To women, to oaths, and to long winters made warm!” he called out, voice ringing across the hall as he pulled Mabel close to his side.

The crowd answered in a rising chorus of cheers, mugs lifted, and laughter spilling like smoke from a hearth. Mabel felt oddly at ease tucked under his arm, her shoulders relaxing as the energy swirled around her. It had been years since joy had felt this simple.

Theodore poured her a mug with a flourish and handed it over like a prize. She took it gladly, warmth blooming in her chest—both from the drink and from him.

Mabel's gaze met his, hesitant but sincere. “Can I tell you something?”

Theodore tilted his head, his smile easy. “Anything.”

“This is my first real ball,” she said softly.

He scoffed, visibly surprised. “Impossible.”

She gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “Very possible. My parents don't see the point in gatherings like this. Too indulgent, not practical.”

Theodore leaned in, the flicker of disbelief in his eyes giving way to something more determined. “Well then,” he said with a grin, “we'll just have to make this one count. Consider it your initiation.”

Mabel turned her gaze from the crowd to the flickering candlelight glimmering from chandeliers, watching how the flames swayed to the music like dancers in their own right.

She tightened her grip on the mead, inhaling its sweetness before speaking softly. “It's strange,” she began, her voice laced with reflection. “I've spent so long watching things happen through my bedroom window.”

Theodore's smile faded gently into something quieter, more attentive.

“I always thought gatherings like this would feel … overwhelming,” Mabel said softly, eyes sweeping the glittering room. “Loud. Suffocating. But this”—she glanced at him, a smile tugging at her lips—“it's nothing like I imagined. It's actually fun. And for once, it feels like it's for me.”

He turned toward her, gaze warm and teasing. “Someone as captivating as you deserves a celebration.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed. “You're laying it on thick.”

“I'm being honest,” he said, tilting his head. “You're radiant.”

She looked down at her drink, the smile lingering but quieter now. “You're far more captivating than I am.”

He reached out, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. “You really don't see it, do you?”

Her breath hitched, eyes darting to his gentle hands against her flushed cheeks. She'd never let anyone so close before, aside from Ada. Not that he'd given her much choice in the matter, but still … it was a welcome change.

His hands stayed gentle, his words lulling her deeper into the gravity he radiated.

She beamed, soft and unguarded, leaning into the warmth between them as she lifted her mug. “You're far kinder than I expected.”

“You're just relieved I'm not some ancient, wrinkled lord.” He breethd a laugh through his nose.

“That too,” she hummed, lashes fluttering with mock innocence. “You are very handsome. It's terribly frustrating.”

His gaze lingered on her, the teasing dimming just slightly into something more intent. “Good,” he said quietly. “I'd hate to be forgettable.”

The light flickered. The hall buzzed. And in the middle of it all, Mabel felt that rarest feeling—welcome.

The night bloomed wildly with joy. Mead sloshed across tables and trickled to the stone floor, poured faster than it could be drunk. Music swelled—lively now, sharp with rhythm and energy—and the gathering swayed with it.

Mabel and Theodore returned to the floor again and again, swept into the whirlwind of dancing bodies and flickering torchlight. Their laughter rang louder with each turn, their flirtation a spark that refused to dim. The steps grew bolder, the pace faster, the mood infectious.

And for a while, under the carved rafters and the watchful glow of the winter tree, they forgot the weight of titles and tradition—and simply let themselves be young and alive.

Through the whirl of music and movement, Mabel caught a glimpse of a man entering near the far wall. Cloaked in shadow and dark fabric, arms folded tight, he watched with a stillness that cut through the chaos.

Golden eyes met hers.

Brief. Lingering.

She was pulled back into the rhythm, the melody of the night sweeping her away until she felt a cold, firm hand grip her arm.

“Mabel.” Her father's voice cracked through the space between them, low and commanding.

She straightened instantly, spine stiff, head turning as if pulled by a string.

The celebration around her blurred.

Only Cavric remained in focus. His gaze didn't waver.

“Mabel,” he said again, sharp, unmistakable. “A word. Alone.”

The celebration behind her blurred. Theodore's warmth faded. She nodded, silent, and followed her father through the archway and into the quiet of the hall.

The corridor was cold, the stone walls breathing frost beneath the flicker of torchlight. Cavric turned slowly, his silhouette carved in shadow, expression hard as iron.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said, voice threaded with menace.

“I am,” Mabel replied, chin lifting. “I think it's going well.”

His eyes narrowed. “You've made a spectacle of yourself all night. Laughing, dancing—like some tavern girl desperate for attention.”

Her jaw tightened, the mead in her bloodstream making her bolder. “Isn't that the point?” she snapped. “To charm him? To make him want me? I've done in hours what you've spent years arranging—I've captivated him.” The words hung in the air, sharp and reckless. The moment she said them, she wished she hadn't.

Cavric's gaze didn't flinch. It burned.

The back of his hand snapped sharply across her cheek.

She gasped, the shock stealing her breath as she staggered back, one hand flying to her cheek. The sting bloomed fast, hot and humiliating. Tears threatened, burning at the edges of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Shame settled like lead in her chest.

Slowly, deliberately, she straightened. Her nails bit into her palms, grounding her in the pain. Her chin lifted, breath trembling.

She met his gaze.

“You don't get to decide what is enough,” Cavric said, voice like iron. “It's not enough until you've walked down that aisle and given him every heir he asks for.”

Mabel's hands trembled at her sides. She wanted to speak—to argue, to plead—but the words collapsed before they reached her tongue. Her throat tightened, breath shallow. The silence between them stretched, thick with shame.

“You know your place,” Cavric snapped, his voice like a lash.

“I do,” Mabel whispered, nodding quickly, the words catching in her throat.

“You are a princess,” he growled, stepping closer, “not some filthy whore. Start acting like one.”

“I-I will. I'm sorry, my king,” she stammered, head bowed, voice barely audible.

He didn't blink. His gaze held her, unflinching, until the sting of his words settled deep into her chest. Then he exhaled, slow and sharp.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, clipped and cold. “Before you shame us any further.”

Mabel nodded, her feet already moving, eager to escape the weight of his presence. She slipped past him, heart pounding, breath shallow.

Door by door, she wandered, fingers trembling as they brushed against cool handles. Most didn't budge. Until one did.

It opened with a soft groan.

Inside, firelight flickered against stone, casting long shadows across the room. A bucket of fresh water sat near the hearth, mist and dust curling into the air and catching the light. The space felt untouched, waiting—private, still.

As though it had been expecting her.

She stepped inside and closed the door, letting the silence hold her.

The stool groaned as Mabel sank down; the firelight casting restless shadows across the cold stone floor. A mirror leaned against the wall, plain and unremarkable, yet the reflection staring back stole the breath from her lungs.

She looked undone.

Strands of hair clung to her damp temples; the elegant waves Ada had styled now wilted and forgotten. Her cheeks burned with a deep, uneven flush—not from joy, but from the echo of her father's hand.

The sight hollowed her.

Tears threatened, rising fast, but she blinked hard, forcing them back. If she didn't cry, it hadn't happened. If she stayed still, stayed quiet, maybe she could hold the pieces of the moment together.

She straightened just slightly, and stared herself down, as if daring the girl in the glass to break.

Reaching for the bucket beside her, she dipped her fingers into the cool water. The sensation grounded her for a moment. She pressed her hands to her face, letting the chill sink through her skin, clearing the fog—just a little. Droplets clung to her lashes. Her breath slowed.

For a moment, it was just her and the silence. No music, no voices. Only the sound of water settling in the basin and her heartbeat, steadying itself in the quiet.

Mabel leaned back, letting the hearth's heat brush against her skin, a balm to the sting still blooming across her cheek. The fire crackled softly, but the silence pressed heavier than the warmth.

She should've known better than to test her father's temper. That's what she told herself—what she'd been taught to believe.

But it still hurt.

Not just the sharp bloom of pain on her face, but the deeper ache that never seemed to fade. The ache of being unseen. Of being useful but never cherished. If her parents could look at her—truly look—and see something more than leverage, more than a pawn. If they could just reach for her with kindness. Just once.

Her hands rose, covering her face, fingers trembling against her skin. She inhaled slowly, trying to steady herself, trying to summon something softer.

She pictured Theodore's smile. It had seemed real. Unforced. Like he'd seen her. Not just the princess but the girl beneath it all.

Maybe, just maybe, she'd impressed him.

And maybe that mattered more than she was ready to admit.

She hadn't planned on enjoying Theodore's company—not like this. Yet he'd surprised her. Beneath his princely confidence, there was ease in the way he laughed, sincerity in the way he looked at her, like the rest of the hall faded when she spoke.

He was playful, effortlessly charming—and, above all, she couldn't shake the feeling that he truly liked her. And that realization nestled deeper than she expected, blooming slowly behind her ribs.

The pins slipped from her hair one by one, clinking softly against the wooden table as Mabel tugged them free. She combed her fingers through the copper strands, easing the knots with determination, unraveling the remnants of revelry and mead-soaked chaos.

In the mirror's flickering reflection, she sighed, watching the halo of curls resist every effort to tame them.

With resolve, she dipped her fingers into the cooled water and pressed them into her hair, smoothing the curls until they fell with some semblance of order. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough. Enough to look less like an unruly child.

Mabel's cheeks still burned, refusing to settle. It would take more than a wash—it would take sleep, maybe forgiveness. She rose from the stool, smoothed her skirt, and took a steadying breath before slipping back into the corridor.

The moment she stepped out, she collided hard into someone's chest. She stumbled back, but a steady hand caught her waist.

A glass tilted—too quickly to catch—and its contents splashed across the front of her dress in a vivid rush of red.

Mabel gasped. “Oh. I-I'm so sorry,” she stammered, reaching instinctively for the man until she felt the cool wine soak through the wool of her dress. Her eyes dropped, horror blooming at the sight of the dark stain spreading across her bodice.

“No, no, no—” Her voice cracked, panic tightening her chest.

The man stepped back, tall and composed. His hair fell past his shoulders in long, inky locs, framing his dark ebony complexion. Golden clasps decorated the lengths. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he studied her. “There's no need for panic,” he said, smooth as satin.

He lifted his hand casually and flicked his fingers. A shimmer scattered through the air and swept across her front. In seconds, the stain vanished—so completely it looked as if the spill had been a dream.

Mabel blinked, stunned. The man tilted his head with an amused glint in his eyes.

“You're welcome,” he said, like he'd just plucked a leaf from her shoulder. He adjusted the bottle of wine in his hand and looked over her.

When she met his gaze, she faltered. He was gorgeous. Curling stubble framed his jaw; his soft lips curved into a devilishly handsome smirk.

The words left Mabel in a rush. “Thank you,” she said, flustered. “You—can use magic?” Her head tilted as she studied him, curiosity overtaking embarrassment.

The man gave a slow nod, intrigue flickering in his eyes as he looked her over with measured interest. “You can't?” he asked, voice smooth but pointed.

“What? No.” She shook her head as if it were scandalous.

“Strange.” He cocked his head, brows furrowing as his eyes traced the length of her frame unapologetically. “Are you sure?”

Mabel stilled, blinking up at the man. “What?”

His serious expression melted into a perplexed smile. “Is it not you enchanting my dreams?”

She blinked up at him. “Are-are you … flirting with me?” She breethd out. Who is this man? Dressed in fine clothing, maroon and gold, Aurevyn colors, stealing bottles of wine like it wouldn't cost him a hand.

He ignored her question. “Who are you?”

Mabel opened her mouth. “I—”

“Mabel!” Theodore's voice rang through the corridor, the sound lifting her gaze instantly. Relief flooded her features as she turned toward him, a smile blooming wide.

“Mabel,” Lance muttered to himself quietly. But he took a step back as Theodore closed the distance between them.

“Sorry,” she called back with a hint of sheepishness. “I needed a moment to freshen up.”

Theodore approached, eyes catching on the loose waves of her now-unpinned hair. “I like it,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that signature smile.

Heat flared across Mabel's cheeks again, and she tucked a strand behind her ear, helpless to hide it.

Then Theodore's gaze shifted—subtle but sharp—toward the man behind her. His easy expression quieted, coolness settling behind his eyes like steel.

The air seemed to shrink between them as tension snapped like a pulled thread.

“I see you've met Lance,” Theodore said, clearing his throat, his voice clipped, laced with unspoken irritation.

Mabel glanced at the tall man beside her, then back to Theodore, catching the shift in atmosphere like storm clouds rolling in. “Yes,” she replied carefully, her voice quiet. “I bumped into him.”

Lance's smirk curled upward, cruel and calculating. “I see you've found yourself a new whore,” he said, eyes gleaming as they danced between the two.

The word hit the corridor like a dropped blade.

Mabel's breath caught, her body tensing, blood rushing loud in her ears. “Excuse me?” she barked, drunken fury flaring behind her eyes. A flush rose beneath her skin—indignation so sharp it nearly lifted her off the ground.

Theodore's hand clamped gently around her arm and pulled her back, steady and firm. Not out of control, but caution. The look in his eyes said he understood exactly what she was about to do.

And she very nearly did.

Mabel's voice cracked through the corridor like a whip. “I am not a whore,” she snarled, each word laced with venom. Her fists clenched as she tried to pull from his grip.

Lance barely flinched, the cruel curl of amusement never leaving his face. “Whatever you say, Mabel,” he said with a lazy shrug, lifting the wine bottle in mock salute before turning his back on them, striding down the corridor with arrogant ease.

“I am a princess!” she scoffed, her arm jerking free from Theodore's grip—ready to storm after him, fury hot and reckless. But Theodore caught her again, faster this time, arms wrapping securely around her waist.

“Easy,” he whispered with a quiet laugh, more warning than teasing in his voice. His grip held her steady, but it was his gaze, soft and grounding, that kept her from flying too close to the flames.

Her shoulders remained tense, eyes following Lance's silhouette as he disappeared around a corner. She turned on her heel.

They walked side by side, the muffled sounds of music and laughter pulling them gently back toward the feast hall.

“So, was that all bark,” Theodore began with a sly grin, “or is there some bite I haven't seen yet?”

Mabel smirked, eyes still bright with lingering fire. “Hard to say,” she mused. “But if you're curious, we could turn back around.”

Theodore laughed, the sound echoing lightly off the stone walls. “Tempting,” he chuckled, “though preferably not directed at Lance. My brother is not worth the energy.”

Mabel froze mid-step, brow furrowed. “Brother?”

“Adopted,” Theodore said, the word slipping from his lips with a mix of dismissal and dry amusement. “Not by my choosing, I assure you.”

Mabel gave a small nod, her gaze drifting back down the corridor. One final glance. Whatever lingered there could wait.

As they stepped back into the glow of the feast hall, warmth wrapped around them instantly. The music surged to meet them, lively and golden, sweeping over the crowd.

Theodore raised a hand with practiced flair, his voice cutting through the hum. “We've returned!” he declared, loud and unapologetic.

A cheer erupted in response, mugs lifted, laughter spilling freely. Mabel couldn't help but smile as she was pulled into the current of celebration once more—light and dizzy.

Theodore held the door open with a grand sweep of his arm, eyebrows raised. “After you, my lady,” he said with a flourish.

Mabel stepped through, head held high but eyes sparkling with barely restrained laughter. “Don't make me regret returning,” she teased, brushing past him.

“You'd miss me in seconds,” he shot back, sliding in beside her as the music wrapped around them once again.

A cluster of dancers twirled past, and someone shouted Theodore's name with a cheer. He bowed dramatically toward the source, then turned to Mabel with mock seriousness. “You feel that? It's the magnetic pull of my admirers.”

“Well, they'll have to get in line,” Mabel quipped, flashing him a grin. “You're mine.”

Theodore blinked at her, his smile easing into something more sincere. “Staking claim already, Princess?” he teased.

“I—yes.” She breethd out, blinking up at him. “Is that okay?”

“Considering we are to be married, I think it's okay,” he mused.

She glanced away, the thought dancing through her mind. Married. How strange the word felt. To think she would spend the rest of her life with this man she'd just met. It made her stomach uneasy, but she ignored it, looking back up at him with a small smile.

The corridor held its breath around them, quiet and warm, lit only by the soft flicker of torches. Mabel's hand rested lazily in Theodore's, her fingers curled against his as they walked with slow, contented steps.

“Thank you for a wonderful night,” she said, smiling up at him.

Theodore returned it easily. “It was a pleasure, Princess. I'm glad it meant something to you.”

“It did,” she chimed, her voice softer now. “It was … perfect.”

They stopped outside a pair of grand wooden doors, their carved edges catching firelight in soft shadows. Theodore gestured toward them with a slight bow. “Your room. My mother sent your servant girl—”

“Ada,” Mabel corrected, instinctive and sharp.

“Ada,” he echoed, smiling sheepishly. “She's already settled your things. I hope the room suits you. If you need anything, anything at all …” His voice trailed off as his gaze locked with hers.

The space between them narrowed, and he leaned in slowly—deliberately—until their faces hovered only inches apart. Mabel's breath trembled, the scent of pine, mead, and warm oils stirring something deep inside her.

Her eyelids fluttered closed, heart lifting into the quiet.

But instead of a kiss, came a voice—soft and smug.

“Goodnight, Princess,” Theodore said, the curve of a smirk tugging at his mouth as he stepped back.

Mabel's eyes snapped open, catching the flick of his cloak as he turned down the corridor. She stood frozen, chest tight, lips parted with words unsaid, left breathless in the wake of something almost.

The door opened behind her with a groan, Ada poking her head out. “Mabel! You must see this room!”

Mabel remained still, steadying her breath before turning with a smile.

As she stepped inside, the hush of the corridor gave way to tranquil warmth. The room was spacious yet intimate. Pale wood beams stretched across the ceiling, their surfaces etched with protection runes that shimmered faintly in the firelight.

A large hearth stood proudly along one wall, its flame slow and steady. Above it hung a woven tapestry depicting the stag constellation—Auren—its antlers gold-threaded and sprawling beneath a moonlit sky.

The bed was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. A tall frame of carved amber wood crowned with delicate curls resembling antlers. Soft pelts of reindeer and deep red wool draped across the bedding, invitingly rumpled. Beneath her feet, a fur-lined rug softened every step.

Shelves lined one wall, filled with old tomes and vials of dried herbs, while a simple writing desk stood by the arched window. Through the window, moonlight spilled onto the floor in silver waves.

And above the door, tucked into the carved lintel, hung a bundle of pine and juniper—a ward, welcoming and protective.

It didn't feel borrowed. It felt offered. Not just a place to sleep, but a place to belong.

“I've got all your stuff put away, you'll love the outfits that I packed, or at least—I will!” Ada giggled, pulling Mabel to the closet.

The walk-in closet was immense, lined with thick wooden shelves and gleaming brass racks that displayed gowns like works of art. Mabel stepped inside slowly, her breath catching.

A few dresses drew her gaze—ones she knew hadn't come from home. Their fabrics shimmered in the light, embroidered and adorned with a level of detail her modest wardrobe had never known. They were stunning, impossibly so. And as she stared, a thought crept in, she wasn't sure she belonged in any of them.

“Whose are these?” she questioned, hesitant. She approached the magnificent dresses, eyes raking over the beautiful and delicate patterns that had been hand sewn into the fabric.

“Oh! The best part!” Ada cooed, carefully lifting one of the gowns from its hanger. “I assume your mother sent your measurements—they had these made just for you.”

The dress shimmered in soft gold and maroon, the fabric catching the light with every movement. Mabel stared, momentarily breathless. It was exquisite. Too exquisite. She had never seen a dress so stunning.

Her eyes flickered from it to the rest on the racks, heart skipping in her chest. “They made these for me?” she asked quietly, the words falling in a slur.

Ada looked at her. “How much did you drink?” she scoffed.

Mabel giggled, cheeks rosy. “Just a little bit.”

Ada shook her head and quickly hung the gown she'd been holding. “Try not to ruin these with vomit, please,” she muttered, ushering Mabel away from the closet like a scolding older sister.

With a dramatic sigh, Mabel collapsed onto the bed, limbs sprawling like she'd been swept off her feet by more than just the music. Ada sat beside her, smoothing the covers before her fingers found Mabel's tangled curls, gently working through them.

“So,” Ada said, her tone softer now, “looks like you've had a very good night.”

Mabel squealed into the fabric, her legs kicking the mattress with giddy abandon. She looked up at Ada; eyes glazed with leftover mead and happiness.

“Ada,” she whispered breathlessly, “it was the best night ever.”

Ada smiled, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Good, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself”—Mabel let out a hiccup—“though by the sound of it, maybe a little too much.”

Mabel gave a slow, dreamy nod, her focus already adrift. She was supposed to respond—maybe something witty, something coherent—but her thoughts had slipped beyond reach. They swirled with the memory of Theodore's hand on her waist, the way he spun her like she was made of stardust, the flicker in his eyes when he teased, that laugh she swore she felt in her chest.

Ada kept talking, but Mabel barely heard her now. She just sank deeper into the soft folds of the bed, a giddy smile tugging at her lips.

Mead had flushed her cheeks. Theodore had stolen her thoughts.

And tonight, she didn't mind one bit.

3

Golden light stretched across the stone floor in warm ribbons through the open arched window, as morning birdsong was carried along a chill breeze. Inside, the air was still save for the soft rustle of fabric and the harmony of practiced motions.

Ada moved with ease, brushing out silks and looping clasps, while Mabel sat at the edge of the cushioned bench, her voice full of lingering joy.

Mabel giggled through retellings of the night, fingers pressed to her lips as she gushed about Theodore's irresistible grin, the way his hand fit at her waist, the flicker in his gaze that sent heat up her neck. Ada simply smiled, her hands still working but her eyes soft with affection.

“His eyes, Ada—you should have seen them,” Mabel sighed, dreamy and flushed.

Ada shook her head, brushing a stray curl from Mabel's forehead. “I don't need to,” she said with a laugh. “You've already described them in great detail.”

For the first time in years, Ada felt something shift, like a weight had loosened from Mabel's shoulders, and from her own. For now, joy had returned to the corners of the room.

Ada smoothed out the folds of Mabel's sleeve with practiced grace, then gave her a sideways glance, mischievous and knowing.

“So …” she began, voice lilting. “Are we to expect wedding bells by the end of the season, or do you need another dance to be sure?”

Mabel groaned, flopping back against the cushions with dramatic flair. “Ada!”

“Oh, come now,” Ada teased, fingers still gliding through Mabel's curls. “You practically floated in here last night. The look on your face—I don't think I have ever seen you like that.”

“He is very handsome,” Mabel muttered, cheeks pink. “Our babies would be cute.”

Ada laughed, warm and full. “Exactly my point.”

She paused for a beat, then added with mock seriousness, “Just say the word, and I'll start preparing your wedding gown.”

Mabel buried her face in a pillow, mumbling something unintelligible while Ada chuckled beside her.

Ada's teasing faded into a gentle quiet as she tucked a loose curl behind Mabel's ear. Her smile lingered, but there was more warmth behind it now.

“I'm glad you had a night like that,” she said softly. “You've been carrying so much, trying to be everything everyone expects. It's nice to see you let go. Even just a little.”

Mabel's blush deepened, but she didn't hide this time. She let the words settle between them like the soft morning light.

Ada brushed her fingers once more through Mabel's hair. “I hope this is good for you, truly. Not just the dancing and the laughter—but him. If he keeps that light in your eyes … then maybe Aurevyn's colder halls won't feel quite so lonely.”

Mabel's eyes wandered to the frost-laced windowpane. She hadn't expected warmth in Aurevyn—not from its cold halls, nor its people. But she had been wrong. From laughter to lantern light, every gesture carried kindness.

Ada stepped back, giving a satisfied nod after straightening the collar and smoothing the last wrinkle from Mabel's dress. “Beautiful,” she hummed with the reverence of someone who'd known Mabel long enough to mean it beyond appearance.

Mabel smiled softly, brushing her palms down the wool fabric before rising to her feet. Her reflection in the tall glass caught the glow in her cheeks and the steadiness of her posture.

The sudden knock shattered the morning calm, both women turning instinctively toward the sound. Ada crossed the room in practiced steps, tugging open the heavy wooden door just enough to peer into the corridor.

Mabel watched with growing curiosity as Ada's face shifted—surprise, then an unmistakable pink blooming across her cheeks. She blinked up at the visitor, flustered.

Ada turned slightly, shielding her expression behind the door like a curtain. Her voice came out in a sharp whisper, barely contained, “It's Theodore.”

The name was a breath and a warning all at once. Mabel's heart gave a small, traitorous flutter.

She hurriedly stepped into her flats, the wool brushing against her ankles as she padded across the stone floor. She slipped past Ada with practiced ease, her breath catching the moment Theodore came into view.

He stood tall in the morning light, his grin as effortless as ever, silvery gray eyes glinting. “Good morning, Princess,” he said, voice warm enough to thaw the chill in the air.

“Good morning,” Mabel replied, though it came out softer than intended.

Her gaze flicked sideways—Ada, now tucked slightly behind the door, was dramatically fanning herself with her hand, cheeks flushed and lips pursed in poorly concealed amusement.

Mabel's mouth twitched, laughter rising fast. But she swallowed it down—barely—as she turned her attention back to the prince, who had no idea he had been their hot topic of the morning.

Theodore leaned casually against the doorframe, sunlight catching the edge of his smile. “Did you sleep well, or were you too busy dreaming about me?” he teased, head tilting just enough to make Mabel's heartbeat trip over itself.

Mabel blinked, nearly forgetting how to stand like a normal person. “I-what-no,” she stammered, suddenly very aware of the heat rising in her face.

Ada, still fanning herself, let out a tiny wheeze and spun away from them both, mumbling something about fresh air.

Theodore didn't relent. “I wouldn't blame you,” he said smoothly. “I did look rather dashing last night.”

Mabel narrowed her eyes playfully. “You certainly did, my prince.” She smiled, teasing. “You might've visited my dreams if I'd had one less cup of mead last night …” She winced. “I do apologize, that's not—”

“You were having fun,” Theodore interrupted gently. “And mead's the best icebreaker.”

She stilled. “I suppose that's true,” she said, softer now. “It's just … I've never really …” She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to.

“It is,” he said, smiling. “Because I'm fairly certain I saw you nearly punch a man last night.”

Mabel groaned, burying her face in her hands. “That was also a first.”

“Then here's to many more,” Theodore said, stepping to her side and offering his arm with a flourish.

She hesitated. Not because she didn't want to—but because no one had ever been so … gracious to her.

Her heart fluttered, unsure and unsteady. The feeling was unfamiliar—like stepping into sunlight after years in shadow.

She didn't just like it. She craved it.

She slipped her arm through his, her touch tentative at first, then steadier. “Where to, my prince?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Theodore's grin widened, eyes gleaming as they swept over her with unspoken intent. “The plan was breakfast,” he drawled, voice effortlessly smooth. “I'm currently reconsidering.”

Mabel swallowed, a breath catching in her throat. “Breakfast sounds good,” she managed, though the words came out quick and shaky.

A loud “booo” echoed from her room, sharp and unmistakable.

They both turned. Theodore raised his brows in amusement while Mabel groaned, half mortified. “Goodbye, Ada,” she muttered, pulling the door shut with exaggerated calm.

When she turned back, Theodore was still smiling—entirely too pleased. Mabel looped her arm through his again, cheeks flushed and pulse quickening.

Theodore's laugh rolled out, low and warm. “Breakfast it is,” he said, his gaze dipping to meet hers.

Their steps fell into rhythm, effortless and easy, as Mabel looked up at Theodore with a smile that refused to fade. The corridor, once chilled and quiet, came alive with their laughter—bright, echoing, and far more radiant than the flickering candlelight that lined the walls.

The hall, which had been bursting with music and movement the previous night, now lay in hushed stillness. The air carried faint traces of spiced mead and spruce, remnants of the night's revelry clinging to the stone. Candles dotted the space, their flames swaying gently in the drafts, casting golden reflections on the cold, gray walls. It still held a seasonal charm that Mabel adored.

Mabel and Theodore stepped through the archway, their footsteps softened by woven rugs. Shadows clung to the corners where dancers had once twirled, and only the gentle crackle of the hearth and the soft whisper of flickering candlelight filled the silence.

The long tables had been cleared and wiped clean. At the far end, beneath a wide window glazed with morning frost, a modest spread had been laid just for them.

Steam curled from a wooden bowl of browned porridge. Fresh-baked rye rolls sat beside soft pats of butter, while thin slices of cured venison glistened on a carved stone platter. Steam rose from mugs likely filled with cider, their handles still warm to the touch.

Mabel's steps slowed, eyes drawn to the generosity of the setting. It wasn't lavish, but it was intentional.

Theodore leaned toward her with a conspiratorial smile. “They've set out the good bread. We must be honored guests.”

Mabel couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped her lips, warmth blooming in her chest. Theodore's hand came to rest gently against the small of her back, his touch light but steady, guiding her toward the table with an ease that felt both practiced and intimate. She couldn't help but appreciate how large his hands were.

He pulled out a chair for her, waiting until she sat before settling beside her.

For a moment, neither spoke. The clink of pottery and the shifting of wool were the only sounds.

Theodore leaned in slightly, one elbow propped against the table, his fingers absentmindedly circling the rim of his cup. His gaze softened. “So,” he hummed, voice dipped in curiosity, “if not grand parties and all this celebration … What fills your days in Moorthwyn?”

Mabel's spoon hovered midair, her thoughts flickering inward. “Not much,” she admitted after a beat, setting the spoon down gently. “I wasn't allowed outside the castle often.”

“They never allowed you to leave?”

“Gods, no,” Mabel scoffed but quickly bit her tongue. “Apologies, I …” She took a deep breath. “No. They didn't. After my father took the throne, he said it was too risky to allow me into the city. And princesses don't speak with common folk.” She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“You never snuck out?” Theodore tilted his head, a brow lifting. “Not even once?”

Mabel stilled. Glimpses of running, thick woods, and her father all flashed through her mind. “No,” she said quietly.

His gaze brushed over her. He took note of the far off look in her eyes, the way her fingers picked at the skin around her nails. He watched as she shook her head ever so subtly before a smile replaced her features.

“I'm assuming you have?” She teased.

His hands found hers, giving a gentle squeeze. “Of course I have,” he laughed softly. “I'm a prince, Mabel. It comes with the title.”

“As many things do, it seems.” She crinkled her nose, fingers lacing through his. “It appears the only thing that comes with the title of Princess is a marriage.”

“And a kingdom.” Theodore leaned in closer. “Freedom. Power.” His breath fanned across her cheeks, mint filling her senses.

“I don't care for power,” she whispered. “Though freedom does sound nice.” Her eyes traced over his features, studying the outline out his beard, the sharp angles of his nose.

She knew her freedom would never come within these walls, that this marriage would only further her entrapment to her father. And now to Theodore. But there was something about the way he looked at her that made her forget herself. Forget the nuance of their arrangement. His gaze was constant, almost unbearable as he watched her every move.

“What did you do all day locked in a castle?” His silvery blue eyes met hers.

She swallowed, dropping her gaze to the remnants of her breakfast. “I embroidered, read a little too much, and endured a constant stream of tutors and etiquette instructors.” She let out a dry laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. “It's all been a long, tedious attempt to mold me into someone perfect for … well”—she glanced up at him with a hint of irony in her smile—“you.”

Theodore's gaze lingered, unreadable for a moment. Then something flickered behind it—guilt. Maybe admiration.

“There's no such thing as perfect. Though you do come close.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Not because of any lessons or torment, but because you simply are.”

The words slipped past his lips like a balm, gentle and unassuming, but they landed with more force than he could have known. Mabel's chest tightened, and something deep inside her began to loosen—like a string that had been pulled taut for far too long finally easing.

She looked down quickly, blinking faster than necessary. She could cry. She really could.

But instead, she held it in, pressing her fingers lightly to the rim of her cup and drawing in a breath that trembled ever so slightly. A tear wouldn't help anything. Not now. And certainly not in front of him.

She smiled instead—small, but real. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Theodore's voice dipped low, like a secret shared just between them. “Of course,” he said, the words laced with understanding. “I know the pressure, the expectations … what our world demands of us.”

His gaze lingered on her, resting on the curve of her cheek, the unsteadiness in her eyes. “But that doesn't mean joy must be a stranger. We are going to change that.”

He stood, the chair groaning against the stone floor, and moved toward her with the same ease she still hadn't grown used to. With a faint smile tugging at his lips, he extended his hand toward hers, palm open and warm.

“Come,” he said, not as a command but an invitation. “Unless you would rather read.”

Mabel's smile bloomed, bright and unwavering, as she slipped her hand into his. She rose with effortless grace, drawn to him like the tide to the moon. Theodore didn't wait—he pulled her in close, their bodies inches apart, his gaze locked onto hers with heat that stole the breath from her lungs.

Her heart stuttered. His eyes were dark and sparkling, brimming with mischief and something more primal beneath.

She leaned in, anticipation curling in her chest—

But he was already moving, stepping back with maddening charm. The breath she meant to release caught as laughter danced in his eyes. Mabel barely had a moment to process the tease before Theodore whisked her from the hall, hand in his, the remnants of breakfast forgotten.

The candles flickered in their wake as their laughter echoed once more, spilling through stone corridors.

Theodore didn't slow as he led her through the corridors. Mabel clutched his hand, half breathless, half laughing as he turned corners without a word of explanation.

The sky stretched wide and solemn above them, blanketed in soft gray that promised it would snow soon. As they stepped into the open air, the chill wrapped around Mabel, sharp and invigorating. She drew a deep breath, the cold biting at her lungs, anchoring her to the moment.

Frost clung to the edges of the stone archway behind them, and the breeze tugged playfully at her curls. Whatever warmth the morning had held within the castle was left behind in flickering candles and half-finished smiles. Out here, the world felt honest.

Theodore descended the palace steps with effortless confidence, his cloak trailing behind him. At the foot of the stairs, a carriage awaited—its polished gold frame dusted with frost, horses stomping softly in the cold.

Mabel hesitated at the top, the chill biting through her wool as doubt stirred beneath her ribs. “Wait—we're leaving the castle?”

Her voice wasn't loud, but it stopped him.

He turned, studying her from several steps below. The flicker in her eyes didn't escape him, and with slow precision, he climbed back toward her. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by something deeper.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quiet against the wind. He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it with an easy tenderness. “You're with me now. You're safe.”

Mabel opened her mouth, faltering. “My parents—”

But Theodore was already reaching for her, his hand rising with certainty to cradle her cheek. The warmth of his palm startled her just enough to make her flinch.

Then, without meaning to, she leaned into it.

The tension in her shoulders unraveled, drawn out by the steadiness in his gaze. There was no demand in his touch. No expectation. Just presence.

She wasn't used to this kind of affection—gentle, unspoken, offered without consequence.

But Theodore had found a way to reach her. And so far, she hadn't wanted to pull away.

“Are you coming or not?” he asked, his tone lighter now, but the care still lingered in the air between them.

Mabel's lashes fluttered shut as she drew in a slow breath, letting the chill settle deep in her chest before nodding.

Theodore was already moving, tugging gently at her hand as he began his descent. Her feet followed, hesitant at first, then surer with each step.

Frost crunched softly beneath them as they neared the waiting carriage, its dark frame gleaming faintly in the morning light. The driver stood stiffly beside it, brows lifting at the sight of them.

Without missing a beat, Theodore offered his signature grin—bright, disarming, and just shy of arrogant. “I appreciate this, Mack,” he said smoothly, his voice cutting through the frosted air with familiar charm.

The driver gave a subtle nod, opening the door with a creak as Mabel stepped closer, her hand still tucked in Theodore's.

The carriage rocked gently as Mabel climbed inside, Theodore steadying her with an easy hand before settling in across from her. The space was tight—elegant with detailing, but intimate enough that their knees brushed with every bump in the cobblestone.

“I would've requested the larger one,” Theodore said with a playful shrug, “but I've exhausted my charm on Mack for the week.”

His chuckle filled the small compartment, and Mabel found herself smiling. The flutter in her chest hadn't disappeared, but it softened under the weight of his presence.

“This one's perfect,” she whispered, settling her hands in her lap. Her fingers busied themselves before she noticed—picking absently at the skin near her nails, worry worn into muscle memory.

Theodore's eyes flicked down, catching the motion again. His smile turned gentle. “Do you do that when you're nervous?”

Mabel stilled, cheeks warming. She tucked her hands away, gaze dipping. “Yes. I'm sorry. It's not exactly … poised.”

“Poised is overrated,” he replied easily, lifting his hand between them. “I bite my nails. Bad habit. Still haven't outgrown it.”

She looked up, hesitant, then reached for his hand with slow curiosity, her fingers brushing over the rough edges of his nails. Her eyes met his, wide with surprise. It was such a human thing, such a shared vulnerability in a world that demanded perfection from both of them.

Theodore's fingers curled slowly around hers, enclosing her hand in steady warmth. No flourish, no dramatics, just reassurance.

Mabel gazed out the carriage window, watching as they passed the castle gates and Aurevyn stirred to life beneath the pale morning light. Merchants opened their stalls. Children darted between cobblestones, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons.

“Everyone here is so … happy,” she said, her eyes catching on a pair of siblings tumbling at their parents' feet. “How do you do it?”

Beside her, Theodore tilted his head. “Are you asking for a history lesson on our first outing together?”

She glanced at him, then away just as quickly, a shy smile lifting the corner of her lips. “Would it be strange if I was?”

He studied her for a moment, intrigue flickering behind his eyes as he considered his answer. “Not at all.”

Relief softened her shoulders. “Good,” she said, exhaling a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. “Because I really do want to know.”

Theodore's smile brightened, slow and knowing, as he leaned in. “After the war, my father didn't just have to rebuild the city, he had to rebuild trust.” He paused, his voice softening. “But Aurevyn doesn't break easily. He turned inward. We invested in ourselves. In our people.” His fingers shifted in hers, tracing the inside of her wrist with idle ease.

It made her shiver. “We built new academies. Expanded the old ones. My mother even taught for a time. Said it was the only way to mend what war had torn.” He glanced out the window, watching the market roll past. “Now, our people teach.

They build. They heal. They grow crops where ash once fell. My father listened. He gave them a place that would protect them if war should ever threaten our walls.”

“Really?” Mabel asked, her voice hushed with wonder.

He nodded. “He said it wasn't easy. But it mattered.”

Outside, the world stirred. The carriage came to a gentle halt, its wheels crunching faintly against cobbled stone. Mabel lifted her head as the muffled sounds filtered through. Hurried footsteps passed, voices rising and falling in lively bursts, merchants calling out their wares with rhythmic chants that echoed through the streets.

It was Aurevyn's heartbeat, louder than the castle, raw and unpolished. Life beyond titles and ballrooms.

Theodore shifted, his thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles. “Ready to meet the kingdom properly?” he asked, already reaching for the door.

Mabel swallowed hard as nerves swirled beneath her ribs. But she nodded anyway.

Theodore slipped out of the carriage with practiced ease, the chill, salt air curling around him. He turned back, extending his hand toward her.

She reached for it, tentative, but he found her first, fingers closing around hers. He helped her down gently, guiding her into the bustle of Aurevyn's streets.

The city square unfolded like a living tapestry. Cobbled paths twisted through the heart of Aurevyn, slick with morning dew and the churn of carriage wheels. Hooves clattered, iron-rimmed carts groaned, and the air buzzed with the hum of trade. Smoke curled from chimneys overhead, mingling with the scent of fresh bread and cured meats.

Shops lined the square in tight formation, with blacksmiths hammering at iron gates, weavers displaying bolts of dyed linen, apothecaries grinding herbs behind thick-glassed counters.

Narrow alleyways stitched the blocks together, winding like veins through the city's spine. Banners fluttered overhead, marked with trade emblems. A pair of guards passed in fur-lined cloaks, axes strapped to their backs, nodding to merchants as they moved.

The square itself was its own storm of motion. Vendors shouting over one another, dogs weaving between legs, and the clang of a bell marking the hour.

It was fast. Loud. Unapologetically alive.

And Mabel, standing at its edge, felt something stir in her chest, a mix of awe and ache. This was the world she'd been kept from. And now, she was stepping into the heart of it.

Theodore led Mabel without direction, their pace unhurried, hands still loosely entwined.

As they walked through the city, a soft hum of voices rose around them. Smiles bloomed, hands lifted in greeting, warm and familiar.

“That's the princess,” a mother whispered to her child. “She'll be our future queen.”

Mabel offered a small smile, uncertain beneath the weight of the words. Future queen. The title felt distant, heavy. She could only hope she'd be enough.

Theodore slowed beside her, his gaze catching on a statue in the distance.

“This way,” he called, and she followed.

The figure towered above them—a king, sword gripped in both hands, carved from stone. A bronze plaque had been mounted at the base—King Alric Venhart of Aurevyn.

“My grandfather,” Theodore said, eyes fixed on the stone. “I barely knew him. He'd been at war for so long. The rare occasion he did come home …” He looked over the statue carefully, jaw set. “My father inherited the crown young, and he poured everything into this city. Built it from ruin. Honored the legacy—and made it ours.”

Mabel studied the statue's fine details, then glanced back at Theodore, catching the weight in his eyes.

“What a legacy to leave,” she whispered.

He said nothing, just gave her hand a squeeze and turned from the statue etched in expectation. They walked on in silence. His movements were tight, restrained, as though he were holding something in. Mabel glanced back once more before the statue slipped out of sight.

“Theodore,” she spoke gently, hesitantly. He didn't look at her. She looked down, taking a steady breath, but he spoke first.

“You don't need to say anything,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “Let's keep this fun, okay?” His smile flickered, dimmer than usual. Mabel didn't press. She simply nodded and matched his stride.

They wandered on, passing steaming carts and chattering children, the city alive around them. Every few steps, Theodore paused, pointing at plaques, relief carvings, or ornate ironwork and shared stories that blurred between fact and myth.

Mabel soaked it all in—the architecture, the wind, the cadence of his voice. It didn't matter where they were going.

The sound of crashing waves drew closer the further they strayed from the square. Mabel could almost taste the salt drifting through the air. Theodore pulled her along until she could see the horizon shimmering through the end of the alleyway.

“Is Moorthwyn close to the sea?” he asked. The look in his eye said he knew the answer already, but she still appreciated that he asked anyway.

“It is.” She nodded, quickly glancing away. “But I've never seen it.”

Theodore's smile grew even brighter, like he already knew that answer too. His pace quickened, sending her scrambling to keep up with him. The wind swept through her hair, the chill biting at her face, but she couldn't find it in herself to care. Soft laughs escaped her as he dragged her along.

The moment they stepped from the alleyway, Mabel was entranced. A thick stone balustrade separated them from the plummeting drop. The ocean, vast and endless, stretched out before them like something ancient.

Her palms pressed against the stone wall, the sting of cold biting at her skin, but she hardly noticed. Below, the sea churned violently, waves colliding with jagged rocks and exploding into a spray that glittered briefly before vanishing into mist. The smell was even sharper up close, almost burning from its intensity.

“It's beautiful,” Mabel whispered, her voice filled with awe as her eyes drank in the chaos and majesty of the view.

Theodore stepped in close, his warmth radiating through her as his hand settled on the small of her back beneath her cloak. His voice was soft, steady, as he gestured to the cliffside further down. “That's where we'll be married.”

Her gaze followed his hand and caught on the temple. It rose from the ocean like something carved from a dream, immense and almost intimidating. Four towers anchored its corners; each crowned with slender spires that pierced the sky.

At its center, a dome swelled upward, and from its crown, a single spire, taller than all the rest. Large windows were carved into the walls to allow sunlight to filter through no matter the angle.

The sight stole her breath. It was both magnificent and daunting. In just a few months' time, she would be sharing vows with this stranger there.

Her eyes fell from the temple and landed on Theodore. He wouldn't be a stranger much longer. She was sure of it.

His gaze found hers, softening. She couldn't help but notice how much his gray eyes captured the sea inside them.

His hand on her back pressed her closer to his chest. He leaned in, ever so slowly. Her heart leaped. This is it. Mabel all too eagerly fluttered her eyes shut, her head tilting up just slightly. She could feel his breath ghosting against her lips, hesitating, waiting, before shifting to the shell of her ear.

“I have one more place to show you, Princess.”

She didn't need to open her eyes to know a grin would be plastered on his face. It still frustrated her beyond end when she saw it.

But once again, she allowed him to sweep her through alleyways and busy streets until the buzz of the city began to fade and foot traffic grew thin.

Theodore hummed lowly, the sound curling in the cold air as his hand slipped to the small of her back. “Here we are,” he said, stepping aside to reveal a squat, weather-worn building nestled between taller storefronts.

The sign above the door—chipped and swinging slightly in the breeze—simply read Entertainment in a crooked scrawl.

Mabel squinted. “That's vague.”

Theodore chuckled. “And entirely intentional.”

As they approached, a small panel slid open in the door, revealing a single, skeptical eye.

“Who's there?”

Theodore stepped forward with his signature smile lighting up his features.

“Priiiince Theodore,” a delighted shout echoed from within, followed by the sharp clank of metal bolts sliding free.

The door swung open to a sudden burst of sound—lively music, voices raised in half-drunken song, and laughter tumbling out into the street. The scent of incense and paint hung thick in the air.

In the doorway stood a man, bare-chested, streaked in swirls of bright pigment, reds, golds, and blues across his tan skin. He leaned against the frame with theatrical flair, one brow raised.

“Branley the riot,” Theodore greeted, smile wide and ever charming.

“It's good to see you.” Branley smiled devilishly before pulling away and spotting Mabel, who was standing just behind Theodore.

“Well, well,” he purred, gaze trailing down to her with exaggerated interest. “And who might this delicate little flame be?” His gaze flew back up to Theodore, a hand lifting to sift through his black curls.

Before Mabel could respond, Theodore slipped between them with effortless finesse, still holding her hand. “This flame is off limits, so behave.” He grinned. “We're here to be entertained, not devoured.”

“That's a first.” Branley barked out a laugh and stepped aside, gesturing them in with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “But come, royalty and peril—we've missed your kind of trouble.”

The room pulsed with life, thick with bodies and the curling haze of incense and smoke. The air vibrated with laughter, whispered exchanges, and the steady hum of music. Mabel felt the weight of eyes as she stepped in—curious glances trailing the silk of her sleeve and the unfamiliarity of her presence.

Lush lounges framed the space, their cushions sunken beneath patrons draped over one another. Some half-watching the performers, most tangled in one another's distractions.

Curtains. So many curtains. The scent of citrus and wine clung to the velvet upholstery.

A rich, unshaken voice soared above the din, cutting through the atmosphere with startling clarity. Mabel followed it, drawn to the balcony at the room's edge.

Beneath her, the crowd pooled around a modest stage where a man and woman stood in a wash of golden firelight. The ballad they sang seemed older than the walls—a tale of storm-crossed lovers and promises stitched into fate. Their voices twisted together, one deep and aching, the other high and lilting, painting stories across the velvet air.

Mabel leaned on the balcony railing; her fingers cool against the brass. There was something captivating in the space's chaos, something unexpectedly tender.

Theodore lingered just behind her, his gaze fixed on her profile as candlelight played along her features. Beside him, Branley leaned casually against a velvet-draped column, arms crossed over his paint-smeared chest.

He chuckled, voice like honey. “Didn't expect you to darken our door before sunset. You know the real fun doesn't start 'til much later.”

Theodore's eyes rolled with mock annoyance, but his focus never left Mabel, her silhouette framed against the balcony light as she leaned forward, utterly absorbed in the music below.

“I know.” Theodore laughed before it settled quickly in his chest. “If I have anything to do with it, she'll never know what happens here after dark.”

Branley followed his gaze, watching the way Mabel tilted her head ever so slightly, the ballad winding through her like thread. He exhaled a soft whistle.

“Careful, Prince,” Branley said, a sly grin curling at the edge of his mouth. “The ones that stare at magic like that? They end up rewriting it.”

Theodore laughed, the sound low and amused. “You're high.”

Branley tilted his painted face toward him, eyes glittering. “I am enlightened, darling,” he purred, then pushed off the column with theatrical flair and vanished into the velvet shadows of the room, the music swallowing him whole.

Theodore turned back toward the balcony.

Mabel had shifted, searching for him across the crowd. Their eyes met, her shoulders untensing the moment they did. She hadn't realized how much lighter she felt in his presence until the weight lifted.

He crossed the room slowly, every step drawn out in a tease. The candlelight caught the copper tones in her hair, turning it into something incandescent, something alive.

His voice slipped into her ear, velvet rich. “Enjoying the show?”

“It's beautiful,” Mabel whispered, awe softening her voice as she turned back toward the stage below. The music swelled, brushing against the edges of her heart, threads of melody wrapping around her.

Behind her, Theodore stepped in close, his arms sliding around her until they rested on the balcony railing, framing hers with certainty. His presence curved around her like a shield, his breath slow and steady against the crown of her head as he rested his chin there.

Mabel exhaled gently, her pulse matching the rhythm of the ballad as warmth spilled through her. In the chaos of incense, song, and watching eyes, she felt grounded. Sheltered.

The music crested in the air, the voices of the singers merging into a single, haunting harmony that seemed to wrap around the room.

Behind her, Theodore lifted his hand with practiced care, letting it ghost up the length of Mabel's arm, each movement gentle and patient. His fingertips barely grazed her skin until they reached her crimson curls. Slowly, he drew them over her shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her neck to the flickering candlelight.

Mabel's breath hitched.

The warmth of Theodore's exhale drifted across her bare skin, soft and incendiary. Her pulse surged beneath the surface, drawn taut between the music and the hush that had fallen between them.

Neither moved, but the space between their bodies felt electric, charged with something quiet and dangerously beautiful.

He didn't kiss her.

He remained just behind her, the heat of his presence curling around her neck, teasing and unhurried, as though he took more pleasure in the tension than in its release.

Mabel could feel him—every inch of him—without a single touch truly landing. And that, somehow, made her tremble more.

Theodore lingered there, eyes tracing her unraveling with the satisfaction of someone who knew the exact effect he had. No rush. No need.

She melted beneath the weight of him, breath shallow, pulse fluttering. And still, he stayed suspended in that moment, close enough to claim but choosing instead to savor.

Mabel caught on—again. The tease, the tension, the deliberate restraint. She scoffed, breaking free from his hold, her voice primed with exasperation. “You are so—” But she didn't finish.

Theodore moved before the words could land, hands slipping to her waist and pulling her back with a swift, unrelenting certainty. His lips found hers. No hesitation this time, no playful delay. Just heat, sure and consuming.

The music roared around them, echoing the crescendo of the moment, notes crashing like waves against the edges of her thoughts.

And Mabel … Mabel came undone. The butterflies didn't just flutter, they surged through her veins, tangled in her breath, lighting every nerve with sensation. His kiss wasn't just wanted, it was needed. It felt like the kind of spell she'd read about but never believed could be cast in something as simple as a touch.

His hands lingered at her waist, warm and steady, but threaded through with restraint, like he held back the full weight of his desire with every touch. When he finally pulled away, it was slow, his breath shallow against the air.

Mabel's gaze met Theodore's, the flush still lingering on her cheeks as silence settled between them like snowfall. He stepped closer, no teasing, no lingering tension.

He kissed her again.

His hand at her waist stayed gentle, the kiss deepening just enough for Mabel to feel his longing.

Just below, the ballad fell into its final note, voices trailing into the hush of applause. But here, with candlelight dancing and the taste of warmth between them, the world didn't need to applaud.

It simply watched.

4

The great hall had come alive once more, its long tables dressed in decadence. The scent of roasted meats hung heavy in the air, wine swirling in carved mugs as laughter threaded through the hum of conversation.

Mabel sat close to Theodore, their shoulders nearly touching, his presence still settling over her. She wasn't sure when her attention had last drifted from him, if it ever had. The memory of the afternoon lingered in her veins.

Across from them, her parents maintained polite smiles, their conversation filled with formalities bred from habit. On the opposite side of the table, Theodore's parents offered comments between dialogue, joy in each word. Her eyes drifted toward Lance, sitting quietly by his mother, disinterested in any conversation.

And yet, between Mabel and Theodore, there was no pretense. Just a tether stitched between glances and the occasional brush of his hand against hers beneath the table, unnoticed.

Frey leaned in slightly, her voice curious. “How has Theodore been treating you, Mabel?” she asked, a knowing glint in her warm smile. “Good, I hope.”

Mabel's gaze flicked toward Theodore, just as his hand settled lightly on her thigh beneath the table. The touch sent a flush of warmth through her.

“He's been wonderful,” she replied, her voice even but touched with something shy. “A true gentleman.”

Theodore didn't speak; the slight upward tilt of his mouth said enough.

Across the table, Frey's smile deepened. “Good. That's how it should be.”

Theodore's grip on her thigh tightened, and Mabel nearly gasped, breath catching just beneath the surface.

Frey didn't seem to notice the silent exchange. She leaned forward slightly, curiosity in her eyes. “Tell me, Mabel—what of your magic? How have you nurtured it?”

Mabel caught the movement from Lance in the corner of her eye, his gaze lifting from his plate and landing squarely on her.

She hesitated, a familiar weight settling over her again. “I wasn't gifted with magical talents,” she said quietly, disappointment softening her tone more than she meant it to.

Frey blinked, brows knitting. “Child, what do you mean? I can feel it radiating from you—”

“She doesn't possess magic,” Cavric cut in, his voice curt, slicing through the moment. The room seemed to shift as Frey glanced at Thalen, who offered only a small shrug, then turned her attention back to Mabel.

“Were you gifted?” Mabel asked in a whisper, awe stretching across her features.

Frey's expression melted into warmth. “I was,” she said, lifting her hand with a smile. With a flick of her wrist, a constellation bloomed into the air above them—soft, shimmering stars drifting slowly in a spiral.

Gasps fluttered down the length of the table. Mabel didn't look away. She watched Frey's stars as if they might reveal something she hadn't known she was waiting for.

Mabel turned to Theodore, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Do you have magic?”

He gave a quiet laugh, the kind that tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I'm a warrior, Mabel,” he said. “I don't rely on tricks of the light.”

A thread of light whipped off the edge of the table, snapping through the air like a mischievous breeze and tapping Theodore squarely on the nose.

Theodore flinched, hand flying up to shield his face. “Ow,” he muttered, sending a playful scowl at his mother.

Across the table, Frey arched a brow, smug. “Did that feel like tricks of the light?” she asked sweetly, though the satisfied grin curling her lips gave her away.

Lance barked out a laugh.

“What's so funny?” Theodore's tone was instantly harsh as his gaze fell on his brother.

“Nothing,” Lance said, though the edge in his voice was amused. “Just marveling at how thick your skull must be to think your strength alone could defeat a sorcerer. No wonder magic never found you.”

“Boys,” Thalen's voice commanded the room. “We have guests. Show some civility.”

Theodore hesitated, jaw tight, then relaxed beside Mabel. He leaned in, muttered an apology. She gave him a small smile, but her eyes flicked to Lance, who was already watching her. She looked away.

“He wasn't going to win, anyway,” Lance grumbled, shifting in his seat. Mabel glanced toward him, just to see if he was still watching—he was. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk as he winked at her.

Her cheeks warmed. She quickly averted her gaze away, reaching for her mug to busy herself with a swig.

“Do you wish to prove that?” Theodore snapped, rising to his feet.

“Enough.” Frey breethd an exasperated sigh. “Lance, excuse yourself.” She shot a pointed look at her younger son.

Lance grumbled under his breath, probably another insult, as he stood from his seat. He snatched a bottle of wine from the table before striding off.

Theodore's glare clung to every step until Lance disappeared into the corridor, settling back down beside Mabel.

“My deepest apologies.” Thalen sighed. “You'd think my sons would have better manners in the presence of such honored guests.” He spared Theodore an irritated glance.

“I understand,” Cavric laughed. “My brother and I quarreled often in our youth. I do miss it.”

“He's not my brother,” Theodore muttered under his breath. But Frey heard it.

“Theodore,” her voice was laced with warning. “Yes, he is. Behave yourself.”

Mabel shifted, fingers brushing Theodore's beneath the table. She laced hers with his, a tether.

He glanced down, and the tension in his shoulders eased. His smile was small, but real.

The hum of dinner faded into clinks and goodbyes, the tension between wine and conversation lingering in the air. As chairs scraped against the floor and guests began to rise, Mabel's gaze landed on her parents, knowing this would be their final supper beneath Aurevyn's roof. Tonight, they'd be riding home.

Theodore remained at her side, his hand a steady presence on the small of her back. “Would you allow me the honor to walk you to your room?”

Mabel inclined her gaze to meet his. “I'd love nothing more.”

Cavric and Auor approached with purposeful strides. Auor's voice came soft, but firm, “Mabel, we need a word before we depart.”

“Alone,” Cavric added, his glance shifting to Theodore with cool finality.

Theodore hesitated only briefly before releasing Mabel's hand and pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Next time.” He turned toward her parents, offering a graceful bow.

“It's been a pleasure meeting you both,” he said with genuine warmth, before stepping out into the corridor, leaving Mabel with the two people who had always held her world in their hands—and were now preparing to let go of it.

Auor turned sharply, her stare cutting clean. Mabel froze, breath catching as her spine locked straight.

“Listen to me,” her mother said, voice holding steady but fraying at the edges. “We are leaving this in your hands. Please, don't disappoint him.” Her words faltered, but the urgency behind them did not.

She didn't say more. She didn't have to. Her gaze flicked toward Cavric, who stood just behind, silent and watchful, his presence a warning cloaked in patience.

Mabel's fingers curled into fists. “I-I won't,” she whispered.

“She won't,” Cavric echoed, his voice smooth as polished steel. He stepped forward, closing the distance with maddening ease. Mabel forced herself to meet his eyes, though her hands trembled at her sides.

“You represent Moorthwyn,” he said, voice rising just enough to sting. “You represent me. And if you embarrass us—if you embarrass me—I will make sure you regret it.”

Her breath caught.

“You will not cry. You will not falter. You will smile, speak when spoken to, and charm them like your life depends on it. Because it does.”

He raised a hand, and Mabel flinched—but instead of striking, he held out a velvet box.

“Here,” he said coldly. “A token. To remind you what's at stake.”

She stared at it, heart pounding in her ears. The ribbon was bloodred. Her fingers moved slowly, undoing it with care, unsure whether the gift was meant to honor her—or bind her.

Nestled in a bed of black velvet, the necklace gleamed like something stolen from a colder world.

The gem was blue—striking, yes, but sharp in its beauty. Icy. It caught the light like frost on glass, luminous and unfeeling. The metal clasp that held it was sleek, and the gold chain—fine, rounded links—shimmered with a menace, too perfect to be comforting.

Etched into the mount was the raven. Their family sigil—Meryth's sigil. Small, watching. It wasn't decorative. It was a mark. A claim.

Mabel stared at it, heart thudding. It looked like it meant something. Like it was meant to remind her of something. But she couldn't decide if it was protection or possession.

She didn't want to wear it.

But she would.

“I … thank you,” Mabel said, the words brittle, barely audible. They tasted like ash in her mouth, spoken not from gratitude, but obligation.

Cavric lifted the necklace with calculated care, as if it were sacred. The gem shimmered coldly in his hands.

He stepped behind her, and her breath hitched. She could feel him—his presence, his control—before he even touched her. Her pulse thudded in her throat as he fastened the clasp with practiced ease. The chain settled against her skin like ice, the jewel resting just above her collarbone, gleaming like a brand.

Her chest tightened.

It felt too snug. Too heavy. Like it had weight beyond gold.

“Mabel,” he said, stepping around her. His boots clicked against the polished floor, each step measured, final. He stopped in front of her and reached out, seizing her chin between his fingers.

She flinched but didn't pull away.

“You will make this work,” he said, voice low and laced with venom. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her skin. Her jaw throbbed beneath the pressure, but she held his gaze, even as tears welled. “Do you understand me?” he growled.

She nodded, barely.

“Do. You. Understand?” he roared, shoving her backward.

She stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the table, one hand flying to her jaw. Her breath came in shallow bursts, chest rising and falling like a trapped bird.

“Y-yes, my king,” she whispered, voice trembling.

“Good,” he said, already turning away. “We will return once you've secured your place by his side. I expect a wedding.”

Her mother only offered a glance before she slipped out with Cavric.

And then they were gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

And the necklace—cold against her skin—pulsed like a warning.

Mabel stood frozen, tears slipping down her cheeks, her entire body shivering. She couldn't believe their cruelty, and yet … she could. They meant every word.

They always had. She wasn't a daughter to them. She was a deal. A strategy.

All she had ever wanted was to be seen. To be loved. Instead, she was punished for wanting anything at all.

She wiped her face with trembling fingers. You have to be good for Theodore, she reminded herself. You've been trained for it. And yet, her chest tightened. Why can't they see how hard I'm trying?

Mabel sank onto the bench, the wood cold beneath her. Her hands covered her face, but they couldn't muffle the sobs that broke from her chest—raw, uneven, impossible to hide. She tried to silence them, tried to swallow the sound, but grief had no interest in discretion.

The footsteps nearing her made her freeze. She looked up.

Lance stood, arms tucked behind his back, gaze unreadable with practiced indifference. He studied her with a calm too calculated to be kind.

“Can I help you?” she asked, quickly wiping away her tears.

He huffed a soft laugh. “I could ask the same of you, Miss Ravenov.”

She narrowed her gaze. “If you're here to mock me—”

“I'm not,” he said, stepping closer. “I came for this.” He leaned in slowly. His breath brushed her cheek.

She flinched, color rising, but he reached past her and plucked the half-empty bottle of wine from behind her seat. Straightened. Held it up as though it had been obvious.

“What, you already drained the first one?” she scoffed.

“I don't drink,” he said, smirking. “It's for them.” He nodded toward the archway.

Two women lounged there, draped in sheer fabrics, flushed and languid. One blonde, one brunette. Both were watching Mabel with feline interest.

“You look like you have some things to forget,” he purred, then leaned down, eyes level with hers. “Let me help with that.” The smile on his lips was wicked.

The blonde tilted her head, lips curling. “Come on, darling. Have some fun.”

“We don't bite,” the brunette added, “unless asked.”

Mabel inhaled, sharp and steady. The laugh that followed was dry, brittle.

“You've got some nerve,” she said, her gaze moving past Lance to the women. “Calling me a whore as if your debauchery isn't parading itself in the hallway. I am a princess. I will not take part in such a spectacle.”

“Don't be so proud,” Lance scoffed. “As if your precious Theodore doesn't seek out the same indulgences.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped.

“Don't be naive.” He rolled his eyes, amusement curling in his voice. “You expect a man like that to remain faithful?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” her voice faltered.

“I'm afraid you'll have to ask him that. I don't keep track of every whore my brother brings home—or visits.” He turned on his heel.

“You're lying,” she said, rising to her feet.

He paused mid-stride, glancing back. “I don't lie, Miss Ravenov. That's more Theo's specialty.”

Mabel scoffed. “It's actually quite pathetic. You're so obviously jealous of him,” she said coldly.

“Piss off,” he muttered, disappearing with the women.

She watched him go, jaw tight. He was trying to get under her skin. She knew that.

Still, the words lingered.

Would Theodore betray her? He seemed so genuine. So kind. Until dinner—until that flash of rage toward Lance. But that was just a brother's quarrel. Wasn't it?

She pushed the thought aside and left the hall, spine straight, heart unsteady.

Her steps were slow, carrying her through the quiet corridors until the familiar door to her room came into view. There, Theodore waited, leaned casually against the frame, hands tucked behind his back like he'd been rehearsing patience.

At the sight of her, his posture shifted. The smile that bloomed on his face was real, warm, but it dimmed almost instantly as she neared. Her features were strained, her expression stripped bare.

He stepped forward, voice hushed with care. “Are you alright?”

Mabel paused just shy of his touch, her eyes lingering on him, reading every inch of his face. Her father's words rang in her ears.

“I'm fine,” she insisted, her voice small. “I'll just … miss my parents is all.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor, shoulders hunched slightly inward, the lie brittle.

Theodore studied her in silence, his gaze soft and steady. Then he stepped forward, his hands hovering near her waist like a question. Mabel answered by leaning in, her body folding into the comfort he offered, letting herself be wrapped in his arms.

He held her close, the tension in her shoulders easing beneath the weight of his warmth. In his embrace, the world stilled just enough for her breath to come easier.

“The good news,” he cooed against her hair, “is they're gone.”

She tensed in his arms. Had he seen through her that easily?

He paused, then tilted her chin with the gentlest touch, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “And you,” he said with a smile that dared to promise something golden, “are going to have the best Yule of your life.”

The smile snuck onto her lips before she could stop it, coaxed effortlessly by Theodore's charm. “Promise?” she whispered, the word barely reaching the air between them.

“I promise,” he said, grinning as he leaned in and kissed her, soft and fleeting, but enough to leave her heart drumming wildly in her chest.

When he pulled back, something appeared between them. A white rose, crisp and delicate, held gently in his fingers. Mabel gasped, delight blooming across her face. “Where did this come from?”

He handed it over, her fingers brushing his as she took the stem with reverence.

“My mother's obsessed with roses,” he said, voice honeyed. “She cultivates dozens. She won't miss one.”

Mabel narrowed her eyes playfully. “You stole this?”

“Stole?” Theodore feigned scandal, stepping closer until their foreheads nearly touched. “Borrowed, permanently. Don't tell anyone—they take fingers for less.”

Mabel giggled softly before the moment shifted, sweetness folding into something quieter. Their eyes met, and all the noise of the day seemed to hush around them.

Theodore leaned in, his touch gentle as he pressed a final kiss to her lips. It wasn't rushed, nor lingering, just a delicate goodbye tucked into the space between them.

“I came to say goodnight,” he said, voice threaded with warmth.

“Then say it,” she whispered, breath tickling the petals of the rose as she absently twirled it in her fingers.

He hesitated, his gaze tracing the curve of her jaw, the slope of her shoulders, as if trying to memorize her entirely. “Goodnight, Princess,” he said quietly, reluctant to let the words leave his mouth.

“Goodnight, my prince,” she replied, a playful purr laced beneath the tenderness.

The silence hung for a beat longer; the weight of his gaze still wrapped around her. Then, with one final smile, Theodore turned and slipped into the hallway.

Mabel lingered in the quiet, the warmth of Theodore's presence still clinging to her skin. Then, with a soft exhale, she pushed open the heavy wooden door to her chambers.

Inside, the only sound was the soft, steady snore of Ada, curled atop the covers in her dress, clearly having fallen asleep waiting.

Mabel crossed the room with care, placing the white rose in a nearby glass of water Ada no doubt left out for her. She paused to inhale its scent one last time—crisp, grounding—before beginning the slow process of undressing.

Her fingers worked at the fastenings, clumsy but determined. It was a labor, one she welcomed. She needed the stillness to think through everything. Theodore's touch, his laughter, the effortless way he made space for her.

She had spent years worrying about what this moment would be—how it should feel, what it would cost. And yet, it had unfolded like breathing. Like something easy. Enchanting.

Her fingers found the latch of the gold chain, gently unclasping it. She eyed the gem with a pointed stare, brow furrowing as she set it down on her vanity.

Why can't they see that? How much I've given to the performance? My grace, my restraint. Even when her cheeks betrayed her, even when Theodore's smile made her stumble, she had him captivated. And still, her parents refused to see it.

She slipped into the nightgown Ada had laid out, the fabric cool against her skin, and drifted toward the arched window. The sky beyond was a blur of cloud and darkness. No constellations, no guiding shapes.

But she lifted her gaze anyway. He would hear her, even unseen.

Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees. The stone's cold bite seeped through the thin cloth, grounding her. One deep breath steadied her trembling hands as she folded them together.

“Auren,” she whispered, eyes searching the dark sky as though it might answer. “I've heard the stories—The Great Stag who forged The Old Ones' alliance among the gods. They say you rule passion, leadership … peace.” The word caught in her throat. She drew in a shaky breath. “I could use some of that. Peace. Guidance, while Meryth is silent. I'm”—a soft, broken laugh escaped her—“I'm lost without it.”

Tears pricked, but she blinked them back, staring up at the faint shimmer of starlight as if it might steady her. For a long moment, she simply kneeled there. Breathing, hoping.

At last, she rose, the sigh leaving her like a small surrender. “That's all, I think,” she whispered. “Oh, and if you see Meryth, tell her I said hi.”

She padded over to the large, plush bed, carefully easing in next to Ada.

Ada stirred with a sleepy hum. “Mabel … sorry, I must've drifted off. I'll go.”

“Stay,” Mabel said, the word gentle, almost fragile. She didn't lift her eyes.

Ada blinked fully awake, concern flickering behind her gaze. “Are you alright?”

There was a beat of silence before Mabel responded. “Just my father being cruel as always,” she whispered, the truth barely audible.

Ada didn't press further. She simply nodded, kicked off her shoes, and slipped closer beneath the covers. Her hand found Mabel's hair, smoothing it softly, as she had done since Mabel was a child—no words, just presence. Familiar. Steady.

Ada stayed close, her presence grounding. She watched as Mabel's breathing began to slow, the tension gradually unwinding from her shoulders. With each gentle stroke of her fingers through Mabel's hair, the worries of the day softened, fading into candlelight and silence.

Mabel's eyes fluttered closed. Ada kept her gaze on her friend, listening to the steady rhythm of sleep take hold.

She didn't move, didn't speak, just stayed beside her, protecting the peace that had finally found its way in.

Night folded quietly around them, its hush deep. Ada felt the pull of sleep begin to settle into her bones. With a soft sigh, she eased closer, her arm instinctively draping over Mabel in a gesture threaded with protection and love.

They slept like that—two figures tangled in comfort and sisterhood—until morning cracked gently through the arched windows. Pale light spilled across the floor, creeping over blankets and tangled curls.

Mabel stirred first, blinking against the soft rays. Her skin was flushed, breath heavy from the dream that had forced her from sleep. She stretched beneath the covers, and turned her gaze to Ada still nestled beside her, mouth slightly parted in sleep.

A smile spread across Mabel's face, grateful. In a world where so much felt delicate and uncertain, Ada's presence was a steady kind of magic.

Mabel rose with care, mindful of Ada's rhythmic breathing beside her. She peeled back the blankets and slipped free, her feet meeting the cold stone with a soft thud. The chill climbed her spine, but she welcomed it. It felt honest, a contrast to the darkness she'd carried in her dreams.

She crossed the room on silent steps, the hem of her nightgown trailing against stone. At the window, she pressed her palms to the panes and eased them open. The morning air rushed in, crisp and silver-edged, brushing her cheeks and stirring her curls.

She stood there for a moment, letting it wake her fully, reminding her she was here, still unfolding.

But the morning air did little to cool the flush rising in her chest.

Mabel's thoughts twisted, reluctant and fierce, toward the dreams that had invaded her sleep without permission. Her skin still remembered them—feverish, vulgar—ghosts of touches she hadn't asked for, hadn't wanted. Not really.

Skin against skin, hot and undignified.

Breath mingling, lips covering hers and more against her skin.

Hands everywhere. Hair, hips …

Lance.

Her jaw tightened as she stared through the window, breath steaming faintly against the chill. Rage flared behind her ribs—at her mind, at the betrayal of her own subconscious. How could it conjure such shameless imagery? That man's mouth on her skin, her name curling on his tongue like sin.

It was wrong. It was maddening.

“I asked for peace,” she grumbled toward the sky, shaking her head as her grip tightened on the sill.

But beneath the anger, something lingered. A sting of pleasure, the barest flicker that refused to die. And it made her pulse leap, traitorous and alive, before she could shove the memory down.

Her hand lifted, slowly, tracing along her arm as his hands had. Her eyes felled closed. A shiver ran down her spine. It was as though her body remembered his touch, even if he'd never laid a finger on her.

Maybe it was wrong. But it was only a dream.

5

The days passed like petals on a breeze, soft, fleeting, and full of color. She spent them at Theodore's side, wandering through chilly gardens and shadowed corridors, listening as he spoke of Aurevyn in stories that shimmered with myth and memory. His presence had become familiar, comforting. With each shared glance, each brush of his hand against hers, her heart leaned further into him.

She didn't know if he felt it too, that slow, sweet pull between them. But she hoped. Fiercely.

He was never shy with affection. If anything, he lavished it on her with an almost reckless devotion. His touch was constant, tender one moment, possessive the next.

Fingers threading through hers as they walked, then trailing along the curve of her skin like he couldn't bear any distance. He had a way of teasing that left her breathless, always knowing just how to unravel her composure with a look, a word, a lingering touch when no one else was watching.

And yet, beneath the warmth and the thrill, a question stirred. Was this the truth of him—or a performance meant to charm? She wanted to believe in the sincerity, but some part of her still wondered where the line between affection and artifice truly lay.

Lance's warning lingered like smoke in the back of her mind. Theodore had done nothing to warrant suspicion, and still, the words refused to fade. Perhaps it was their shape—too precise, too unsettling—to be entirely false.

Mabel's gaze lingered on Theodore from across the breakfast table, her thoughts twisting in directions she hadn't invited. Unbidden, images of him entwined with faceless women flickered behind her eyes, taunting, unwelcome.

It doesn't matter. That was before. She clung to the thought like it were armor. He wouldn't do that.

“You're quiet today,” Theodore observed, his smile polished and effortless. “And barely a nibble.” He'd braided his hair on either side, leaving the loose waves of golden hair on top.

“I'm just … not very hungry,” she offered sheepishly, eyes fixed on the untouched food before her.

He studied her. Concern flickered behind his composed exterior. “Something wrong, Princess?”

“No,” she said too fast.

Theodore's smile returned, but softer now. He stood, crossing the small space with care. She didn't lift her head as he stopped behind her.

His fingers threaded slowly through her copper curls, the gesture intimate and searching. Leaning close, his breath fanned her skin.

“I think you're lying,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear before kissing the space beneath it.

A breath caught in her throat. “I-I'm not.” Her voice trembled with the effort of steadiness as warmth bloomed across her cheeks.

“You're a terrible liar,” he said with a smirk, eyes gleaming with certainty. “You have a tell.”

Mabel said nothing.

His fingers slipped through her hair, gathering it back as his lips traced a path down the column of her neck. She kept her body still, heart galloping just beneath her chest.

“You speak too fast,” he continued, sending shivers across her skin. “And that blush … Though to be fair, I see it bloom under the gentlest breeze.” His laughter ghosted across her throat, light and warm. She pressed her lips together, determined not to react. “I'm not sure why you're pretending I'm not here,” he hummed, almost lazily, as though savoring a private game. “But I'll get your answer eventually.”

A tremor slipped down Mabel's spine. Theodore's hands moved with purpose, gliding along her waist, then upward, fingertips skimming the curve of her ribs. She couldn't suppress the breath that escaped as his lips met the hollow beneath her jaw. One hand cradled the back of her neck, coaxing her head back as his teeth grazed tender skin in a slow drag.

“There're certainly other ways to de-stress. I'd be happy to help,” he breethd against her skin.

She stiffened, thoughts of him with other women returning full force. “C-can I ask you a question?” she asked, hesitant.

“Anything,” he purred.

“How many women have you slept with?” The words tumbled out in a rush.

Theodore nearly choked. “What?” He blinked, stunned by her sudden boldness. Surely he had misheard.

She glanced down, uncertain, already regretting the question. “I'm just curious.”

Theodore cleared his throat, briefly glancing aside before fixing his gaze back on her. “Just women?” he asked, the smile on his face deceptively innocent.

Mabel's expression shifted. Her eyes widened, head turning to look up at him. “What?” she breethd.

Theodore extended his hand for her to take. She hesitantly accepted it, rising from the bench. “Mabel,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “We are too young to deny ourselves such pleasures in life.” His smile curved, edged with something darker. “Do you really want to know the answer?”

Mabel stared up at him, trying to bury the unease rising in her chest. “Yes,” she said, though her voice betrayed her, trembling at the edges.

Theodore's hand slipped around her waist, drawing her in. “Honestly?” he asked, biting his lip, gaze drifting as if searching his memory. “I've lost count.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. That was not the answer she was ready for.

“But since we're asking,” he went on, tone effortless. “How many men have you slept with?”

She dropped her gaze, cleared her throat. A step back—denied. His grip around her waist tightened, firm and coaxing. “How many?” he asked, tilting her chin up until her eyes met his.

“None,” she breethd.

His smile came slow, smug, and wholly unfazed. It only made her heart race faster. “Don't be embarrassed.” Theodore gently threaded his fingers through hers, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Any other questions, Princess?”

Mabel's gaze dropped, the heat in her cheeks refusing to fade. “Are you …” She paused, gathering herself with a breath. “Still seeing anyone?”

His eyes sharpened, something unreadable passing through them. Mabel didn't miss it—the flicker, fleeting but telling. He held her gaze, a beat too long.

“No,” he said at last, voice smooth and paired with a smile.

The unease twisted in her chest, stubborn. She wanted to trust him, needed to believe him. Yet her gaze slipped downward, settling in the space between them.

Would he lie to me?

Her eyes lifted again, tracing his features as if they held the answer. There was no proof he'd lied, no hard reason to doubt him, only Lance's cruel accusations, and that breath of hesitation Theodore hadn't quite masked.

Theodore lowered his head until their eyes met. “Mabel.” Her name, spoken gently, hushed the tangle of thoughts crowding her mind. “Talk to me.”

She cleared her throat, faltering. “Sorry—I … okay.” A faint smile tugged at her lips, uncertain and fragile.

He kissed her forehead with reassurance, anchoring her. “What made you ask?” His gaze lingered, searching.

She turned from him slightly. “Just curious.”

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You're lying.” His voice was warm, teasing, but his eyes didn't waver.

She hesitated, letting a beat of silence pass before whispering, “Someone told me I should ask.”

Theodore's expression darkened. “Who?”

She faltered. “Theodore—”

“Who?” His voice rose, not much, but enough to make her flinch.

“Your brother,” she whispered, as if the words themselves might stir trouble.

His eyes hardened. The air between them shifted, heavy with something sharp. Anger began to curl quietly in his chest.

“You actually believed him?” Theodore stepped back, voice tinged with disbelief. “Over me?”

“No—Theodore, I didn't …” Mabel shook her head, reaching for steadiness she didn't feel.

“Have you been talking to him?” His eyes narrowed, fury stirring beneath the surface.

“I haven't. He …” Her words faltered. The memory of him in the hall still flickered in her mind, and with it, the instinct to protect the fragile ground they stood on. The truth was complicated—dangerous in its entirety.

“He stopped me. A few nights ago.” Her voice was quiet, measured. “I should've dismissed it, but …” Her breath caught. “I let doubt creep in, and I'm sorry.”

Theodore didn't respond. He held himself rigid, gaze unreadable save for the way he inhaled, slow and controlled.

What did I just do? Mabel's mind screamed at her. Did I just ruin this?

Her mind went quiet as his lips curved into a gentle smile. “It's okay,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms. “You're young. Naive.” The word landed sharp, cutting through the softness. Something heavy settled in Mabel's chest. Is that all he sees? Just a child who doesn't know any better?

“And you won't do it again.” It wasn't a suggestion. It rang with finality.

She edged back instinctively, but his arms remained, a barrier as much as an embrace. “What?” The word tumbled out, barely audible.

“You will not speak to Lance again.” His smile lingered, but the warmth had drained from it. “That isn't a request.”

Mabel looked up at him, her heart pounding in protest. Avoiding Lance was easy. She wanted that. But this rule—this law—only diminished her further. It wasn't about Lance anymore. It was about how effortlessly her choices could be stripped away.

It reminded her, sharply, just how little say she had in things that touched her life. Her voice, it seemed, wasn't meant to shape the rules. Only obey them, like always.

“Of course,” she said, instinctive, protective.

And for the first time, her stomach twisted sickeningly as he pressed his lips to hers. It lacked the tenderness he usually held, replaced with a hunger, a desire she hadn't felt from him before. He staked claim to her mouth as if he owned it, owned her, forcing her lips open as he backed her against the table with a possessiveness that bordered on obsessive.

His hands lifted her effortlessly, lips never leaving hers, and set her atop the wooden table, pressing himself between her legs as if he belonged there.

Her hands trembled, eyes wide, her heartbeat pounding so hard she was afraid it might burst. She knew it was too good to be true. Fate had always found a way to be cruel to her. But this time, the sting bit a little harder.

She gasped for breath as he broke away, but he didn't relent. He trailed down her jaw, then the curve of her neck, teeth sinking in hard enough to make her flinch.

But she tensed further as his hand began gathering her skirts and lifting. Defiance—no—self-respect building just enough confidence to press a trembling hand to his chest.

“May I leave?” Her voice wavered, barely more than a breath.

Theodore froze, tearing himself away to look at her. “Mabel—”

“Please.” It slipped out soft and broken, but firm in its plea.

Theodore's arms fell away. She didn't hesitate. Slipping quickly from the table, she turned sharply toward the archway and vanished into the corridor beyond.

Her steps quickened as she rounded the corner, urgency rising with each breath. She wouldn't let him see her like this. Not unraveling. Tears burned down her cheeks, unstoppable.

A sob escaped, raw and sudden. She clamped a hand over her mouth, choking it back.

“Mabel?” Theodore's voice chased after her, but she didn't slow.

She tried one door—locked. Another—no yield. Panic flared until, finally, one gave way. She stumbled inside, barely catching herself before slamming it shut behind her.

Shaky gasps broke from her lips, tangled with tears too fierce to hold back. Her back hit the door as she slid down, knees pulled close, heart hammering with no sign of slowing.

“Hello?” The voice startled her. Her breath caught mid-sob. She looked up—and there was Frey.

Of course. Her stomach twisted. It would be his mother …

Words failed her. They sank somewhere behind the panic.

“Mabel?” Frey's voice softened as she stepped forward, cautious and tender, as if the wrong note might shatter what remained of Mabel's composure.

“Oh, sweetheart—what happened?” Frey kneeled slowly in front of her; concern etched in every line of her face.

“I-I'm not sure,” Mabel whispered, voice trembling. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“Hush now,” Frey said gently, her tone warm and steady. She extended her hand, offering comfort without pressure.

Mabel stared at it for a moment, wary, then reached out, fingers brushing Frey's. She let herself be guided to her feet, where Frey took both her hands, grounding her.

The tears came again, silent but relentless, as Frey folded her into an embrace. Frey's fingers combed gently through Mabel's curls, her voice lingering with a soothing hum. “Feel it,” she whispered, “then let it go.”

Mabel clung to her, letting the sobs unravel freely, each breath hitching with emotion too heavy to carry alone.

She'd never known such maternal comfort. Her own mother never held her like this. And for once she felt … safe. The thought alone made her tears swell further.

They stayed there like that, wordless, wrapped in warmth and sorrow. Only her cries broke the stillness, until they eased into soft sniffles … and finally, finally, into the hush of steady breathing.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” Frey asked softly, no judgment in her tone.

Mabel shook her head, pulling away. She couldn't. Not with her.

Frey nodded. “I understand. But, if you ever need it, I am an exceptionally good listener.” Her smile warmed something in Mabel. It didn't fix the ache, but it dulled it.

“Would you mind”—she took a breath—“if I waited in here? Just for a moment.”

“I don't mind at all, dear,” Frey said, but her brows knit together in concern. “You're not in danger, are you?”

Mabel gave her a soft smile, shaking her head. “No, no danger.”

Frey gave her hand a gentle squeeze before slipping back toward her desk, leaving Mabel standing amid the calm.

She glanced around, finally absorbing the room. A spacious, sun-drenched chamber humming with energy. Shelves groaned with ancient tomes; their worn spines stamped in fading gold.

Glass cases held relics that shimmered faintly in the light. Papers and vials were scattered across a wide desk, flanked by leafy plants climbing toward the windows, trailing from ceiling hooks, and blooming in pots tucked into corners. A glass globe shimmered faintly near the window.

This was Frey's study. And it felt alive. Magic lingered in its depths.

Frey noticed the way Mabel's gaze lingered, eyeing the space with wonder. She watched her thoughtfully. That spark of magic she sensed in the girl—it hadn't faded.

No, it flickered still. How could her father have missed it? Or worse—ignored it.

“It's a bit cluttered.” She broke the quiet with a warm smile, easing toward a worn shelf. Her fingers traced the spines until one book caught her eye. She drew it out carefully, blowing dust from the faded cover. “Come.”

Mabel stepped forward, curiosity edging past the remnants of sorrow. Frey laid the book gently on the table, opening it with care. Her finger landed on a word etched in an unfamiliar script.

“Read it.”

Mabel blinked, hesitant. “What? I don't—”

“Read it,” Frey repeated, her voice soft with certainty.

Mabel leaned in, eyes narrowing at the markings. They weren't letters in any script she recognized, closer to a sigil than a word. Her gaze followed each curve, each jagged stroke, until a whisper grazed her ear.

She flinched, spinning to check the empty space behind her.

Nothing.

Her breath caught as she turned back to the page. The ink shimmered faintly, like it had been waiting for her.

The whisper came again, clearer.

She listened.

“It says … 'magic'?” Her voice carried hesitation. Mabel gasped as she felt a rush of energy fly through her. It pulsed along her skin, hair standing, skin pricking. And just as quickly as it came, it vanished.

“What was that?” she asked, eyes wide with wonder.

Frey's lips curved slightly. “I knew it.” She beamed, as if she'd been waiting for this moment all along.

“Knew what?” Mabel's voice was barely above a breath as she turned back to the sigil. It pulsed with something ancient. The word echoed again, a whisper curling against her ear. Magic.

She stiffened. What was that voice?

Frey's smile softened, touched not just with warmth, but with something older—something knowing. “You are a daughter of Veyra, dear.”

Mabel's breath caught. “What do you mean? How can you be sure?” Her voice was tight, wrapped in disbelief.

Frey tilted her head, eyes steady and kind. “When you know magic as long as I have, you can sense even the faintest trace in someone. It's strong in you.”

Mabel blinked. “Is it?” she whispered.

“Magic lives in you, Mabel,” Frey said. “It's in your blood, every beat of your heart.” She stepped closer, voice gentling. “I can teach you. Help you shape the wild energy that stirs inside you. Let it become something powerful … something yours.” Her hands took Mabel's once again, squeezing them.

“I—my father,” Mabel started, but Frey shook her head.

“You are under my roof, my care. He has no power over you here.”

Mabel smiled, really smiled. “Okay.” She nodded. “When do we start?”

The hours slipped by, marked by the turning of pages. Frey guided Mabel through the foundations of magic—its ancient roots, the natural forces it mirrored, the delicate balance it demanded, and the way it could sense the soul behind the spell. Magic wasn't brute force. It was intuition. Intention. Will.

“All magic,” Frey said quietly, her voice tinged with sorrow, “comes from Velmira. Which means, somewhere in your bloodline, you carry its legacy.”

Mabel's gaze lifted, wide-eyed. “I do?”

Frey nodded. “Velmira was once the heart of arcane study. It was blessed by Veyra, the goddess of magic. The most powerful sorcery in all of Valken was born there. Not just in its scholars, but in every living thing.”

She paused, lips pressed tight. “But you know how it ended. Velmira was destroyed—by our own hands, no less.”

“Where was Veyra?” Mabel asked quietly.

Frey sighed. “I think The Old Ones turned an eye that day.”

Mabel glanced down at the book between them; its pages filled with sketches of Velmirian woods and the Lone Wolf constellation—Veyra—howling into the stars.

“Lance,” Frey said quietly, “may be the last of them.”

Mabel's head snapped up. “Lance is Velmirian?”

Frey's expression softened into something mournful. “Thalen found him during the siege. He couldn't bring himself to strike. Lance was just an infant.” She shook her head, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “And thank the stars he didn't. That boy … he saved me.”

Mabel saw it then—the shift in Frey's eyes. Grief, yes, but also love. Fierce and unyielding.

“I had just given birth to a baby girl,” Frey whispered. “Fiona. She died of illness right before Thalen left for war. And Thalen … He'd just lost his father. We lost our child.

We were drowning.” Her voice cracked. “If I hadn't been so broken, maybe I could've stopped him. Maybe I could've talked him down.”

“You were grieving,” Mabel said gently, reaching for her hand. “You couldn't have known.”

“I know,” Frey squeezed her fingers, her smile aching. “But that kind of pain never leaves. Losing a child … it carves something out of you.” She paused for a moment, her eyes distant before turning to Mabel. “Then Thalen brought Lance home,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “He needed someone. And so did I.” She blinked away tears. “Twenty-two years later—look at him now.

He's become something extraordinary. He'd be furious if he knew I was telling you this,” she added with a broken laugh.

“It's your story,” Mabel said.

Frey smiled. “And his.”

“All of this to say,”—she exhaled, pressing her palms to her face before flipping to the next page. Her finger landed on a line of text—“true Velmirians held the strongest magic of all. Lance is no exception. You could learn a great deal from him.”

Mabel pursed her lips. She knew he wouldn't be satisfied with that arrangement. He'd made his distaste of her clear. Theodore would also be less than pleased.

The lessons continued. Mabel listened closely, scribbling notes in the blank journal Frey had given her. She filled each page with snippets of meaning, sketches of glyphs, and the rising joy that this world wasn't locked to her after all.

Finally, when Frey was satisfied, she cleared a space on the table and laid out a parchment. A single incantation had been drawn in looping ink, encircled with runes.

Frey clasped her hands with an encouraging smile. “We'll start with illusion work. You will simply picture the image you want to project and let it manifest. Don't force it—just feel the magic, let it move through you.”

She gave a brief demonstration, lifting her hand. A shimmering shape formed in the air beside her—an elegant deer, translucent and glowing faintly, as if made of morning mist.

“It doesn't need to be lifelike,” Frey added. “Only visible.”

Mabel nodded, heart fluttering as she stepped forward. Her eyes closed.

A bird, she thought. Something light. Something free.

She held out her hand, imagining the delicate weight of it perched on her palm, the curve of its wings, the softness of its feathers. Her breathing slowed. She whispered the incantation.

She felt a faint pulse under her skin. Something stirred—something small but real.

“Oh!” Frey's voice broke gently through the quiet. “Delightful.”

Mabel opened her eyes and gasped. A tiny illusion of a bird sat in her palm, glowing faintly with her magic. She laughed, astonished. She had done that. She had made it real.

“Try making it fly,” Frey encouraged.

Mabel nodded and focused again. She pictured its wings unfurling—watched in awe as they did. The bird flapped once, then again, rising from her hand. It swooped through the air, weaving between the hanging plants and circling overhead.

Mabel giggled, joy swelling in her chest.

“Wonderful!” Frey beamed. “You do have magic—and quite the touch for it, too.”

The illusion bird continued to flutter lazily overhead, but Mabel had gone still, her gaze following it in stunned silence.

I have magic.

The thought settled over, soft, but impossible to ignore. Not a dream, not another thing expected of her—but hers. Magic was in her.

It answered when she called, listened when she reached. For the first time, she wasn't just pretending to belong in this world.

The bird let out a warbled chirp, wings pulsing like a heartbeat, and Mabel felt a smile bloom from somewhere deep in her chest.

A knock came at the door, but Mabel was too absorbed in her illusion to notice. Her focus was fixed on the bird perched in her palm, its delicate wings shimmering with false life.

Frey moved to the entrance and opened it with a knowing smile. “Ah, Lance,” she said warmly, stepping aside. “Come in.”

At the sound of his name, Mabel turned. Her smile vanished. The illusion bird darted toward Lance in a blur of green feathers.

“What the—” He ducked instinctively as the image swooped past his face.

Mabel gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth. Did I do that? She waved her hands quickly, and the bird dissolved into light, vanishing with a soft pop.

Frey laughed softly, patting Lance's shoulder. “Mabel's having her first magic lesson,” she said brightly.

Lance blinked, then turned fully into the room, his eyes finding Mabel's. Their gaze held for a beat too long before he finally said, “You made that?”

She hesitated, looking away from him. “I … guess I did.”

“She did,” Frey confirmed proudly. “And it was marvelous.”

“Do it again,” Lance said, folding his arms. “Show me.”

The air thinned as Mabel's chest tightened. Lance's gaze scraped against her focus, stirring something raw—anger, maybe. She straightened, fighting the urge to snap, unwilling to stir trouble in Frey's presence. A sharp glance was all she spared him before forcing her attention forward.

But her concentration faltered. His presence clung to her thoughts like frost. She sighed quietly, warmth rising to her cheeks. “Just … give me a moment.”

“Take your time, Miss Ravenov,” Lance drawled.

Frey swatted his arm without missing a beat. “Do not belittle her,” she said, calm but firm.

Lance pressed his lips together, muttered a half-hearted apology, then looked away.

Mabel didn't acknowledge it. She inhaled deeply, shutting her eyes tighter. Forget him. Just focus. She returned to the memory—the bird, its feathers, wings whispering through the air. Her heartbeat followed its rhythm.

When she opened her eyes, it was real.

A luminous green bird nestled in her palms, blinking up at her with patient trust.

Mabel's breath hitched with joy. She smiled.

Then it took flight, its emerald plumage catching the light as it spun in a wide arc above them.

“Incredible,” Frey breethd, clasping her hands together.

As the bird neared the tall bookshelf, a flicker of light shimmered across the spine of an old tome, followed by movement.

A black serpent slithered from the shadows, coiling along the edge before rearing back, fangs poised to strike.

“Don't!” Mabel gasped.

But the serpent lunged.

It pierced her illusion midair, and for a breathless moment, Mabel felt the phantom bite bloom in her chest. The conjured bird burst apart in a cascade of shimmer.

Lance tilted his head, smug. “Oops,” he said, voice laced with mock innocence.

Mabel turned away, heat rising in her cheeks, frustration knotting behind her eyes. She clenched her jaw, refusing to meet his gaze.

Frey swatted his arm again with practiced irritation. “Don't be a show-off,” she scolded, though the fondness in her tone softened the blow.

“That wasn't showing off,” Lance muttered, his eyes still locked on Mabel.

She didn't respond. Didn't look at him.

But she felt the weight of his stare like a challenge she wasn't ready to answer.

“Mother,” Lance said, shifting his attention. His tone was different now, measured. “There is something I needed to discuss with you.”

Frey tilted her head, curious. “Of course, my child.”

His eyes lingered on Mabel, unreadable, before returning to his mother. “May I speak with you in the hall?”

Frey nodded, her gaze sweeping once more toward Mabel before stepping out. The door clicked softly shut behind them, leaving her alone with the stillness.

With the room hushed once more, Mabel rested against the edge of Frey's desk, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm into the polished wood. The silence stretched. She glanced toward the closed door, then back to the spellbook.

She drew a steady breath, closing her eyes.

This time, she envisioned something deeper. Not just beautiful, meaningful. A raven.

When she opened her eyes, light cracked sharply beside her. A raven materialized, dark as ink and twice as silent, hopping across the floor with delicate grace. Its head tilted, watching her.

Mabel dropped to her knees, breath caught. Awe swelled in her chest. It hopped over to her, pecking at the jeweled necklace she wore, seemingly irritated with it.

She gasped and stood, startled, as the raven looked up. Slowly, she crouched again and reached out, fingertips brushing soft feathers. It felt real. Not just light or illusion, but presence.

The raven stepped lightly onto her arm. Mabel bit back a squeal of delight.

“You're beautiful,” she whispered, stroking its inky feathers. The raven bobbed, then climbed onto her shoulder. She caught her reflection in a glass case across the room—a girl standing tall with a raven perched at her side.

She smiled. This … this looked like someone with magic.

The door eased shut with a soft click behind Queen Frey as she reentered the room. Her eyes immediately landed on the raven perched neatly on Mabel's shoulder, and she let out a delighted coo.

“It's magnificent,” she whispered, crossing the room. She extended a hand toward the bird, smiling as her fingers brushed against its glossy feathers. “You've given it remarkable detail—it almost breathes.”

Mabel beamed, one hand gently steadying the illusion. “Back home, I used to sit for hours just watching them. Some would come close enough to eat from my hands. I always wanted one, but my father would never allow it. Said they were filthy.”

Frey hummed in sympathy, her gaze softening. “I have an aviary—dozens of birds from all over the kingdom. Would you care to visit it?”

Mabel's eyes widened, her smile breaking into something radiant. “Really?” She gasped. “I'd love to.”

Mabel followed Frey out of the study, steps quiet against the stone as firelight danced along the corridor walls. Ahead, just at the edge of the hall's curve, Lance disappeared around the corner. Her brows drew together instinctively.

Frey caught the shift in her expression and followed her line of sight. “Don't let him get under your skin,” she said. “He can be cruel—but it's a ruse.”

Mabel didn't quite believe it, but she played along. “How so?”

“He just brought word of a village not far from here,” Frey replied. “They've sent a plea for help—this winter's been harsh. He asked for my support, wanted me to help convince King Thalen.”

Mabel blinked. That wasn't what she expected—not from him.

“My husband can be infuriating,” Frey added with a laugh, “but he's wise enough to listen when I insist.” Mabel smiled faintly, the tension in the air loosening.

Then Frey's voice softened. “Lance is kind. It takes time to get there, but he is. He has enough adversaries in this house—I'd prefer you weren't one of them.” Her gaze lingered on Mabel.

Mabel felt the irony tighten in her chest. Excellent, she thought bitterly, Theodore will be thrilled.

But she didn't argue. Just nodded.

They walked in silence toward a pair of grand wooden doors; the grains worn from time and history. Two guards stood beside them, straightening as the women approached. With practiced grace, they pulled the doors open.

Beyond, a gentle chorus of birdsong spilled out, warm and welcoming, like nature itself had risen to greet them.

The aviary felt like a secret tucked away from the world—warm sunlight filtering through panels of glass above, casting golden beams across lush greenery and the soft rustle of wings. The air was sweet with blossoms and birdsong, a living lullaby that settled into Mabel's chest and quieted everything else.

She stood in the center, breath caught. It was far larger than she'd imagined, more like a sanctuary than a cage. Birds of every color flitted through the trees and branches, their feathers catching light in flight.

“They're all so beautiful,” she said, wonder softening her voice.

Frey stood beside her, smiling fondly. “I've raised each one of them from hatchlings. Whenever I find an abandoned nest, I bring it here.”

As if summoned by memory, a bright-feathered finch darted to Frey's shoulder with a cheerful trill. She lifted her hand, conjuring a scatter of birdseed with a simple gesture. The finch fluttered down, pecking contentedly at her palm.

“Go on,” Frey said gently. “Hold out your arm.”

Mabel obeyed slowly, eyes fluttering closed as she lifted her arm. She waited, still as stone, until she felt the unmistakable weight of talons settling on her skin—firmer than she expected, and somehow familiar.

She opened her eyes.

A raven—sleek and shadow-dark—perched on her arm, head tilted, watching her. Remarkably similar to the one she had conjured moments before.

Mabel's breath hitched. “Hello,” she whispered.

The raven leaned forward and tugged playfully at the clasp on her bracelet. Mabel laughed softly, the sound rippling in the wind.

“She likes you,” Frey said, stepping closer and offering Mabel a handful of seed. “She must know you're a raven, too.”

Mabel held out the seed, and the raven delicately picked through it, eyes still fixed on her as if seeing more than she let show.

“She's beautiful. Does she have a name?”

“Kara,” Frey replied.

Mabel smiled, repeating the name. “Kara.”

The raven then eyed her necklace suspiciously and pecked at it, just as the illusion had.

“She recently hatched a brood,” Frey added. “Would you like to meet them?”

At Mabel's eager nod, Frey led her to a tree nestled at the edge of the enclosure. In the crook of a branch, an intricately woven nest cradled three downy raven chicks—awkward, feathered bundles that blinked up at them with unformed curiosity.

“They're almost fledglings now. Too small to handle yet, but you can look,” Frey said. Kara had already returned to the tree, watching over her young with vigilance.

“Where's the father?” Mabel asked softly.

“Nearby, I'm sure,” Frey replied. “They stay close. Ravens mate for life. They're very loyal.” Then, after a pause. “When they're old enough, if you'd like … one of them can be yours. As a companion.”

Mabel turned to her, startled. “Truly? You'd let me have one?”

“Of course,” Frey said, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “I think you would be wonderful for them. And they, for you.”

Emotion swelled in Mabel's chest. She looked back at the baby birds, eyes blurring. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice cracking.

Frey's smile gentled. “What's the matter, dear?”

“You're just … very kind,” Mabel said, wiping at her eyes. “Aurevyn has been very welcoming. I-I've never been treated with such kindness.”

Frey wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Well, you will have to get used to it, child.”

They stood like that for a moment—just the two of them, surrounded by birdsong and sunlight. Then Frey stepped back.

“I've treasured our time today,” she said, planting a soft, motherly kiss on Mabel's forehead. “Take as long as you like in here. I will call for you again when I'm free, but now I must talk some sense into my husband.”

She turned and drifted toward the doors, her presence lingering like a warm breeze long after she was gone.

Mabel stayed where she was, heart full, the ache of being known settling deep into her bones.

Drawn by the gentle harmony of chirping and water, Mabel wandered deeper into the aviary until she found a creek threading through the grass. Its current flowed soft and steady, weaving through wildflowers and mossy stone. She lowered herself onto the grass beside it, the ground cool beneath her. With a contented sigh, she lay back, letting the sun warm her skin as she closed her eyes.

The melody of the space cradled her. Birds chirping overhead, wings fluttering through leaves, the rhythmic hush of the stream nearby. Every sound was familiar, sacred. Comforting. A lullaby from a world that, for once, asked nothing of her.

She smiled faintly as her thoughts drifted to the raven Frey had promised her. A raven of her own. It felt unreal.

For now, though, there were no decisions to be made. No parents to appease, no title to shoulder, no eyes watching. Even the thought of Theodore slipped sideways in her mind, too distant to hold on to.

Here, in this pocket of warmth, Mabel was just herself. And slowly, gently, that quiet wrapped around her like a blanket, soft, still, and full of peace.

6

Mabel drifted down the corridor, each step light, almost ghostlike against the stone. Illusions blossomed at her heels—birds with shimmering wings glided beside her, then melted into mist or twisted into other forms entirely.

She was adrift in thought, wonder still blooming in her chest. The knowledge of magic—real magic—wrapped around her like warmth. For a while, it dulled the ache.

Then she saw him.

Broad-shouldered, back turned, Theodore stood at her door. Her steps faltered. The conjured birds vanished mid-flight, shadows dissipating into silence. Mabel halted at the far end of the hall, breath hitching as she watched.

The door to her room sat ajar, Ada's silhouette framed against the warm glow inside. She and Theodore exchanged words, too low for Mabel to catch.

Then Ada spotted her.

“There she is,” she said brightly, beckoning with a gentle wave.

Mabel hesitated, swallowing the sigh that rose in her chest. Her feet moved slowly, carrying her forward with dread. She stopped just shy of the doorway, purposefully keeping space between herself and Theodore.

Her eyes stayed low. She wouldn't look at him.

“Mabel?” Ada's voice carried a note of concern as she glanced between the two of them.

Theodore stepped forward, his smile soft but unreadable. “You disappeared on me, Princess.”

“Apologies, my prince,” Mabel replied, voice steady but distant, eyes fixed to the floor. “I was with your mother. She's … lovely.”

His brows furrowed, searching her face for something that didn't meet his eyes. He shifted beside her, placing a hand on the small of her back. “Come with me.”

It wasn't a request. The gentle pressure urged her forward, and her feet obeyed before her heart had the chance to resist.

This wasn't what she wanted. Not now. She'd hoped for the sanctuary of her room, a quiet moment with Ada, but expectations moved faster than desires.

As she passed, she gave Ada a small, practiced smile, one that whispered, I'm fine, even though it wasn't true.

The corridor stretched around them, dim and uninviting, with only the sound of the soft rhythm of their footsteps and the muted hiss of sconces flickering against stone.

“Are you still angry with me?” Theodore asked at last, his voice cracking through the silence.

Mabel drew a breath, suppressing the scoff that nearly slipped. “Why would I be?”

“Because I told you not to see Lance?” His brow knit, his tone edged. “Although, truly, I should be the one upset. You clearly want to keep those little meetings.”

A dry laugh escaped her. “The last thing I want is to speak to Lance.”

Theodore stopped mid-step. “Then why are you upset?”

Mabel's eyes met his, steady and cold. Does he really not see it? Does he not hear himself?

“I'm not,” she said quietly, turning and walking ahead without pause.

But he caught up fast, stepping into her path. “You clearly are,” he said, voice taut.

Mabel faltered at his tone. He reached for her, but she retreated a step, jaw tight.

“Talk to me,” he urged, softer now—almost pleading.

“Theodore—”

“Please,” he said, then much quieter, “Let me in.”

Mabel dropped her gaze, her pulse thudding against her ribs like a warning. When she looked up again, the storm behind her eyes was barely contained.

Could he really understand? Does he even want to?

“It's fine. I know my place, my prince,” she said, voice tight. “You simply reminded me of it.”

“Mabel …” His voice was low, almost sincere. He didn't move at first, just watched her—watched the way her fists clenched to keep from shaking.

She stepped past him, silent.

“Mabel,” he said again, this time a groan, rough and urgent. He turned and caught her by the waist, pulling her back against him. She stiffened, breath held, spine straight as a blade.

“I was careless,” he said, voice brushing her ear. “Too proud, too quick to speak without thinking. You've seen that in me, haven't you?” A soft laugh escaped him, self-deprecating and practiced, but not hollow.

She didn't answer. Her fingers fidgeted, picking at the skin around her nails. He took her hands gently, coaxing her to face him.

“I don't like to share,” he admitted, eyes sweeping over her with a heat that made her pulse stutter. “My brother is a … sensitive topic. But that's no excuse.”

She blinked, startled by the softness in his tone, the way he looked at her like she was something fragile and fierce all at once.

“Your place,” he said, threading his fingers through hers, “is beside me. Not beneath me. Not behind me. I never meant to make you feel small, or silenced, or anything less than the force you are.”

Her breath caught. The words were smooth, maybe even practiced, but they landed. They wrapped around her, warm and dangerous.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

She hated how easily he said it. How perfectly the apology fit in his mouth, like he'd rehearsed it in front of a mirror, smoothing every edge until it gleamed.

And yet, it worked.

Her heart thudded against her ribs, traitorous and loud. But his hands were warm around hers, grounding. His voice, low and coaxing, wrapped around her.

She turned her face away but didn't pull her hands back. “You're making it awfully hard to stay angry.”

He smiled, just barely. “That's not a flaw, is it?”

She didn't answer. Not yet. But her fingers curled around his.

“Come with me,” he said. She let him lead her down the corridor. The firelight danced across his face, gilding the sharp lines of his bearded jaw, the curve of his mouth, features too beautiful to trust, too practiced to ignore.

She watched him, and for a moment, it was easy to forget the ache in her chest. Easy to pretend that the way he looked at her meant something more than possession.

Was she foolish to follow? To let herself be pulled back into his orbit so easily?

Her mind screamed warnings, each one sharp and clear, but her heart beat louder, thudding in a rhythm that matched his steps. There was gravity in him, and she'd already fallen victim to the weight of it.

She clung to the thread of hope that had begun to take root in quiet moments. His laughter, the way he listened when he thought no one else did, the softness that slipped through when he forgot to guard himself. Maybe this could be real. Maybe it wasn't just performance and expectation and the weight of what she was supposed to be.

Maybe he saw her.

And maybe—just maybe—he wanted her. Not because he was meant to, but because he couldn't help it.

But hope was a fragile thing. And she'd already learned how easily it could be mistaken for illusion.

Their footsteps carried them to a tall wooden door; its edges were lined with colored glass that shimmered softly beneath the torchlight. Theodore reached out, fingers curling around the iron handle as he pulled the door open with ease.

“After you, Princess,” he hummed, voice laced with warmth.

Mabel stepped through—and the cold hit her instantly. Winter spilled over her skin, sharp and biting. The air clung to her bones, stealing breath from her lips.

“We were just by my room. You could have warned me to grab a clo—”

But before the word even fell from her lips, Theodore was already draping his cloak over her. She fell still, silent. It smelled of him, swirling with the scent of oils and pine.

A hush settled over her, warm, steady, and unexpected. Her fingers drifted along the edge of the thick, fur-lined cloak, the texture grounding her in the present.

Theodore watched her closely, a familiar glint in his eyes. “You were saying?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

Mabel didn't lift her gaze, but her voice carried through the cold. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he said, lacing their fingers together again. Always touching her. The corner of her lip tugged upward, trying to hide the smile.

The tall hedges loomed, shielding the landscape from view, their outlines softened by the falling dusk. Ornate wooden beams cradled a balcony above, where firelight flickered along the stone path. They walked until the corridor spilled open, revealing the castle's garden bathed in a delicate, slowly building layer of snow.

Flurries danced through the air, weightless and slow, each speck glimmering as it landed on the greenery. Her breath caught—her first snowfall in Aurevyn. And Theodore had known.

She stepped into it, unflinching now. The sting on her cheeks, the bite at her heels—they were distant things. Snow settled into her hair, catching on loose strands and glowing in the light.

She laughed then, quiet and free, arms stretched wide to catch the sky.

Theodore lingered behind her, watching, drawn to the girl who now stood wrapped in winter, radiant and untouchable.

Mabel turned, laughter still lingering on her lips like frost. She extended a hand toward him, open and playful.

Theodore stepped closer, snow crunching under his boots, his presence wrapping around her like the cloak he'd given. He stopped just before her, tall and composed, eyes drinking her in.

Her gaze lifted to meet his, cheeks flushed from more than just the cold. That space between them shimmered. Neither spoke.

And then, he leaned down, slow but sure, his breath warm against the chill. “Can I kiss you?”

Her lips found his in a kiss that silenced the wind.

In that moment, the world dissolved.

There was only him.

His hands slipped to her waist, pulling her closer with urgency. One drifted up, fingers weaving into her curls and tugging gently, possessively. Mabel's own hands found his hair, threading through the golden strands, holding him there like a lifeline.

Something bloomed inside her, wild and electric. It rushed through her veins, igniting her from the core. Her palms tingled with energy, a subtle pulse that matched the rhythm of her heart.

The air bent around them. The wind shifted.

Snow spiraled in a sudden motion, willed by Mabel's desire, swirling with purpose and wrapping them in a storm of frost.

Theodore deepened the kiss, all restraint forgotten, lips chasing hers with a hunger that melted the cold around them.

Mabel broke the kiss, lungs aching for air, but Theodore moved without hesitation, his lips trailing to her neck, warm and intent.

“Theodore,” she gasped, breath hitching.

He didn't slow.

His breath ghosted against her skin, hot and intoxicating, before his lips found the hollow of her throat. Mabel shuddered, her fingers curling into his hair as his hand slid beneath the cloak, tracing the shape of her dress with maddening patience.

A flutter bloomed low, unfamiliar, hungry. Her lips parted in a gasp, her head tipping back as her eyes fluttered shut.

How did he do this to her? How did something so simple—his mouth, his touch—dismantle her so completely?

She hated it.

She hated how her body betrayed her, how every kiss sent fire racing beneath her skin, how every breath he took against her made her forget the cold, forget the warnings, forget herself.

He groaned softly against her throat, pulling her closer until she was wrapped in his warmth, swallowed by it. The moan escaped her lips before she could stop it, and when he finally pulled back, a smirk played at his mouth.

Her eyes opened slowly, dazed and wide, lips parted as she looked up at him.

“Gods, Mabel,” he breethd, voice thick with restraint.

“Why'd you stop?” she whispered, her voice barely carrying. Her fingers slipped from his golden hair, resting lightly on his chest, grounding herself in the heat of him.

“Because I'm a gentleman,” he said with a crooked smile. “And I know better than to ruin you so quickly.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, the snow catching in her lashes. “You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“It's not,” he assured her, lifting a hand toward her face. She flinched—subtle—but he saw it. He paused, waiting, until she met his gaze again.

And when she did, he cupped her cheek, slow and careful, and she melted into his palm.

“I simply enjoy the wait,” he admitted, eyes searching hers. “It makes the fall so much sweeter.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the smile that broke onto her lips. “Is that so?”

He nodded, leaning in once more to press a chaste kiss on her lips.

He pulled back, her gaze softening as she rose to her toes, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice edged with truth. “I mean it.”

His smile shifted, no longer playful but tender in its ease. “My pleasure, Princess.”

Mabel looked at the sky, the cloud cover so thick she could barely see the stars, just the hint of a shimmer. “Where is Auren?”

Theodore followed her gaze to the heavens above, squinting as if that would help any. He studied the night sky carefully before gently guiding her shoulders, turning her. “There.”

Her eyes swept across the clouds where he pointed until she caught it. Unmistakable, even with the snow, the thick clouds. The constellation glimmered brighter than any other stars, taking ownership of the night.

The Great Stag in all his glory. Twinkling stars marked the bends of his legs mid-leap. Large antlers fanned out like a crown in its own right, regal, watching.

“I prayed to him,” Mabel whispered through the quiet.

“Did you?” Theodore rested his chin on the crown of her head.

“I didn't say much. I just asked for peace.”

“It's what he's best at,” he hummed, fingers tracing along her hips. “Did he grant it?”

She held back the snort threatening to escape. Her reoccurring dreams were anything but peaceful. The morning certainly hadn't been. But then she found Frey. The aviary. Magic.

“Yes,” she decided, sinking further into his warmth.

They lingered beneath the snowfall. Silence threaded with breath and closeness. The chill eventually bit too deep, coaxing them back toward shelter. As they crossed the threshold into the castle, laughter spilled between them, bright and young, and echoing against the stone walls.

Theodore lunged playfully, catching her mid-step and lifting her into the air with ease.

Mabel shrieked in surprise, laughter bubbling up from her chest. “Put me down!” she cried, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her urgency.

He spun her once, the fur-lined cloak trailing behind them like a ribbon, before gently setting her back on her feet, his hands lingering at her waist just a moment longer than necessary.

“Walk me back?” she asked, voice barely above the hum of the corridor.

“I'd love to,” Theodore replied, a smile tugging at his lips, softer than before.

They walked in silence, footsteps echoing along the stone. It wasn't strained; it was comfortable. Worn in. They passed the same turns, the same flickering sconces, until her door came into view.

Neither moved right away.

They stood in the hush, fingers still entwined, eyes searching—not for answers, but something steadier. The moment hovered between them, warm and still.

She broke the silence first. “Thank you for lending me your cloak.” She reached for the clasp, but his hands found hers and stopped her.

“Keep it.” He smiled. “It looks better on you.”

She paused, looking up at him. Theodore leaned down, brushing a kiss to her cheek with surprising tenderness. “Get some rest, Princess,” he whispered.

She looked up, a smile touching her lips. “Good night, Theo.”

He simply smiled, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before turning down the corridor.

Mabel watched until his figure vanished around the bend. Then she let the breath go and stepped inside.

Ada had been pacing, worry etched into every movement until the door creaked open. At the sight of Mabel, her shoulders dropped with relief.

“Hey,” she said gently, eyes scanning her friend. “You okay?”

Mabel glanced down at the cloak still wrapped around her, fingers brushing the fur-lined edge. “I think so,” she offered, barely audible, lost in thought.

With a soft nod, Ada moved to help her undress, hands finding the clasp at Mabel's throat—a carved stag, proud and intricate. Her brow lifted. “Theodore's?”

A quiet laugh escaped Mabel's lips. “Yeah.”

Ada eased the cloak from her shoulders. “So … you two are alright?” she asked. “It seemed tense earlier.”

“For now,” Mabel said, taking the cloak from Ada. She moved to the bed, laying it across the sheets with care, her fingers gliding over the fur-lined edge as if trying to read the story it carried.

“What happened?” Ada asked gently, tilting her head as her brows drew together in concern.

Mabel hesitated, exhaling a breath that wavered at the edges. “It's stupid.”

Ada stepped closer, her voice steady. “It's not. Something's clearly bothering you.” She reached for Mabel's hands, grounding her. “You can tell me.”

For a moment, Mabel said nothing. Then, softly, “Did you know he has a brother?”

Ada listened intently to every detail, eyes wide with shock at Lance's crude remarks. But when Mabel explained Theodore's demands, she knew what had upset her so much.

Her expression softened, her voice wrapping around the silence like a blanket. “Oh, Mabel.”

“It's fine,” Mabel said quickly, too quickly.

Ada didn't blink. She tilted her head, a smile curling gently at her lips. “You seriously need to work on lying better.”

Mabel let out a groan. “So I've been told.”

Ada leaned forward slightly. “Did you talk to him? Tell him how you feel?”

Mabel turned toward the vanity, drawn to the glow of her reflection. Her gaze settled on the shimmering crystal necklace draped across her throat, an echo of her father's control, and a reminder of the girl she was supposed to be.

“He said he was sorry,” Mabel muttered. “Maybe he meant it.” Her fingers lifted, undoing the clasp of the necklace and laying it across her vanity. The stone felt like it were mocking her.

Ada stepped beside her, fingers brushing hers before curling gently around Mabel's hand. “Men are pigs,” she said with a sigh, voice dry but warm. “Most of them. Maybe all. And they're hopeless, foolish creatures who don't know what they have until it slips through their fingers.”

Mabel's gaze dropped. “And he'll probably do it again. Hurt me, like this.”

Ada was quiet for a beat, then looked at her squarely. “He might,” she said softly. “But I won't. You have me. We have each other. And I'll be here—even when he isn't.”

Mabel's voice barely rose above a whisper. “Why does it have to feel like this?”

“No one promised it wouldn't,” Ada replied, gently reaching up to tuck a strand of Mabel's hair behind her ear, her touch familiar, calming. “But that doesn't mean you're alone in it.”

“I know.” Mabel sighed, eyes shimmering. “It's just—I thought he was different. That maybe … maybe I could be happy. Just once.”

“You still can be,” Ada whispered, stepping behind her and gathering Mabel's hair over one shoulder. “His apology might've meant something. Maybe he doesn't understand the weight of it all, but he knows he caused the bruise.”

Mabel met her reflection in the mirror, eyes searching her own face for something she hadn't quite lost yet.

Maybe he was sorry.

With practiced ease, Ada undid the buttons lining Mabel's dress, her fingers nimble and steady. Mabel let out a slow breath as the corset loosened around her frame, the weight of the day slipping away with the fabric. The dress pooled softly at her feet, leaving her in her slip.

Ada bent to gather the fallen garment, folding it with care before glancing back at Mabel. “Don't twist yourself up over him. He's just some boy.”

Mabel gave a light laugh, a breathy kind of disbelief. “Some boy I'm supposed to marry,” she scoffed, shaking her head.

Ada smirked. “Just remember—cute babies,” she teased, winking.

Mabel laughed again, the sound sweeter this time, mellowed by affection. “I don't know what I'd do without you,” she whispered, eyes lingering on Ada.

Ada stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Mabel said softly, her body sinking into the comfort of Ada's embrace.

Ada stroked a hand gently through Mabel's hair, calming her like muscle memory. “I'm always here if you need me.”

Mabel closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she breethd. “For everything.”

Ada smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple before turning toward the door. “Laundry calls,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “But I'll suffer through.”

“Goodnight,” Mabel called, her voice barely above a hush.

Ada lingered a second longer. “Goodnight, Mabel.”

She left with a soft click of the door. Mabel took a deep breath, eyes flickering to the cloak that lay on her bed. She walked over, slow hands lacing through the thick fur.

She slid beneath it, letting it wrap around her shoulders, the warmth sinking deep into her skin. The fur was impossibly soft, comforting in a way words couldn't be.

Her fingers found the clasp once more, tracing the golden antlers carved there. A reminder of responsibility.

Her parents' voices echoed faintly in her thoughts. Cold, commanding, always reaching with invisible hands. Their threats hadn't followed her physically, but they clung to her mind like frost. Promises of consequence.

And then Theodore. His earlier sharpness still haunted her—his entitlement, his control. The bitterness in her chest hadn't vanished.

But neither had the memory of snow. Of laughter. Of his touch lingering with unexpected tenderness, cloaking her in warmth instead of command. Of his apology, even if it came late.

She wasn't sure what to make of it all.

The cloak gathered around her shoulders like a question she couldn't yet answer. Maybe he was trying. Maybe she was simply too weathered to believe in trying.

Yet whenever his name drifted through her thoughts, her chest stirred, fluttering with echoes of his smile, the warmth of his presence, the softness he wore like a second skin.

And still … Lance's words lingered like thorns beneath the surface. There was truth in them. She felt it in the way Theodore flinched. Heard it in the silence that followed. Whatever he had done, it carried weight.

She let herself be swept off her feet far too quickly, too easily. She knew better. Her defenses weren't just decorations; they had been built from splinters and scars, and that morning had only reminded her why.

She barely knew him. And yet, somehow, his smile had slipped past every barricade, stealing the air from her lungs before she had a chance to say no. How could he so effortlessly take her breath away? How could she have let him?

Her cheeks still blushed in his shadow. Her body remembered him.

But not now.

Not yet.

For this sliver of time, she allowed herself the quiet. A breath unburdened. A moment untouched.

“Auren,” she whispered. “If you can hear me … I want dreams of peace, not passion.” And slowly, she closed her eyes.

But yet again, when her dreams twisted with desire, it was Lance—his breath, his lips, his touch.

It devoured her.

7

“Good morning,” Lance said, standing a few paces from the door.

Ada blinked at him, tilting her head. “Good morning,” she offered, uncertain. Her gaze flicked back to Mabel, who was fumbling with her heels, fingers trembling slightly as she tried to fasten the strap.

“Can I help you with something?” Ada asked, voice guarded.

“Yes, I'm here for Mabel,” he said, head tilting with a trace of condescension.

“I'm sorry, who are you?” Ada's brows drew together.

Mabel appeared beside her, smoothing her skirt with nervous fingers. “Good morning, Theo—” She froze as she saw Lance, her breath catching. “Oh. It's … you.” Her brow furrowed. “Why are you here?”

Lance rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Well, good morning to you too, Miss Ravenov,” he said. “My mother has instructed that I teach you magic today, since your charming prince is unavailable.”

“He's not coming?” Mabel's voice was barely above a whisper. Her eyes dropped to the dress she'd chosen so carefully, then flicked back to Lance, uncertain.

“Afraid not.” He shook his head. He watched the way her hands slipped together, very subtly picking at the skin.

“I'm not supposed to be speaking with you,” she muttered, stepping back.

He gave a short huff. “Really? Says who?”

Mabel looked away. “Theodore.”

“Well, the Queen has asked this of both of us, it'd sure be a shame to deny her.”

Mabel lingered in the doorway, glancing at Ada with desperation. Ada shrugged, offering no help.

“Come along, then,” he said, turning slightly. “Before I change my mind.”

“Where … where are we going?” Mabel asked, voice small.

“Do you always ask so many questions?”

Mabel flinched, eyes dropping. “My apologies, Prince.”

He studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “No need to apologize. Just decide. Are you coming or not?”

Mabel nodded quickly, hesitantly stepping forward. She gave Ada a soft, uncertain glance before following him out.

“Um … May I ask something else?” Mabel's voice was soft as she fell into step beside him, eyes flicking up only briefly before dropping again. She fought the flush in her cheeks at the reminder of her non-stop dreams.

Soft skin, hot against hers. And that mouth—

She cleared her throat, closing her eyes tight before staring strictly ahead.

“You just did,” Lance said, glancing sideways. “But I'll allow one more.”

She nodded, hands fidgeting together, fingers worrying at the edge of her sleeve. “I … I thought you didn't like me,” she muttered, barely audible.

“Not a question,” he replied, dry as dust.

“No—I mean …” Her voice faltered. “Why would you help me?”

Lance gave a short laugh, more breath than sound. “Help is a strong word. I didn't volunteer if that's what you're thinking.” He rolled his eyes. “My mother has a way of making things … nonnegotiable.”

Mabel's gaze dropped to the floor, her steps slowing. Did she even want to learn from someone who clearly didn't want to teach her? Was this Frey's idea of diplomacy between them? And what would Theodore say? He'd warned her about Lance. He'd made his feelings very clear only days ago.

Lance glanced at her again, and for a moment, the sharpness in his expression dulled just slightly. “Look”—he sighed, words softening—“I don't hate you. I'm just … not the easiest to get along with. It's intentional.” He paused, eyes skimming the stone walls ahead of them. “Spend enough time in this place and you'll learn to keep your edges sharp.”

Mabel blinked, startled by the admission. She looked up, but he was already facing forward again, pace steady.

“What does that mean?” she asked, voice tentative as she matched his pace again.

“You've reached your limit of questions, I'm afraid,” Lance said, shaking his head. “And that answer's one you'll have to learn on your own.”

Mabel fell quiet, her brows knitting as she glanced sideways at him, but he didn't look back. The silence between them stretched, thick and unspoken, echoing off the stone walls as they walked.

At last, they reached a set of double doors—tall, weathered, and carved with faded sigils. Lance stepped forward, pressing one open with a creak that groaned through the corridor.

“After you,” he said, almost amused.

Mabel hesitated, then stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the uneven stone.

The room was vast. One wall shimmered with roughened mirrors, their surfaces fractured and fogged with age. The opposite side held arched windows, their frames etched with curling runes.

The floor was wild, curved stone and patches of soft grass, as if the terrain had been coaxed into submission but never fully tamed. Large boulders and wooden barricades were scattered throughout.

“This is where my mother taught magic,” Lance said, stepping in behind her. “Combat magic, specifically.”

“Combat?” Mabel turned to him, frowning. “Women are allowed to fight in Aurevyn?”

He laughed, not unkindly. “Allowed? They're encouraged. Honestly, they're better at it. Magic responds to instinct, and women have sharper ones.”

Mabel blinked, her gaze sweeping the room again. “I've never been allowed to practice magic—let alone fight. I-I don't think I'd do very good,” she said quietly. “I wouldn't know how.”

Lance tilted his head, watching her. “You can. You just haven't been provoked yet.”

“What?” She turned toward him, startled, just as his hands sparked to life, light crackling across his fingertips in warning.

“Wait—what are you doing?” Mabel's voice cracked as she backed away, eyes locked on the flicker gathering in his palm.

“You've practiced protection spells, haven't you?” Lance asked, tone deceptively casual.

“I-I've only learned a few—”

“Use them.”

A wicked smile curled across his lips, and Mabel's breath caught. She scrambled to recall the incantation Frey had taught her, whispering it under her breath. Her skin tingled as faint sigils shimmered to life across her arms, glowing beneath the surface.

“Lance, I don't know how to fight,” she said, voice trembling. Her heart thudded against her ribs, panic rising.

“Figure it out,” he snapped.

The flicker in his hand surged into a gleaming orb, its edges pulsing with heat. With a sharp motion, he hurled it toward her.

Mabel gasped, stumbling sideways as the spell whistled past her shoulder. Her heels skidded against the stone, arms flailing for balance. She caught herself just before her knees hit the stone. Breath ragged, she darted behind the nearest wooden barricade, fingers clawing at the clasps of her heels. “Come on, come on.” She fumbled as another flicker of light sparked in the distance.

“You won't learn anything hiding,” Lance's voice rang out, sharp and amused.

With a grunt, she yanked the heels free and peeked over the edge, then hurled them at him with surprising force. “I'm not learning anything at all!”

He dodged easily, laughing as one clattered harmlessly to the floor.

Mabel ducked back down, heart pounding. Her mind scrambled through the spells Frey had taught her—protection, grounding, illusion. Not enough. Not for this.

A sudden thud slammed into the barricade, rattling the wood and sending splinters flying. She yelped, shielding her face.

“Stand up and fight!” Lance shouted from across the room, voice echoing like a challenge.

She drew in a shaky breath, trying to quiet the panic clawing at her chest. Focus. Just focus.

It was only light. She could manage light.

Mabel shut her eyes tight, picturing the orb resting in her palms, warm and real. A faint buzz stirred beneath her skin, and when she opened her eyes, the glow was there. Flickering, imperfect, but hers.

She peeked over the edge of the barricade. Lance stood poised, his own orb pulsing like a heartbeat in his hand.

Mabel ducked again, crawling to the far end of the barricade. Her fingers trembled as she pushed herself upright. Then, with a breathless cry, she hurled her spell toward him.

But he was faster.

The moment she rose, his orb shot forward, merciless. It struck her square in the chest.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs. She staggered backward, legs giving way as she hit the stone floor with a jarring thud. Her eyes flew open, stunned, the glow of her own spell already fading from her fingertips.

Lance approached, that familiar smirk playing on his lips. He crouched beside her, eyes scanning her face with amusement. Two fingers lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his.

“No one said it was easy,” he said quietly, slowly rising to his feet. His gaze lingered on her. “Get up.”

Mabel glared at him, cheeks flushed. She pushed herself upright, brushing dust from her skirt with stiff hands.

“You could try taking it easy on me,” she griped. “I'm new to this, you know. No need to be a show-off.”

“Oh, I can tell,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But believe it or not, this is me being gentle. Now, let's fix this.” He stepped in close. His hands found her wrists, grabbing her with a grip that bordered on rough. His boot nudged her feet apart, correcting her stance without ceremony. “The soul guides magic,” he explained. “But your body is the vessel. If you're unstable—physically or mentally—your magic will be too. That makes you vulnerable.”

His fingers traced the curve of her arms down to her palms. He lifted one hand, bending two fingers into place with practiced ease.

“It's not like I'll be fighting anyone,” she said under her breath, watching him carefully as his hands slid back up to her shoulders.

A shiver ran through her at the contact, and she fought to keep her expression neutral. But she saw it—the flicker of amusement he tried to hide, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“You don't know that,” he replied, gaze locking onto hers. “You're a future queen. You should know how to defend yourself.” He paused, then added, “And you're fighting me right now, so stop complaining and stand up straight.”

His hand pressed against her back, firm, guiding her shoulders into place.

She turned her head away sharply. “You could be a little nicer.”

But his fingers found her chin again before she could react, tilting her face forward, inches from his. “Stop moving,” he snapped.

Her skin buzzed where he touched her, and she hated that she noticed. Hated more that he noticed her noticing. She stared straight ahead, jaw tight, trying to ignore the heat blooming across her cheeks. Her heart was still racing from the spell, but now it thudded for an entirely different reason.

Arrogant. That was the word. He was arrogant and smug and insufferable. She clenched her fists, resisting the urge to swat his hand away.

Stop moving, he'd said, like she was some unruly child. Like he had any right to touch her, to correct her, to look at her like that.

But she didn't move.

She stood there, spine straightened by his hand, chin held in place by his fingers, and found herself … oddly thrilled by it. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to hurt him or ask him another question.

Maybe both.

“There,” Lance said, stepping back, his hands falling to his sides.

“You couldn't have started with this?” Mabel criticized him.

“I needed to know if this was worth the effort,” he replied with a shrug, eyes scanning her stance.

Her gaze dropped, brows knitting as uncertainty crept in. Then, slowly, she looked up again. “Is it?” she asked, voice timid.

He met her eyes, and for a moment, something flickered—annoyance, maybe, or something quieter. He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “If it wasn't, I wouldn't still be standing here.”

Mabel nodded, the words settling in her chest like a weight and a spark all at once. Her nerves surged again, but she held her ground.

He didn't speak; his magic simply listened. She watched as his sigils flared, etched like fire against his skin. He stepped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. “Go on,” he said, voice dropping as he leaned to her height. “Use an attack spell.” His eyes locked onto hers, daring her.

She felt the blush rise before she could stop it, her pulse thudding in her ears. She nodded, swallowing hard, and closed her eyes to summon the light.

It came easier this time, though still pulsing with the rhythm of her nerves. The orb bloomed in her palms, trembling slightly.

Lance stepped back, giving her space.

She threw it. It hit him square in the chest, but the moment it touched his protection sigils, it vanished, dissolving into the air like mist.

“Again,” he said, voice sharp and unwavering.

She summoned the light again and again. Each time, she hurled it with more force, more desperation, but every orb shattered the moment it touched him, dissolving against his shield.

Her breath came faster, teeth gritting as she conjured another. “What's the point?” she snapped. “They break every time. It's useless.”

Lance shook his head, that maddening smile tugging at his lips. “Patience, Miss Ravenov,” he said, voice laced with mockery. “You'll get it eventually.”

“Get what?” she groaned, summoning another orb and flinging it at him. This time, it cracked—just slightly—against his protection spell.

She froze, eyes wide.

Lance's smirk deepened. “Again.”

Mabel narrowed her eyes, planting her feet and drawing the light into her palms. It came faster now, sharper. She could feel it. How it responded to her anger, how it pulsed with the heat rising in her chest.

She threw it hard.

It struck him squarely, and this time, he staggered back a step.

“Is that all you've got?” Lance barked out a laugh, his voice echoing off the stone.

Mabel's nostrils flared. “Would you stop acting like such a prick?” she snapped, hurling another orb at him.

It struck harder this time, and she didn't wait. She conjured again and again, each spell sharper, brighter, more volatile. Her anger surged, guiding the light as she flung it with relentless force until one hit sent him sprawling backward.

He hit the ground with a grunt, the impact echoing through the chamber. Mabel didn't pause. Light surged in her palms as she summoned another orb, her steps hard, unflinching. The glow framed her like a halo of fury.

She stopped over him, breath heavy from the strain. Her eyes burned down into his, daring him to mock her again.

“Well?” she demanded, eyes sharp. “Anything clever left to say?”

“You did well.” Lance looked up at her, lips tugging into a slow, infuriating smirk. “Good girl.”

Her magic faltered, flickering in her hands. Not from weakness, but from the sudden, jarring shift in tone. Praise wrapped not in condescension but something else entirely.

He rose slowly, brushing dust from his sleeves, his gaze never leaving hers. His steps carried him toward her with maddening ease.

“Feel that?” he hummed, voice smooth. “Your anger fueled it. Magic doesn't obey thought—it obeys feelings. If you hesitate, it does too.” His gaze dropped to her fading orb, lip curling up as it flickered. “It listens.”

Mabel stepped back instinctively. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the remnants of light still trembling in her palms.

“It's a careful balance,” Lance said, voice quieter now. “Let emotion take over, and magic slips out of your control.”

He reached for her wrist, gentler this time, but the contact still seared. His spell pulsed beneath her skin, disarming the orb in her hand with a sharp, burning jolt. She yanked her arm back with a yelp.

“Protection spells aren't as fragile,” he said, gaze steady. “Which means there's no excuse for yours being so weak.”

“I only found out I had magic days ago,” she snapped, the words spilling out before she could temper them.

He crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Another excuse. How did you not know?”

Mabel looked down, then stepped past him, her voice dropping. “I wasn't allowed to try,” she said, shoulders tight. “Women are forbidden to practice magic in Moorthwyn. I can only imagine what my father would say. What he'd do if he saw me right now.”

Lance watched her carefully. Her hands were clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms, trembling just slightly. He stepped closer, slower this time, his tone shifting.

“You're afraid of him,” he said. Not mocking, not cruel. Just observant.

Mabel's head snapped up, a tight smile tugging at her lips. “I'm afraid of a lot of things,” she said lightly, though her tone was edged. “Spiders. Dogs. Men who think they can read me.” She stepped back, putting more space between them, her gaze fixed on the far wall instead of his face. “But my father?” She gave a small, dismissive shrug. “He's just … It's complicated.”

Lance's eyes narrowed, studying her as though he could see the truth she was trying to bury.

“Complicated,” he echoed, the word tasting like disbelief.

Mabel tilted her chin, meeting his gaze with practiced steadiness. “You can call it whatever you like. I call it none of your business.”

He didn't move, only kept his gaze fixed on her. He couldn't understand his growing desire to know more about her. He didn't think he had it in him to even care. But he still found himself agreeing to train her. And the worst part—he was enjoying it.

“Are you going to teach me something else, or just keep interrogating me?” Mabel glared at him.

That damned smirk returned. He stepped in, closing the space between them until she could feel the heat of his presence. “You're eager.” His gaze fell over her with measured interest. “I like it.”

Without another word, he shifted the lesson. They moved into protection spells: when to use them; which were strongest under pressure; and how to keep them steady in the chaos of combat. His voice was measured, but his eyes tracked every flicker of her concentration, every slip in her stance.

Lance pressed her hard, each strike faster, sharper, more precise. At first, she faltered, tripping over her own feet, desperate to match his pace. Until she felt the rhythm in her own movements, the steps she'd been repeating in her head.

It was a dance. She may not have been the best fighter, but she was a good dancer. Years of lashes across her arms and legs with each misstep had made sure of that.

He'd expected her to falter.

Instead, she adapted. Too quickly. Too fluidly.

Mabel drew in a breath, slow and steady, willing her nerves into silence. Light swirled to life at her fingertips, curling over her skin like a flame seeking oxygen. It gathered in her palms—bright, pulsing, alive.

When she looked up, Lance stood with his arms open, feet light, posture loose. An invitation.

She didn't hesitate.

The orb flew from her hands, striking his chest with enough force to make him stagger. He recovered quickly, spinning on his heel, magic flaring in his palms.

And then they moved.

His spell tore toward her, but Mabel turned with it, not against it, her shield blooming in a shimmer of light just before impact. The force rippled through her arms, but she didn't falter. She pivoted, graceful, and let her own arc of light spiral outward in reply.

Lance dodged almost breath too slow. His counterstrike came before her heels had even kissed the ground. She caught it midair, letting the magic roll across her palms like, then flicked it back with precision.

“Better,” he called, stepping aside as the orb skimmed past.

But Mabel's smile curved. She knew she was doing well and she loved it. Her arms lifted, and the magic obeyed, looping back in a sudden sweep to strike him from behind.

As if the duel were a waltz only she could hear, she stepped to the rhythm of imagined strings, summoning light in both palms. The first orb drifted from her fingers, releasing in time with her breath.

Lance blocked the first with ease.

The second forced him into a twist, cloak flaring behind him.

And still, she danced.

His eyes lit, no longer amused, but engaged.

They circled each other now, rhythm building. Attack, defend, counter, retreat.

The air shimmered with heat and light, spells met and ricocheted, echoing off the walls. Mabel's breath came hard, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. But she didn't falter.

She saw it in his stance—he was no longer just testing her. He was responding. Matching her. Respecting her.

She spun on her heels, letting the magic guide her movements. She sent another orb flying, this one heavier, brighter. It slammed into his shield, forcing him back a step.

His smirk shifted, less mocking now.

Then he struck. Fast, sharp, a flicker of heat that nearly broke her guard. Her shield flared, the impact driving her back, but she slipped from it before it knocked her down. She answered with a burst of light, and moved with it, closing the distance. He matched her stride.

They collided—magic meeting magic, a flash of heat and brilliance that rattled the room.

The shockwave hit them both.

They went down hard.

Her palms hit the floor on either side of him, the last flickers of her magic sparking between them. She was straddling him before she even realized it, breathless, her hair falling forward to frame his face.

Lance blinked up at her, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. “Well, that's one way to win.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she didn't move—couldn't—not with the thrum of adrenaline still in her veins and the weight of his gaze holding her there.

“Not bad for someone who just discovered they have magic.” Lance arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling. “Though if this is what you wanted, Miss Ravenov … all you had to do was ask.” He winked.

Mabel's brows drew together, a sharp scoff escaping her. “You're disgusting.” She shifted to stand, but his hands caught her wrists, holding her in place as he sat up. His face was suddenly far too close.

“Don't pretend you don't like it.” His voice was smooth as silk. “And don't pretend Auren isn't speaking to you. It's quite rude to ignore a god.”

“How do you know I'm speaking to Auren?” Her irritation flared white-hot. Light sparked at her fingertips, and she slammed it against his chest.

He inhaled sharply, biting the corner of his lip, the faintest wince breaking his composure. “Because he speaks to me.” His tone was dangerous. The look in his golden eyes, the curve of his full lips, his hands on her waist—

Is he having the dreams too?

“Careful, Miss Ravenov,” he said with a devil's grin. “Keep ignoring him and you'll only make it worse for yourself.”

Mabel froze when she felt the shift. The sudden press of him beneath her. She shoved him back hard and rose to her feet, brushing off her skirt. “Our lesson is done.”

“You're not the one who decides that,” he replied, standing with unhurried ease.

“I am now—since you're clearly too … impassioned to keep going.” She snatched her discarded heels up and strode toward the door.

“Impassioned?” His laugh followed her, low and amused.

The door groaned open as Mabel stepped into the corridor, her pulse still racing. She was more flustered than she'd ever admit. No matter how tightly she tried to lock it down, a flutter stirred low in her chest.

He couldn't possibly be having the same dreams. Right?

“Mabel,” Lance's voice called after her, still laced with laughter. He followed her out, matching her stride with infuriating ease.

“Don't you have princely duties to attend?” she said, turning her face away, refusing to let him see how deeply he'd unsettled her.

“You were part of my duties this morning,” he said with a smirk. “If you're unsatisfied with the lesson, I've got other things I could teach you. They'd satisfy you much more.”

She froze mid-step, heat rising fast. “Have you no shame?”

“None,” he said, eyes sweeping over her with slow appreciation.

“You do realize I'm betrothed to your brother?”

“I don't see what that has to do with anything.” He stepped into her path.

She turned sharply, meeting his gaze with a glare. “I—you are—”

“I'm what?” he asked, stepping closer, testing her.

She opened her mouth again—but then she heard it.

Theodore's voice. Clear. Close.

“Have you seen the princess?”

Her heart stopped. She stumbled back, eyes darting between Lance and the end of the corridor.

“I-I thought you said he was gone today,” she whispered, voice trembling.

Lance glanced casually toward the sound, a cruel smile curling his lips. “He was. Must've come back early.”

Her pulse pounded in her throat, thick and suffocating. She spun, searching for any exit, any escape. She lunged for the nearest door, tugging hard. Locked.

“What's the harm?” Lance cooed mockingly. “He's your betrothed. Won't he understand?”

She shot him a glare, but it cracked under the weight of panic. “I told you. We can't be seen together. Just help me, dammit.”

He took his time crossing to her, where she clung to the handle like it might save her. His hands slid around her waist, head dipping low to her ear.

“This might sting a little,” he whispered, voice deceptively soft.

She didn't have time to react. His magic surged through her, buzzing like static beneath her skin. Her vision blurred. Her breath caught.

And then—darkness.

They were inside the closet. Small. Silent. Her back pressed to his chest.

“How …” she breethd as she regained her vision, staring into the shadows.

His chuckle was low against her ear. “Magic.”

“No shit,” she snapped, shoving his hands off her. She retreated as far as the cramped space allowed, heart still hammering.

“Teleportation,” Lance muttered, like it was no big deal. “Rare skill. Few can manage it.”

“Gloating again?” Mabel huffed. “Try impressing someone else—I'm sure your whores find it charming.”

He grinned, hand drifting to the closet knob. “And I'm sure your prince would love to find you tucked away in here with me.”

“No, Lance—”

But before she could finish, his hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes flared, fury rising fast, a muffled protest vibrating against his palm.

“Shut up,” he whispered, voice strained.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, slow, aching in their pace. Boots scuffed against stone, each step dragging time longer. Mabel's breath caught, her pulse thudding hard in her chest.

They stood frozen, pressed close in the dark, the silence between them louder than any spell.

It felt like an eternity before the footsteps faded.

Mabel seized his wrist, yanking his hand away from her mouth.

“Touch me like that again,” she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “and you'll regret it.”

Lance's smile was slow, sharp, and far from friendly. “Don't threaten me with a good time, Miss Ravenov.”

Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white with restraint. “We're done here,” Mabel said, lips tight as she moved to slip past him.

“Auren says we're not.”

Her eyes widened with fury, hot and sharp. “Your god knows nothing.” She reached for the handle.

Lance shook his head. “You'll be sorry you said that.” His arm shot out, palm pressing flat against the door, blocking her exit.

“Excuse me?” she snapped, glaring up at him.

“A thank you would be nice,” he said, dipping to her height, his breath warm against her cheek.

She refused to look at him. Refused to acknowledge the scent of cinnamon clinging to his skin, or the way his lips looked maddeningly soft, or how his hands had fit around her waist like they belonged there.

She shook the thought off like a curse, muttering, “Thank you,” under her breath as she unlocked the door.

Her eyes swept the corridor—empty. No sign of Theodore.

She straightened her spine, smoothed her skirt, and slipped out without another word.

Lance watched her go, a smirk tugging at his lips.

She'd barely met his gaze that morning.

Now she walked away with fire in her veins.

8

“There you are,” Theodore's voice called.

Mabel startled, clutching the book she'd been reading against her chest. She'd escaped Lance, but she knew it wouldn't be long before Theodore found her. She slid against the stone bench, offering a space for him to sit.

The chill afternoon air nipped at her skin as a soft gust of wind blew between columns. She'd needed a moment to dull the pounding in her chest and the flush in her cheeks. She told herself it was her exertion during training.

The adrenaline still in her veins. Why would it be anything else?

Her eyes raked over him, assessing. She wanted to tell him. Wanted to admit she'd seen Lance again—more than seen him.

“I'm not the one who was missing this morning,” she hummed back to him, closing her book. “What kept you from me?”

She saw the pause in his eyes, the slight hesitation, before his smile spread across his lips. “My father needed me,” he responded, sliding in next to her on the bench. “But trust me, I would have rather spent my morning with you.”

His warmth engulfed her. She found herself leaning into it, her head resting against his shoulder, heart steadying only slightly.

“I hope you haven't been terribly bored in my absence.” He smiled down at her.

Memories of the morning replayed in her mind. She cleared her throat, lips parting to speak, but she stopped just before the words fell from her lips.

She couldn't tell him.

“I-it was quite uneventful,” she said quickly. She raised the book in her hand as if to prove it.

“Old habits die hard, hm?” he teased, plucking the cover from her hands. His eyes traced over the sigils engrained in the leather. “Is this a spellbook?”

She beamed. “Yes, Frey—”

“I thought you couldn't cast,” he said, brows pulling together.

Mabel's smile dropped. “What if I could?” her voice was small as the words fell.

“Why would you want to? It's dangerous.” His eyes traced the cover again before lifting to hers. “Do you even know what you're doing?”

Her stomach twisted. She lifted her head from his shoulder, shifting to look at him. “I … I was only reading about it.”

Theodore set the book down beside him with an eerie calm. His fingers lifted, grazing her chin. “My mother gave this to you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

His eyes flicked across her face, searching, before a sigh fell from his lips. “Don't let her ideas fool you. Magic only ever causes misery.”

“It's a gift—”

“It's a weapon, Mabel,” he scoffed. “Think. The war started because of magic. My grandfather died because of magic. I almost died because of magic.”

Her eyes fell to the pink scar curling along his neck. “I didn't think of it like that.”

“Of course you didn't. Now, do you wish to spend the rest of your evening reading, or would you rather spend it by my side?” He stood, turning to offer her a hand.

She stared at his palm. Hesitantly, she took it. He pulled her from the bench and into his arms. Her eyes widened as his lips pressed to hers, claiming.

The kiss she'd normally melt into suddenly had her rearing back, but Theodore held her there. She could smell the faint trace of liquor on his breath. Tasted it.

Had he lied to her? She doubted his father needed him as a drinking partner. So where had he gone?

Theodore pulled away. His forehead rested against hers, chest rising slowly. “I don't want you toying with this idea of magic anymore.”

She blinked, brows knitting together. Something in his tone told her his words were nonnegotiable. An ache twisted deep in her chest, familiar. She slowly nodded, biting back the sorrow in her chest.

“I won't,” she said, almost too soft for him to hear.

“Good. Now come along.” His hand drifted down her back, fingers splaying along her spine as he pulled her along with him.

She could only muster a half-broken smile.

She tried to relax, tried to melt into him, but her mind betrayed her. It swirled with thoughts of the morning, of Lance, of Frey, of magic. Her heart sank in her chest. She couldn't give up her magic, she just learned she could cast. Would this be yet another thing she'd have to keep from Theodore?

He was clearly keeping things from her.

She absently wondered if it was a late night or early morning outing. It stirred the ideas Lance had planted in her mind. Had he been out all night drinking with whores?

She certainly hoped that wasn't the case. Hoped he had enough self respect—respect for her—to not result to such debauchery.

Her gaze flicked up to him, studying his profile. She knew better than to pry. His temper was short. Did she even have the right to ask? She thought she did.

Their marriage contract should've given her the right. Though, it should've also been reason enough for him not to seek out another's bed over hers.

It's speculation, she reminded herself. A few drinks don't amount to infidelity. But his hesitation, his obvious lie, left her believing far worse.

As far as she was concerned, if he were hiding something, she wouldn't feel guilty over her training with Frey. Maybe she could feel guilty about her training with Lance.

But she didn't.

And she wouldn't.

Lance's shadow stretched thin along the stone walls as he slipped down the alley, each step slow, measured, calm. Snow crunched softly beneath his boots, a hush falling over the narrow passage as night cloaked the city. He dodged glances from shuttered windows and watchful corners.

The alley spilled out onto a cobbled street, lingering snow glistening faintly beneath the lantern light. Across the way, his destination loomed. A haven of noise, heat, and vice.

He didn't come often. Only when he needed to escape the rush that threatened in his veins.

He never understood why his magic ached the way it did. Why it sparked unannounced when threatened with emotion. His mother had said it was his Velmirian blood, but no texts, no books, nothing spoke of the outbursts of magic that overtook him. Not even Veyra herself had explained it, not that she'd ever spoken to him before.

His magic was violent.

More violent than he ever thought he was capable of.

Lance was ten when magic bloomed in him. It shimmered at his fingertips like sunlight, impossible to ignore.

At dinner, Frey had smiled at him, pride softening her features. She'd always seen him. Always meant it when she called him hers. Thalen said the word 'son' like it was a formality. Frey said it like a promise.

Theodore noticed.

And later that night, he waited.

The corridor was narrow, the torchlight dim. Stone walls swallowed sound, but the laughter of Theodore's friends sliced through the quiet—sharp, cruel, echoing like blades drawn in the dark.

Lance turned the corner and found them waiting.

Theodore stepped forward. Four years his elder, he towered over him. His smile was cold as he cornered Lance.

The air shifted.

“Where are your spells now, Lance?” he sneered, shoving him hard.

Lance hit the ground, curled into himself, tears streaking his face, breath hitching.

Theodore crouched beside him, voice low, venomous. “It calls itself a prince,” he scoffed. “But all I see is a bastard.”

Something inside Lance snapped.

He didn't speak. Didn't cast.

The magic simply erupted.

A burst of light slammed into Theodore's shoulder, sending him sprawling. Blood hit the floor, fast, dark, too much.

And Lance didn't move. He couldn't. He stayed curled on the floor, eyes wide, watching the blood spread across the stone.

His only saving grace was that Theodore lived, and Frey had begged Thalen to show mercy.

It was the first time Lance understood what his magic could do. That it wasn't just light and wonder. It was dangerous. Unforgiving.

But Frey didn't flinch. She didn't fear it. She taught him to feel it, to hold it without drowning. To let it move through him, then let it go.

He learned to control it. Almost.

But control was never the point. His magic didn't respond to discipline; it responded to emotion. It pulsed with whatever lived deepest in him. Rage. Grief. Joy. And in those moments, it didn't just slip. It surged.

Just like the old spells. Just like the cursed blood that ran through his veins.

So, he played it safe.

He meditated every morning, breath steady, thoughts clean. He sharpened his words, dulled his feelings.

But the whispers never stopped.

They lived in the marrow of his magic, grieving and aching. A sadness as old as him, carried in every flicker of light, every drop of blood.

And sometimes, when he was quiet enough, he could hear them calling his name.

And tonight, they were louder than usual.

He approached the heavy door and knocked once. Muffled music throbbed from inside, voices rising and falling in drunken cadence. A peephole slid open—a flash of eyes, narrowed and suspicious—then widened with recognition. Metal locks clattered back in a rush. The door swung open, unleashing a wall of sound.

Branley stood framed in the glow, mouth curled into a grin. “It seems Auren has blessed me.” He shook his head, leaning against the frame as his arms crossed. “It has been far too long since you've graced us with your presence.”

Lance gave a nod and stepped past him.

Branley fell in beside him, fingertips brushing Lance's arms as if reacquainting himself with a memory. “So,” he purred, “what are you running from tonight?”

His hands slipped beneath the folds of Lance's cloak, deftly undoing the clasp and easing it from his shoulders.

Lance didn't answer. His jaw was set, eyes locked on the scene ahead. The air was heavy with incense, sweet and heady, saturated with lust. The floor swelled with movement—lounges overflowing, bodies pressed together, people tangled in the desperation to forget. Bare skin shimmered beneath the golden lamplight, laughter and moans blurring into a singular thrum of indulgence.

From below, music rose, a singer's voice dipped in desire as strings and hand drums echoed behind him.

Lance inhaled through his teeth and moved toward the railing, planting his hands on its edge. His eyes settled on the singer, lingering for a beat before drifting over the sea of bodies below, all writhing and desperate. A world trying to drown itself in pleasure before the weight of morning returned.

He'd chased the same distractions tonight. Anything to drown out the buzz in his head and the red-haired girl who refused to leave his dreams.

She'd plagued his dreams even before her arrival, though they hadn't started out so intimate. A glimpse into the woods, her easy voice beckoning him to follow, a flick of her striking hair. But then he met her, and Auren had better ideas. Breathy moans. Warm, plump skin against his.

And when she couldn't even meet his gaze that morning? He knew she'd been having them too.

It was wrong, the way he craved her. He knew that. But knowing didn't stop the pull.

Her eyes haunted him. Wide, quietly defiant, too knowing for someone so new to power. And that fire she kept buried beneath obedience and restraint? He wanted to see it burn. Wanted to be the one who lit the fuse.

And that blush—gods, that blush. Innocent, infuriating. He wanted to ruin it. Wanted to see what she looked like when she stopped pretending she didn't want him too.

Branley's fingers toyed with Lance's collar, undoing ties, slow, as though he were testing the limits. His hand slid against the prince's warm chest underneath his tunic, tracing over the lean muscle underneath.

“You're tense,” Branley whispered, glancing up at Lance. “Let me help with that.”

Lance said nothing. He slipped past him, descending the stairs like a shadow drawn downward. Branley followed delightfully.

Lance reached the final step and paused, eyes sweeping the floor below. Bodies pressed together in lounges thick with velvet and heat. Private rooms flickered with candlelight, some closed, some cracked open.

But his gaze halted as he caught sight of his brother.

His jaw tightened.

He shouldn't care. Mabel wasn't his to protect. She wasn't his, full stop.

But the thought of her—at home, unaware, still trying to be good, still trying to be worthy of a man who spent his nights in places like this—made something sharp twist in his chest.

It was irrational. Dangerous.

And it only made him more furious.

He felt his pulse thunder in his palms, but it didn't stop him. Branley caught up, following the line of Lance's stare. His breath grew tight. “Bad idea,” he said under his breath, a hand lifting as if to steer him elsewhere.

Lance flicked Branley a glance, dismissive, before his gaze tethered itself to Theodore. A man and woman draped themselves across his brother, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his tunic with careless intent. Theodore didn't stop them. He didn't even flinch.

“Lance,” Branley muttered, unease drawing taut across his spine, “don't.”

But Lance moved without a word, his stride fluid and unwavering as he closed the distance between them. Still, the moment slowed, thick with the weight of past sins and unspoken vendettas.

Their eyes locked.

Neither blinked.

Theodore's gaze sharpened, posture snapping rigid. He sat up straighter, the two at his side looking toward Lance.

“Hey there, handsome,” one of them cooed, her voice syrupy.

Lance didn't answer. A glance between them and a single nod was all he gave. Just enough to let Theodore know he'd seen him. That he still had the upper hand.

He turned on his heel, his pace measured. But before he could reach Branley, a hand shot out, iron-hard, clamping onto his arm.

He spun, eyes locking with Theodore's. The glare settled instantly.

“Get your filthy hands off me,” Lance snarled.

“If this gets back to Mabel,” Theodore growled, voice lethal, “you'll regret it.”

Lance scoffed, unbothered. “And what exactly are you going to do about it?”

The answer came fast.

Theodore's fist cracked against his jaw, sharp and brutal. Lance staggered back. Gasps rippled through the room. Music faltered. Heads turned. The air held its breath.

Lance's fingers grazed his jaw, the sting blooming beneath his skin. His gaze lifted slowly, eyes glinting with something feral. A smile tugged at his mouth.

“Trouble in paradise?” His laugh filled the thick air. “Don't tell me she came running to you after this morning.”

Theodore's brow furrowed. “This morning?”

Lance's chuckle was dry, darker now. “Ah … so she didn't mention it.” He stepped in, close enough for his voice to drop. “Shame. She really is a pretty little thing.”

Theodore's jaw ticked. “What the hell are you playing at?”

Lance's smirk didn't waver. “Wouldn't you like to know.” His voice turned bitter. “As I'm sure she'd love to know where you've been tonight.”

Theodore's expression hardened. “You keep your damn mouth shut.”

“Or what?” Lance tilted his head, wholly unbothered. “You'll hit me again? Go ahead. It won't change the fact that you don't deserve her.”

Branley slipped between them, pressing a steady palm to Lance's chest, the tension beneath his hand taut as wire.

“Gentlemen,” he said, voice tight with practiced charm, “surely, we can share a room without drawing blood. Let's forgive and forget, yes?”

Lance's eyes didn't leave Theodore. “This miserable asshole doesn't deserve forgiveness,” he snarled.

Theodore's laugh was brittle. “Don't pretend you are so above it, Lance. We are both neck-deep in this cesspool.”

Branley scoffed at the term.

“I'm not the one getting married,” Lance replied coolly.

“Stop acting like you're some savior, with your good faith politics and disingenuous attempts at turning Mabel against me.” Theodore growled. “I know you, I know the wretched person you are, I know what you've done. You aren't convincing anyone.”

“And I know you, brother. We are the same,” Lance said. “She'll see your wickedness soon enough.”

“I've always dreamed of being pinned between the both of you. You are greatly souring that fantasy,” Branley huffed in irritation. His gaze flicked to Lance, voice dropping to a whisper, “My dearest prince, shall we find a room? There is no need to fight—”

“We are not the same.” Theodore stepped closer, voice rising. “Do you know what the difference is between you and me?” he spat. “I am the heir to the throne, son of Thalen, I have a right to be here. You are just some bastard my father made the mistake of bringing home.”

Branley's breath caught. “Shit,” he whispered, slipping aside just as Lance surged forward.

There was no warning—only the crack of knuckles against skin. Theodore reeled, stunned, blood blooming where the hit landed.

The music cut out mid-note.

Chairs screeched against the floor as bodies rose, drinks forgotten. Heads tilted from the balcony above, hungry eyes fixating on the chaos unraveling below.

Theodore lunged, no hesitation, fist cocked and full of fury.

They collided in a blur of limbs, striking with wild precision, grappling like men with nothing left to lose. The scuffle spilled over tables and upended glasses, two brothers locked in a reckoning.

The crowd leaned in, not to intervene, but to witness.

Lance's fist cracked across Theodore's brow, splitting skin and sending blood into the air. Theodore ducked low and slammed his shoulder into Lance, driving them both into a table that shattered beneath their weight.

Theodore was on top now, fists flying, each blow brutal, breath ragged, knuckles splitting skin with every strike.

Branley lunged in behind him, grabbing at his arms. “Theo, stop—stop it!”

But Lance felt it.

Like a crack splitting glass.

Magic flickered in his veins, wild and waiting, the pressure unbearable. It surged upward, begging to be released. He barely managed to lift his hand, pressing it to Theodore's chest.

A pulse.

Theodore fell, slammed backward by the force of the spell, limbs sprawling.

Lance rolled, breath catching, the flare of magic roaring inside him. Blood trickled down his face, warm and slow. His vision blurred, head buzzing with light and heat. But he didn't let it break. Not yet. He held it—barely—like a thread pulled taut between fury and restraint.

“Pathetic,” Theodore roared, voice echoing off the stone. “You'd use a spell against me? Unarmed?”

Lance coughed, blood in his throat, fists curling tight, but the smirk was unmistakable. He rose slowly, each movement deliberate, wincing as he stretched, one hand gripping his jaw, the other already sparking with heat.

He reached for his side, unsheathing a slender blade at his waist and tossing it to the ground in front of Theodore. The blade clattered against stone, catching the light like a threat. “Let's make it even then.”

Theodore's glare sharpened on the metal as he snatched it from the floor, regaining his footing. His fist tightened around the hilt, knuckles white. “It's your funeral.”

Lance didn't offer a reply. Magic lit his fingertips, cracking with barely held restraint. He cocked his head to the side. His golden eyes shimmered with wild abandon. He pretended not to notice the coins being passed among the throng of onlookers.

“Outside!” Branley barked, stepping between them. “You're not breaking any more of my shit.”

But Theodore moved quick, sidestepping Branley in a blink, dagger raised.

Lance sighed. The air around him pulsed, dangerous and waiting. He flexed his hand. Magic flared against his ebony skin, bloodred sigils painting light across his arms.

Theodore closed the distance between them, arcing the blade high, aiming for more than a brawl.

Lance snatched his wrist in one fluid motion, halting the blade's descent and searing into Theodore's skin. The blade clattered to the floor with deafening defeat. He pulled Theodore close, his grip tightening. “What was it you said about tricks of the light?” he spat at his brother.

Theodore's jaw clenched, masking the pain rippling through his entire body. Magic burned through every inch of him. He yanked his arm back—denied. Lance's hold was unforgiving, unyielding.

Their eyes locked on each other.

“Tell me, brother. Must I remind you what happens when you underestimate me?” His free hand ripped at Theodore's loose collar, eyeing the pink scar across his chest. The proof of his power.

Proof of the danger he held in his veins. Lance's smile split through the bruises, bloody and cruel.

“Enough!” Branley barked. “Both of you—leave. Now.”

A voice rang out from above—sharp, urgent. “Guards!”

Branley's head snapped up. “Shit,” he hissed.

Chairs scraped. Drinks spilled. The tavern erupted—patrons scattering like startled birds, some slipping into shadowed rooms, others vanishing through the rear exit. But Theodore and Lance didn't move. They stood locked in place, daring the other to move first.

Then came the boots. Heavy, thunderous, descending the staircase like judgment. The guards halted just short of the bloodied brothers, confusion flickering across their faces as they registered the scene.

Lance released his brother with a shove. Theodore gasped, clutching his arm to his chest as he stumbled back. The burning red handprint along his arm was unmistakable.

One of the guards hesitated. “Prince Theodore?”

Branley scoffed, pushing forward. “These thugs started a fight. And I was finally getting another taste—”

“Branley,” Lance growled, a warning.

“I want them gone,” Branley snapped.

A guard stepped forward, older, face carved by years of war. Lance recognized him immediately, jaw tightening. Treager, the head of the city guard.

“We received news of a brawl,” he said, voice steady. “How disappointing it is to find the young princes are the culprits.”

Theodore's gaze narrowed. “Watch your tongue.”

Treager didn't flinch. His eyes quietly sized up Theodore before planting his feet.

Theodore scoffed and stepped past him. “Clearly, your services are no longer needed. As you were.”

“I take my orders from the king.” Treager cocked his head, eyes flicking between the two. “I see no kings.”

Lance barked out a laugh.

Theodore's glare hardened. “You dare speak to your prince in such a way?”

“Enough. Your pride has bested you tonight, brother. Let's not further your shame, shall we?” Lance stepped past the guards, hands tucking neatly behind his back, reflecting the calm he rehearsed every morning.

Theodore's fists clenched, stepping toward Lance with a fire still burning in his veins.

Treager pressed a stiff hand to his chest. “Auren demands peace.”

Theodore stilled, fists clenching and unclenching as though he could will the rage away. “Fine. If you'll excuse me, I was trying to enjoy my evening.”

“You are mistaken, my prince.” Treager shook his head. “I will be personally escorting you home.”

No one spoke after that.

Theodore was escorted out, bloodied and silent. Their footsteps echoed up the stairs, trailing behind the weight of royal consequence.

Branley called after them, arms raised in frustration. “And you're both paying for that fucking table!”

The cold hit like a fist as they stepped outside. A carriage waited at the edge of the lamplight, its door already held open by a stone-faced guard.

“I'd rather walk,” Lance muttered, halting at the step.

Theodore shoved past him, movements harsh, uncaring. “Then walk,” he snapped, climbing inside without a backward glance.

Treager, worn but resolute, shifted his stance. “My prince,” he said gently, “you'll ride up front. Let's not tempt another brawl.”

Lance exhaled through his nose, a stiff nod given before he moved toward the bench and settled in. The guard took his place beside him, fingers steady as he snapped the reins.

The horses lurched forward, hooves striking against packed snow, the carriage wheels groaning beneath their weight. No one spoke. Only the sound of movement—the grind of wood, the whisper of wind—filled the silence between them.

Lance's leg bounced, fingers curling against his knee as the castle came into view, towering and grim. Dread coiled in his chest. Thalen's wrath awaited. And tonight, Lance had no shield against it.

The carriage rolled to a stop at the base of the stone steps. Lance descended slowly, eyes lifted to the shadowed heights of the castle.

A guard opened the door. Theodore stepped down, his expression carved from stone.

Palace guards stood outside the towering gates, their breath misting in the cold. At the sight of the approaching carriage, two broke formation and hurried down the stairs, cloaks flaring behind them.

Treager climbed down from the bench and stepped forward. “I need to speak with King Thalen,” he said firmly, voice echoing up the stone steps.

Theodore scoffed, brushing past him. “Yes, go on then—report us like we're misbehaving children.”

Treager didn't flinch. “You are misbehaving children,” he retorted, gaze sharp beneath his helm.

Lance stepped beside them, silent but seething, blood still fresh across his jaw.

The other guards exchanged glances. One of the guards turned sharply and strode down the corridor, boots echoing as he went to fetch the king.

The remaining trio stepped inside, the heavy doors groaning shut behind them.

They lingered in the grand hall, where firelight flickered against marbled columns and tapestries. The air held its breath.

Lance paced subtly near the base of the stairs, fingers twitching against his thigh. His jaw clenched, blood crusting the edge of his lip. Anxiety crawled up his spine, a familiar phantom he refused to acknowledge.

Theodore stood stiffly to one side, arms crossed. But his mask wasn't perfect—his fingers lifted as he bit at the edge of his nails, slow and compulsive, betraying what simmered beneath the cool veneer.

Treager said nothing, posted near the entrance like a statue, though his eyes flicked between the brothers, uncertain which one might explode first.

“This is your fault,” Theodore hissed, his glare sharp. “If you knew how to keep your nose out of other people's lives, none of this would've happened.”

Lance snapped back without hesitation, “If you weren't such a piece of shit, I wouldn't have to.”

“Enough—both of you,” Treager barked, his tone cracking like a whip.

Footsteps rang out above them, hurried in their pace. Lance's breath hitched. Thalen appeared at the top of the staircase, robes sweeping behind him, each step purposeful.

But it was the figure behind him, graceful and still, who made Lance's stomach drop. His mother watched from the corridor above, eyes unreadable in the firelight.

“What is the meaning of this?” Thalen's voice thundered through the hall. His gaze roved between his sons, stern and incredulous. “Do you realize the hour? What madness have you brought into my home?”

The silence that followed was fragile, brittle as glass.

“One of you. Speak,” Thalen roared, voice echoing off stone and flame.

Treager stepped forward, spine straight. “We received reports of a brawl … at a location referred to as 'Entertainment.'” He hesitated. “They were in the middle of it when we arrived.”

Thalen's brows creased in confusion. “'Entertainment?'” The word tasted foul on his tongue. He turned, and the guard leaned in, whispering low.

The king's eyes widened, disbelief flickering before fury took hold. His gaze snapped to Theodore.

“You've lost your mind,” he said, half-laugh, half-snarl. “That kind of place? While betrothed? Are you pressing for scandal?” His voice rose with every word, booming through the chamber.

Theodore flinched—just enough. Lance saw it. Felt it.

For once, his brother didn't stand immune. And that flicker of vulnerability, that tremble beneath Theodore's princely arrogance filled Lance with a dark, satisfaction.

“I did not raise you to be unfaithful,” Thalen roared, each word laced with disgust. “Shall I summon the princess? Let her witness the full disgrace of your behavior?” His fury rolled through the hall like thunder.

He closed the distance to Theodore, eyes blazing. “I expect this kind of foolishness from your brother—but you?” His voice dropped, bitter and cold. “I never imagined you could be so vile.”

Though the accusation wasn't aimed at him, Lance felt its sting deep in his chest. Of course. As always. Thalen's disappointment came already carved with his name.

Theodore stared at the ground, unable to meet his father's gaze.

“Lance,” Thalen snapped.

Lance stiffened. “Yes, sir?”

“You'll have your mission. It's approved. But you're taking him with you.”

Thalen turned to Theodore, whose face twisted in disbelief. “Excuse me?” he spat—then caught the king's glare and swallowed it. “Yes, my king,” he muttered.

Lance blinked. Just like that—his mission was real. And Theodore's punishment was his partnership.

His eyes found his mother at the top of the stairs, unmoving, silent. Watching.

“You are princes,” Thalen said, voice still hot with rage. “Not drunkards in some gutter. I expect better than fists and petty squabbles in brothels.”

“It's not a br—” Theodore started, but the warning flash in Thalen's eyes cut him off. He clenched his jaw and swallowed the rest.

“Go to your rooms,” Thalen growled. “I can't believe I must say that to grown men.” His voice dripped with contempt as he turned away.

“Wait,” Frey's voice echoed from above, delicate yet unyielding. She descended the stairs with measured grace, her presence commanding the room without force. At the bottom, she studied her sons. “Apologize to each other,” she said simply.

Immediate groans rose from both men.

“I said apologize.” Her tone left no room for defiance.

The brothers locked eyes across the hall, a silent battle flaring between them. Neither moved. Neither blinked.

“Theodore,” Thalen said, sharp.

“Fuck—fine,” he muttered, arms folding over his chest like armor. “I'm sorry.”

Lance's breath eased out. “I'm sorry too,” he said quietly. Neither apology was sincere.

Frey's gaze lingered on them both, calm, but laced with silent judgment. The hall seemed to still around her, its air drawn tight.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves.” She gave one last glance between her sons, and with a turn as regal as her resolve, started up the stairs. “Get yourselves cleaned up,” she called back with irritation.

Thalen lingered, his eyes hard and heavy. “You've both humiliated this house tonight,” he said. “By dawn, the scandal will bloom across the city. Do what you can to stifle it.” His voice held the chill of command before he followed his wife up the stairs.

Treager remained; lips pressed into a thin line. He walked to the door, casting one last look over his shoulder. “Try behaving like princes next time.”

He left them alone in the yawning silence of the grand hall. No warmth remained in the firelight.

“I suppose I should thank you, brother,” Lance said, voice smooth with something just shy of mockery. “Your outrage somehow cracked open the door I needed. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Theodore's glare was brief but sharp. Without a word, he ascended the stairs, his footsteps swallowed by stone.

Lance lingered in the grand hall, shadows casting long across the marble as his words echoed quietly behind him. Satisfaction curled beneath his ribs, unfamiliar.

For once, the crown bent toward him.

9

Mabel's fingertips grazed the spines of worn leather and faded parchment, tracing the lineage of forgotten stories. Late morning sunlight streamed through the towering windows, scattering golden ribbons across the endless rows of books.

Theodore hadn't appeared at her door that morning. No warm smile. No flirtatious greeting. And though slightly disappointed, the morning was hers alone—and she welcomed the silence.

It gave Ada a chance to take her time—twisting all of Mabel's copper curls into an elegant, braided crown. It was a ritual between them, tender and familiar.

Even if Theodore hadn't graced her with his presence, she still felt lovely, and more than that, she cherished the care Ada poured into her. She knew Ada relished the chance to dress her up, not for anyone else, but just for the joy of it.

Mabel couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't come twice in a row now. Probably drinking. A flicker of disappointment had stirred within her, one she might've confessed if pressed. Still, she refused to let it settle too deeply.

She hadn't had the luxury of exploring much of the castle before now. So, she'd wandered, letting instinct guide her footsteps through long corridors until she stumbled upon a hidden treasure—the library.

It stole her breath.

Shelves stretched to the ceiling, ancient and commanding, forming winding aisles that begged to be explored. Tall candelabras stood between them. At the far end, beneath a trio of ornately carved windows, sunlight bathed a plush lounge scattered with pillows and throws.

It felt untouched. Undisturbed. As if it had been waiting for her.

Mabel let her fingers drift along the rows of spines, each book whispering centuries of forgotten knowledge. She scanned the faded titles absently until one sent a jolt up her arm. She recoiled instinctively, not out of pain, but surprise. The sensation lingered, like a memory pressing against her skin.

With slow intent, she reached back, fingertips gliding across the leather-bound edges until she found it again. Her hand curled around the book and pulled it free.

Goosebumps bloomed across her arms. Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears.

Gold sigils shimmered across the cover, etched in a winding script that seemed to shift in the light. She ran her thumb over them, tracing the curves of the markings.

Fire.

The word exhaled behind her, a whisper so close she felt the breath. She didn't turn. She didn't need to. That voice had become almost familiar. Curiosity tugged at her. She clutched the book close and crossed the room, sinking into the cushions of the lounge as sunlight kissed her shoulders.

The weight of the book settled into her lap, letting it ground her like a forgotten truth. She cracked it open with care; the binding creaking softly in protest while dust drifted into the air.

Her eyes swept over the first page, dense script in a language she didn't recognize, though parts of it seemed to shimmer faintly, shifting just beneath the surface.

A diagram spread across the next leaf, inked in gold and crimson. It looked like a constellation, or perhaps a map. As her fingers brushed it, the paper thrummed under her skin as though it recognized her.

She drew in a breath.

The air grew heavier around her; the sunlight dulled. From somewhere inside the walls of the library, a soft creaking echoed. It wasn't the wind.

She turned another page.

At the top, a single line flared to life in brilliant glowing script: To conjure flame, one must first remember the spark.

Mabel's heart skipped.

There was something inside this book—alive, perhaps ancient. It wasn't just a collection of knowledge. It was waiting to be read. And it had chosen her.

She sank deeper into the text, eyes sweeping over tangled lines of script and translated fragments. Words clung to her thoughts like embers.

Fire conjures more than heat—it brings memory, instinct, emotion.

Her gaze caught on an illustration. A single flame rendered in luminous gold, etched so finely it seemed almost alive. Something shifted inside her, a pull she couldn't name.

She began to hum the words beneath it before realizing she was doing so aloud.

Elda upp, lýsa nótt—

Logi af hjarta, brenndu þótt.

Af úr djúpum, kalla ég þig—

Eldur vakni, bundinn við mig.

But nothing happened.

Mabel's brow furrowed. She whispered the words again, slower this time, willing heat to rise from her chest, her fingertips, anywhere.

Silence.

She stared at the page, lips parted, waiting for something—anything—to flicker. Her breath trembled as she tried once more.

Still nothing.

A voice slipped through the quiet. “That's not going to work.”

She stiffened. Her pulse kicked hard as she turned.

Lance.

He lounged against the bookshelf behind the velvet lounge, half-shadowed, his expression far too pleased.

Her eyes narrowed. Of course. Of course he was watching.

But her breath caught as she looked at him fully. Lance's face was marred—slashes of red against dark skin, a purple bruise blooming beneath his eye. Her heart skipped.

Theodore. Was this where he'd gone that morning? To leave these marks?

“Wha—” the word broke off, unfinished, uncertain. She stood, turning to face him fully to take in the damage done to his infuriatingly pretty face.

Lance let out a laugh, brittle and sharp. “Your betrothed has a temper.”

She said nothing. Her eyes lingered on the jagged lines across his cheekbone, the mess of it. Bruises told stories. These screamed.

Something stirred in her chest—a ripple of unease, hard to name. Could Theodore really be so brutal?

“I … I didn't mean for him to hurt you. I only—”

“Don't bother.” Lance's voice was cold, dismissive. “At this point, it's practically self-inflicted.” He rolled his eyes and stepped away from the shelf, each movement steady as he prowled closer.

“You can read Old Velmirian?” he asked through the quiet as he gestured toward the book, still dormant on the table.

Mabel's cheeks flushed. Her eyes flicked to the sigil-covered pages. “No,” she admitted. “But I can … hear it, I think? Does that sound crazy?”

Lance's gaze lingered on her; something shadowed behind it, a glimmer she couldn't name. “No,” he said at last. “But it's dangerous if you don't understand what you're playing with. And you clearly don't.”

Mabel glanced down at the pages, jaw tight. “Clearly,” she muttered, casting him a sideways look. “Gods forbid a girl pick up a hobby.”

His laugh broke the hush like a snapped thread. It startled her—not the sound itself, but the warmth in it. She blinked, caught off guard by the flicker of charm in his voice.

“Funny,” he said, a smile ghosting across his lips before fading. Without a word, he lifted his hand. A flame bloomed in his palm.

“Your little spellbook tricks are endearing,” he hummed. “But you've no idea the magic you're messing with.”

Before she could recoil, he stepped in close and clasped her wrist in a swift, practiced movement. His skin was hot—too hot. Her breath hitched.

Then, with eerie grace, he unfurled her fingers and rolled his flame into her palm. It didn't burn.

Mabel drew in a trembling breath, willing her pulse to slow. Her focus gathered into the heat blooming in her palm, steady but rising, fed by the thrum of her heartbeat.

It moved with her now. Listened.

Lance's hand stayed wrapped around her wrist, his eyes fixed on the flame. But she could feel the tension beneath his skin, something cautious, maybe even impressed.

And Mabel, for the first time, didn't pull away.

Her heart skipped, sharp and sudden. The flame swelled in response, mirroring her pulse as if it knew her secrets. It danced in her palm at her expense, revealing too much, too fast.

Lance's lips curved into a knowing smirk, his gaze catching hers. “Nervous, Miss Ravenov?”

Mabel jerked her hand back. The flame blinked out instantly, swallowed into silence as if ashamed to linger.

She turned away, her skin still tingling with the heat. “I don't need your help,” she retorted.

Lance's smile curved, amused. “I didn't offer it.”

She didn't respond. The silence felt thick between them.

He tilted his head slightly, the flame gone from his hand but not from his eyes. “Besides,” he added, tone featherlight but laced with something darker, “you clearly don't need help … just supervision.”

Lance took a slow step closer, just inside her space, not enough to touch, but enough to be felt.

Mabel's jaw tightened.

He circled her, deliberately slow, like a predator circling their prey. “I mean, you're clearly powerful. Gifted. Emotional,” he added with a sly glance. “But power untempered? It's just chaos waiting to embarrass itself.”

“I'm not here to impress you,” she said.

“No, you're here to prove something,” he replied. “Which is … adorable.”

Her hands twitched at her sides.

Lance smirked as if he'd touched something raw. “Don't worry. I'm sure your charming fiancé would pat your head and call you special.”

Mabel's voice was low when it came, “Keep testing me and you'll see just how special I am.”

“You can't even summon a spellbook flame, and you think you can touch me?” Lance cooed, head cocked with mockery. “Do you even understand the power you're toying with? What it's capable of? What you could be if you stopped playing at magic and truly tested yourself?”

Mabel's eyes flashed. “I don't need you to explain my magic to me,” she snapped, voice cutting clean through the air. “And I don't need you to twist it into something ugly.”

“Not ugly.” Lance stepped into her space. His locs spilled forward as he dipped his head, close enough that their breath mingled. “Powerful.”

She swallowed hard. Heat crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks as his presence pressed close. Her heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears. Too loud.

“What did the book say?” he asked, voice a low hum. His gaze traced the line of her jaw, then lingered—unapologetically—on her lips.

“I-it said something about memory,” she managed, the words catching. She hated the stammer, hated how easily he unraveled her composure.

“To conjure flame,” he said, eyes locking with hers, “one must first remember the spark.”

She blinked. “What does that mean?”

He tilted his head, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “Care to find out?” He straightened, extending his hand, not demanding, but expectant.

“Where are—”

“Stop asking questions,” he cut in, voice sharp but not cruel. “Do you want to know or not?”

She hesitated. The air between them pulsed. “Yes,” she whispered.

His fingers wrapped around her wrist, firm but careful. His eyes didn't waver.

A jolt of energy surged through her arm, hot and electric. Her skin prickled. The edges of the library blurred, the shelves dissolving.

Then—silence.

Her senses shut off one by one until the world itself felt dissolved. No weight. No sound. No breath. Just darkness, vast and echoing. Panic flickered in her chest, but even that felt distant, dulled.

And then … light.

A lake shimmered into view, familiar and still—Moorthwyn. Her home.

The landscape spilled out like a painting drawn from memory. Trees she knew. Air she had breethd.

Footsteps shattered the quiet. Cries rang through the space.

Mabel spun toward them.

And saw herself.

Younger. Fifteen. Her copper curls wild in the wind. Her face streaked with fear as she fled the castle, her steps frantic, desperate.

It hit her hard, deep in her chest, the echo of that terror, buried but never gone.

She started to move, to follow, but the scene twisted.

Darkness again. Then trees.

Her younger self, curled beneath the knotted roots of an ancient pine, trembling. The sound of dogs barked in the distance.

And Mabel could only watch. “Run,” she whispered. “Please … run.”

But the image began to stutter. Screams shattered the stillness.

“Let me go!” her younger self sobbed, voice ragged with fear. Guards flanked her as they dragged her across familiar soil. She thrashed against their grasp, heels scraping, tears streaking her cheeks. Blood dripped from her arm where the dogs had dragged her.

“Don't take me back!” she cried. “I won't go back!”

Mabel stood frozen, the ache curling deep in her chest. She knew what was coming. Her body braced for it.

The vision shifted again.

This time, her father's fist slammed into the girl's stomach. She crumpled to the ground.

“No,” Mabel whispered, eyes stinging.

A foot followed.

“Stop!” she shouted, spinning in place. “Stop!”

The room fractured. The memory splintered.

Slowly, the world began to stitch itself back together. Her breath returned in ragged pieces. Tears streamed freely now, hot. Her vision cleared just enough to meet Lance's gaze, still locked on hers.

Then the fury hit. Sharp. Unrelenting.

Mabel yanked her wrist free, fists curling tight. Before thought could catch up to feeling, she swung.

Lance caught her arm midair, grip firm but careful.

“Mabel,” he said softly, voice stripped of its usual edge, coaxing rather than commanding.

But she couldn't see him—couldn't see anything past the blur of tears flooding her eyes. Her breath hitched, and then she broke, collapsing against him as the fury gave way to something deeper.

Sobs racked her chest, her body trembling against his.

Lance stood frozen, breath caught somewhere between guilt and disbelief. Slowly, he let go of her wrist, his hand rising to gently thread through the braid atop her head, unsure if the gesture would soothe or shatter her further.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I didn't know—”

“How cruel can you be?” she gasped against his chest, voice cracked and raw.

But she didn't pull away.

She stayed there, pressed against him, grief pouring through her in waves—grief for the girl she'd been, and the woman she was still becoming.

She'd submitted. Let her father mold her, beat her, strip her down until she no longer recognized the shape of herself. Survival had demanded it. Protection had required it. But she'd let it go too far. Let him carve away too much.

Was there anything left of the girl who once burned bright? The one with fire in her veins and defiance in her eyes? Had she buried that version so deep she couldn't find her anymore?

The memories clawed upward, ones she'd locked beneath years of silence. Now torn open, they surged through her like flame.

Her fingers curled into Lance's tunic, desperate, trembling. She hated him for dragging it out of her. Hated him for seeing it. But right now, he was the only thing keeping her upright. And she clung to him like she might fall apart if she let go.

He hadn't expected her to break. Not like this.

Lance had seen Mabel angry, defiant, guarded—but this? This was something else. Something raw. Her sobs hit him harder than any spell she could cast, and the way she clung to him—fists curled in his tunic like he was the last solid thing in a crumbling world—left him breathless.

He didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know what to do with the ache in his chest or the heat rising in his throat. Her pain was too real, too close. And he hated that he'd been the one to unlock it. But more than that, he hated the man who'd buried it in her to begin with.

The thought of him—of the bruises, the silence, the years of shaping her into something small and obedient—made Lance's jaw clench. He wanted to find him. Wanted to make him feel what she'd felt. Wanted to burn down everything that had taught her to flinch instead of fight.

She wasn't his to protect. He knew that. But gods, he wanted to.

Not because she was fragile. But because she wasn't. Because she was still standing, still burning, even after everything. And that fire—he'd seen it. He'd felt it. And he'd be damned if anyone tried to snuff it out again.

“Mabel,” he whispered, letting his arms wrap around her, drawing her in with slow, patient care. “You're safe. You're here.” He didn't know if the words mattered. They felt small against the enormity of what she carried.

There was no undoing it. No spell to erase the years, the bruises, the silence. He couldn't stop the tears or reach back far enough to shield the girl she used to be.

So he didn't try. He just held her as she broke against him.

And for once, he didn't say anything clever. Didn't tease or provoke or push. He simply stayed.

She almost hated him more for it.

Or maybe she hated herself for how easily she folded into his arms, for how his warmth pulled her closer like gravity. For how perfectly she fit against him, like her body had known him long before her mind ever did.

But what she hated most was the flicker of comfort that bloomed in her chest when he held her.

Because despite everything—the pain he'd dragged to the surface, the memories she'd buried so deep she'd forgotten they were hers—she knew she needed to remember.

She had to face the grief she'd swallowed for years. The grief she'd masked with poise and practiced smiles. The grief that had shaped her into something quiet, something survivable.

And now, standing in his arms, she felt it all. And she hated that it made her feel more alive than she had in years.

She stayed pressed against him, fists still curled in his top, breath hitching in uneven waves. Her tears had slowed, but the ache hadn't. It sat heavy in her chest.

Lance didn't move. Didn't speak. One hand remained in her braids, thumb brushing gently along the crown of her head. The other held her close; fingers splayed along her spine.

She didn't mean to lift her face. Didn't mean to meet his eyes. But she did.

And he was already looking at her.

Close. Too close.

Her breath trembled between them, and his hand stilled in her hair. Neither of them moved, but the space between them seemed to vanish all the same.

It wasn't a decision.

Her lips brushed his—barely. A whisper of contact. A question neither of them had asked aloud.

He didn't pull away.

She didn't either.

One second of stillness.

Then her mouth found his again, desperate and real.

Lance responded instantly, arms tightening around her, pulling her in like he'd been waiting for this moment longer than he'd ever admit. The kiss deepened, fierce and consuming, all breath and heat and the ache of everything they hadn't said.

It wasn't soft. It was fire.

Her fingers tangled in his collar, his hand slid to her jaw, and the world narrowed to the space between them. Grief, fury, longing—all of it poured into the kiss—messy, electric, and far too much.

And when she finally pulled away, neither spoke.

But the air between them had changed. And they both knew it.

Her eyes flew wide, hand snapping up to cover her mouth. She stumbled back, breath catching, heart pounding.

“I-I'm sorry,” she whispered, voice barely holding together, fingers trembling.

Lance reached for her, but she was already moving, fast, like the kiss had set something loose inside her she couldn't afford to face.

“Mabel,” he called, voice cracked with urgency.

She didn't stop.

Her steps echoed through the library, uneven and frantic, breath ragged as regret surged through her like a flood.

What had she done?

10

The light spilled across the aviary in waves of silver that glittered with the promise of peace. Peace. That's what Mabel needed. Not the dreams plaguing her sleep, not the burning she felt in her stomach. Certainly not the prince she wasn't betrothed to.

She slipped free of her heels, a sigh leaving her as she grounded herself in the grass. Birdsong filled the air with a cheerful hum, welcoming her. Her eyes swept across the vast space.

Birds of all shapes and colors took flight, nestled in branches, tending nests. They knew nothing of the turmoil that had wound itself so deeply in her chest.

Mabel wandered deeper until she found the creek that split through the grass and settled down beside it. Her head dropped into her hands. A trembling breath escaped her.

What have I done?

“Meryth,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” Slowly, she looked up. There were no stars, just the gray sky that threatened the fall of snow. “I know I'm far from home. Far from the protection of your wings and your guidance. But I need you.”

The rustle of wings in the air was the only response.

“Auren seems to be set on making my life hell. Can you believe it? The god of peace,”—a scoff left her throat—“tormenting me.”

A streak of black feathers rushed overhead, startling her. The raven landed in front of her gracefully, head tilted, its glassy eyes narrowed.

Mabel laughed softly, a hand on her chest to settle the jump in her heart. “Hi … Kara, right?” she asked, a small smile on her lips.

The raven hopped closer, eyeing her with great suspicion. I've never known you to be a fool, my child.

“What?” Mabel's eyes flared, and she jumped to her feet.

The raven hopped closer, its silky black feathers shining in the light. You know better than to forsake the gods. Auren sees. I see. Veyra sees.

“Meryth? How are you here? What are you saying?” Mabel asked, shaking her head.

Is my form bothering you? I thought my children would bring you comfort. The raven huffed a breath of annoyance before its shape twisted, transformed into Frey and spoke just as her, “Does the mother bring you comfort? Do her wise words hold stronger than mine?”

Mabel stepped back. “Meryth, I would never forsake you.”

“Then listen, my child.” She snapped. “The god of passion may have … modern ways of sharing his dreams but they are just as prophecy as the stars.”

“I am promised to Th—”

“You are more than your mortal promises.” She glared at her, daring her to deny it.

“Then what am I to do?” Mabel bit, fists balling. “I am bound by oaths to marry him. Are you asking me to marry his brother?”

“Perhaps it is not comfort you need. Perhaps it is fear.” The goddess shifted once more, the shape of her father jarring. His piercing eyes cut through Mabel without a second thought. His voice roared, “You will listen to me. It is not marriage I ask of you.”

Mabel stumbled, overwhelming fear crashing into her. She fell back into the soft grass, heart pounding. This wasn't her fear. It radiated from every inch of Meryth as she towered over Mabel.

“Then what?” Mabel's voice trembled. She couldn't hold her father's stare. “What do you want from me?”

“Enough of this.” A voice sounded from behind. “She is under my care, Meryth.”

“She is mine!” Meryth roared, looking past Mabel. “You plague her dreams without giving her truth.”

“Oh, they are truth.”

Mabel froze as she felt a pair of hands on either side of her settling on her chin. They guided her gently, coaxing her to look up.

“Isn't that right, Miss Ravenov?”

Mabel blinked as Lance's golden eyes met hers, soft, glowing. Her heart leaped in her chest. What is happening?

“You are toying with her, Auren. She needs to know her place in this,” Meryth bit back.

“Patience, sister. She is not ready to know. Tell her now and she'll panic. For a goddess of wisdom, you are quite slow.” Auren spoke to the goddess, but his gaze never left Mabel's. Every pass of his eyes was analyzing, calculating. “She's scared. Stop it.”

Meryth groaned, her form once more changing. Her frame shortened, softened, until Ada stood before her. “I tire of your games.”

“You must endure it, I'm afraid. But do not fret, sister, she will come to know the truth. The winter solstice shall bring clarity.”

“Not to all of it,” Meryth scoffed.

“Baby steps,” Auren hummed. “That's what you mortals say, isn't it?” He offered a soothing smile to Mabel, but a frown quickly replaced it. “You are still frightened. Why?”

Mabel opened her mouth to speak but nothing came of it. So many questions soared through her. How is this possible? How are they speaking to me? Can gods hide among us like this? What does Meryth want to tell me? Why won't Auren tell me?

“She is in shock,” Auren noted. “I told you not to meddle in these affairs.”

“I brought her to you. Now you refuse my guidance?” Meryth seethed. “It was hard enough to secure Varkeyrish's blessing for this farce. My patience is wearing thin.”

“Enough. We will discuss the matter later. I must erase her memory of us.” The smile he offered was far from sweet. “I have a dream to finish. You are more than welcome to stay, Meryth.” He tore his gaze from Mabel, offering a cocky smirk to the goddess.

“I dislike your dreams.” Meryth shook her head, turning from him. “But do as you must.” Her shape glittered, shining bright as she shifted into a raven as bright as the stars, forcing Mabel to close her eyes. The goddess took off in flight.

“Now, my sweet child. Where were we?” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. A wave of calm washed over Mabel, her vision fading to black.

“Gods, Mabel,” Lance's rough voice sounded through the dark. Hands were on her body, lips devouring hers, a sweet, sweet pleasure coursing through her entirely.

A soft moan slipped from her throat, swallowed by the man who invaded her waking thoughts. He claimed her over and over again, sinking into her warmth like he owned it.

“You are mine.”

“All yours. Only yours.”

Mabel jolted upright from the warmth of her bed, heart pounding in her chest, sweat soaking her skin. Morning light poured into the room, soft, waiting.

“Stupid fucking dreams,” she spat, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Mabel studied her reflection in the mirror; the room bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering against stone. Ada had just finished her work, each braid meticulously placed; every strand smoothed into submission.

The winter solstice celebration loomed. A kingdom-wide spectacle, gilded in tradition and excess. Theodore had spoken of it often, his voice full of pride. It's unlike anything you've ever seen, he'd said, eyes gleaming.

She hadn't known what to expect. But the castle had made its intentions clear.

A procession of women arrived at her door that morning, silent and efficient. They guided her to the bathhouse, where steam curled around marble pillars and her skin was scrubbed until it stung. Her curls were washed, combed, and oiled. Her body was buffed and perfumed, her nails shaped, her lips tinted.

She hadn't spoken much. No one had asked her to.

Now, she stood before the mirror, the perfect portrait of a princess.

But her eyes betrayed her. They searched the glass for something familiar, something untouched by ceremony or expectation. Something real.

She looked beautiful. Regal. Untouchable.

And yet, she felt like a ghost wearing borrowed skin.

She hadn't realized how much of herself she'd surrendered. Not until Lance—

Her breath caught. She shoved the memory back—his mouth on hers, the heat of it, the way it had cracked something open inside her.

She'd been avoiding him ever since.

But it hadn't stopped the glances. In crowded halls or empty corridors, across banquet tables or training yards, their eyes found each other. Always.

She'd look away first. Always.

But his gaze lingered, burning and impossible to ignore.

She hadn't told anyone. Not Ada. Not even herself, not really. And gods, she prayed Lance hadn't said a word.

If it got out—if anyone knew what had passed between them—it would unravel everything she'd worked for.

She could already see Theodore's face. The fury. The betrayal. The heartbreak.

All because of her.

Guilt clung to her like a second skin. Tonight was no different.

Draped in Aurevyn's maroon and brushed gold, the ache settled deeper. The crown atop her head—delicate, spiraled antlers curling from its base—felt heavier than it should. More symbol than ornament. More burden than honor.

Ada rifled through the vanity with practiced ease, smiling when she spotted the gold chain. “There it is,” she said, lifting it with gentle fingers. “A little piece of home.”

Mabel didn't respond as Ada clasped it around her throat. Her gaze stayed fixed on the blue pendant—her father's gift. His words still echoed, uninvited. A token. To remind you what's at stake.

“You are beautiful,” Ada said softly, her fingers brushing one of Mabel's braids, pride flickering across her face.

“Thanks,” Mabel offered, her smile tight but sincere. “You're even prettier. Look at you.” She nudged Ada's arm playfully.

Ada blushed, rare and pink, the silver gown Mabel had lent her glimmering as she twirled slightly. Her dark hair tumbled in soft waves, dotted with braids Mabel had insisted on doing herself.

“I look odd,” Ada laughed quietly. “I'm not used to … all this.”

“You look regal,” Mabel said firmly. “It suits you.”

Ada's eyes softened, the compliment sitting heavy in her chest. “Thank you.”

Mabel leaned her head against Ada's shoulder, eyes tracing their reflections in the mirror. “I'm glad you're coming with me,” she whispered.

Ada nodded, a soft smile tugging at her lips. But her gaze lingered on Mabel's face, studying the tension in her jaw, the way her eyes didn't quite meet her own. She could feel it. The weight Mabel wasn't sharing.

It lived in the pauses between words; in the way she flinched at certain names, names Ada hadn't thought meant anything to her. It lived in the way she held herself too still, too carefully, like one wrong move might crack something open.

Ada didn't press, but her chest ached with the knowing.

A knock broke the stillness, sharp and sudden. Both women turned.

Ada fluttered to the door, heels clicking softly against the stone as she pulled it open with both hands, the weight of it slowing her grace. Her head tilted slightly as she peered out into the corridor then smiled, beckoning Mabel forward with a wave.

Mabel approached the threshold, her breath catching at the sight.

Theodore stood in the doorway, framed by candlelight. Fine furs draped his shoulders, a matching antler circlet resting atop his blond strands. In his arms, he carried two bouquets—deep crimson blooms, lush and velvety. Almost too perfect.

“For you,” he said with a smile that curled at the corners, handing one to Mabel. She accepted it and leaned into the soft kiss he offered, warm, familiar, but no longer felt right.

Then he turned. “And for you,” he added, extending the second bouquet to Ada.

The room paused.

Ada blinked, startled, unsure whether to reach for the gift or question its meaning. Her fingers hesitated in midair before finally accepting the flowers with a polite nod.

Theodore's smile didn't falter. But Mabel's heart thudded once.

“Thank you, Theo,” Mabel cooed, her smile tight. “These weren't stolen too, were they?” she quietly teased.

He laughed, the sound curling around her. “Not this time,” he replied. “Purchased. Locally grown, too.”

A soft giggle escaped her lips as she lifted the flowers to her nose, inhaling their delicate sweetness.

“They're lovely,” Ada said, still gazing down at the blooms cradled in her hands. “Let me get them in some water.” She gently took Mabel's bouquet and drifted toward the vanity, her movements careful.

Mabel turned back to Theodore, catching his gaze. “That was thoughtful.” She smiled, her voice quiet. “I mean it.”

“Anything for you,” he said with a soft smile, and her heart stammered under the weight of it.

If only he knew.

Ada returned, cheeks pink from the warmth of the moment. “Ready?”

Theodore offered his arm, and Mabel slipped hers through without hesitation.

Ada trailed behind as they stepped into the corridor, footsteps echoing faintly as they made their way to the courtyard where the waiting carriages glistened beneath Yule lanterns.

They boarded the carriage one by one, its interior plush with velvet benches lining either side. Theodore offered his hand to both Mabel and Ada, guiding them in with ease before settling beside them. All three arranged themselves on the far bench.

Across from them sat Thalen and Frey—both draped in elegant robes, their crowns grand and matching, polished antlers curling skyward.

“What a beautiful couple,” Thalen said warmly, his arm slung around Frey in a gesture both casual and proud.

“We are truly blessed by The Old Ones,” Frey chimed in, her smile soft and knowing. “Such a perfect match.”

“Blessed indeed,” Theodore echoed with a smirk, his fingers tightening instinctively around Mabel's waist.

She offered a shy smile; cheeks pink beneath the weight of their praise. She knew she didn't deserve it.

“What are we waiting for?” Theodore asked, glancing toward the open door.

“Your brother,” Frey replied, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And remember—best behavior.”

Mabel glanced up at Theodore and caught the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of disapproval that passed through his eyes. His grip grew firmer against her side; more claim than comfort.

It only made the knot in her stomach grow tighter.

And then—Lance.

He stepped into the carriage, gaze locking onto Mabel's with unnerving precision. She looked away fast, heartbeat skipping.

Lance's eyes drifted between her and Theodore, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he took the seat beside Frey, the air tightening as the carriage door clicked shut behind him.

The wheels lurched, and they were off—gliding toward celebration, wrapped in tension and restraint.

The carriage creaked to a halt at the edge of a massive field, its wheels rolling to rest against gravel softened by frost. Mabel stepped out with Theodore's hand clasped around hers, Ada just behind; the three of them greeted by the hum of hundreds already gathered.

The awning was a canopy of warmth in the open cold, sprawling across a field, stitched from thick maroon and gold fabric that mirrored Aurevyn's heraldic hues. Beneath it, tables stretched in endless rows, piled high with roasted vegetables, toasted breads, glazed meats, and jugs of warm cider. The air carried their scent.

At the far end, three oxen waited near the ceremonial stones, calm and swaddled in wreaths of evergreen. They would be offered at dusk, their lives honored in reverence, a sacred tradition meant to invoke protection and abundance for the year to come.

Though the celebration echoed the elegance of the crown's power, it wasn't hollow. The people came not only to admire but to be nourished, sheltered, seen. In the center of it all, a grand evergreen tree with ribbons trailing down its bark.

Tables brimmed with folded wool blankets, cloaks, boots, and hand-knit garments. Children darted between benches while elders whispered and watched. Everyone was welcome. No one left empty-handed.

It was extravagant, yes. But it was theirs. The crown had poured its gold into something enduring. Something they could touch.

Mabel's eyes skimmed the crowd, her heart tugging at both corners, at the generous beauty of the event, then at the shadow of Lance lingering just behind them.

He strode ahead without a glance, his cloak catching on the wind, rustling behind him.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Frey hummed as she and Thalen followed, their arms looped with familiarity. Two guards trailed them at a respectful distance.

“Not too much,” Thalen added over his shoulder, casting a pointed look toward Theodore.

“Ignore him,” Frey muttered, tugging her husband gently forward. The words “You do not ignore a king” were met with playful scoffs from her, soft teasing that made the title seem less like a burden, more like a game between lovers.

Mabel watched them with an ache she didn't quite know how to name. Her parents had never looked at each other like that. Not with that warmth. That ease.

If she wanted anything—truly wanted—it was that. Whatever Thalen and Frey had stitched between them through years and choices and secrets.

Could she find that in Theodore?

Before the question settled, they were moving, his hand resting against her back, firm and possessive as he guided her into the throng. Ada followed without question.

They moved through the rows of tables beneath the awning, surrounded by laughter and clinking glasses. Theodore greeted the crowd like the royal prince he was, his smile warm, wave effortless, each gesture polished.

They reached a table already bustling with conversation and steaming platters. Theodore slid onto the bench and pulled Mabel close, his hand resting at her side. Ada followed, slipping in next to her.

A horn blast cleaved the air.

Every head turned in near-unison. At the far end of the field, Thalen and Frey stood beneath the golden awning, framed by torches and velvet drapery, regal and commanding.

Thalen raised his hands as silence fell over the crowd, voices trailing off until only the wind whispered through the trees.

“Citizens of Aurevyn,” his voice rang clear and resonant beneath the awning, “tonight we gather not only in celebration, but in remembrance.”

Theodore leaned forward, purposefully blocking Mabel's view. His elbow rested across the wood, knuckles supporting his chin. “Is it everything you dreamed of?”

Mabel choked on a sip of cider. “What?”

“The celebration,” he hummed, gesturing broadly.

“Oh—yes, it's incredible.” She nodded quickly. Her gaze swept across the crowd.

“Not as incredible as—”

“Stop being such a flirt,” she teased him. “I'm trying to pay attention.”

Theodore huffed. “It's the same speech every year. I can recite it to you, though I'm sure you'd be much more entertained by my version.” He leaned in close, breath warming her skin. His words fell in time with Thalen's. “The winter solstice marks more than the longest night,” he purred. His lips pressed just below her ear. Thalen's voice still rang with authority, but Mabel was suddenly far too distracted to listen.

“Though I'm quite grateful for the extra time. It means I'll have more time to spend keeping my promise.” His hand dropped to her thigh, giving a less than gentle squeeze.

Her breath caught, her cheeks flaming under his gaze.

“Auren sees us. He grants us peace. He leads with passion. Tell me, Princess, which do you think Auren will grant you tonight?”

“We are in public—”

“Answer the question.”

Mabel blinked up at him. His eyes were hooded, dark, the silvery gray tinged with something hungry. He watched her with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine.

“P-passion?” she whispered.

He nodded. “Tonight, we give freely. These gifts are not just acts of generosity but promise—though I am quite generous.”

He finished the rest of the speech that way. Mimicking Thalen before whispering his own interpretations into her ear.

After the feast, the music began.

Strings rose into the cold night air. A lighthearted voice sang of merriment and new beginnings, words rolling like snow across the field, scattering joy wherever they landed.

And for the moment, Mabel let herself ease into the wonder of it all.

Theodore remained at her side, his arm draped around her shoulders, voice low as he whispered into her ear. Mabel didn't think she could blush any deeper, but her cheeks were warm, her jaw aching from how long she'd been smiling.

“Do you enjoy torturing me?” she teased, swatting at him lightly, though the laughter still spilled from her lips.

“I'd argue it's the other way around,” he scoffed playfully, breath brushing her skin. “You and that dress …”

“Stop,” she said, laughing despite herself.

“I'm serious,” he purred, lips grazing the curve of her jaw. “We may need to leave early.”

Her breath caught. She turned slightly, but he reached out, fingers tilting her chin back toward him, an instinctive gesture she'd grown used to, one that always made her pulse quicken.

“We can't leave early,” she whispered, though the words held no weight. If he asked, she'd have to follow.

“Says who?” he asked, brow lifted, eyes gleaming.

“Hate to interrupt the poetry hour,” a voice teased, light and familiar, “but we're starting to wonder if you've been kidnapped.”

“Derrick,” Theodore greeted him and glanced up, amusement flickering in his eyes as he met his friend's grin. “Just enjoying the celebration,” he said, unbothered.

Mabel's fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve before she could think, a subtle gesture. She didn't want him pulled away just yet.

“Sure,” Derrick laughed. “But come say hello. Everyone's gathered near the fountain, wondering where their favorite prince wandered off to.”

Theodore rose slowly, brushing off his coat with practiced ease. “I'll be back,” he said to Mabel, voice warm.

She nodded, a hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “Don't let them corrupt you.”

“No promises,” he said, flashing her a wink.

Derrick clapped him on the back as they walked off, their laughter trailing behind. Mabel watched them go, the warmth of Theodore's presence lingering like the last note of a song.

But she wasn't alone. Ada, who had shifted down the bench earlier to give them space, had seen the exchange. She turned now, eyes bright, a playful smile on her lips. “Care to dance?” she asked, voice lilting with mischief.

They found each other in motion, hands clasping, feet falling into rhythm. They spun between tables and flickering torches, skirts catching the firelight, laughter spilling from them in bursts too honest to be rehearsed.

In that moment, Mabel let herself forget. The music, the warmth, the flicker of Ada's smile—it was enough.

They twirled beneath the lantern-lit sky, laughter slipping between them as they spun with careless joy. But as Mabel's fingers loosened, the momentum caught her off balance, her feet faltered, and she stumbled backward.

Strong arms steadied her, pulling her flush against a firm chest.

Her breath hitched as she looked up and found Lance watching her, eyes dark. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She stepped back quickly, jaw tight as she narrowed her gaze.

“Impeccable timing, my prince,” she said coolly, eyes narrowed as they scanned his face.

“Right place, right time,” Lance said. His smirk curved into something almost daring. “May I have this dance?”

Mabel hesitated, glancing toward the crowd. Her gaze swept the tables, searching, but Theodore wasn't there.

Her voice faltered. “I don't know if I should …”

“Dance, Mabel! I need a break,” Ada called out with a grin, collapsing onto a bench with flushed cheeks.

Her heart stuttered. When her eyes met Lance's again, her hand moved before she could stop it, slipping into his like instinct had outrun reason.

His grip was firm. He drew her in, his other hand settling at her waist just as the music shifted, slower now, sweeter, the tempo bending into something dangerously intimate.

She nearly groaned.

Then she looked up.

In the glow of fire and moonlight, his gaze wasn't sharp or guarded. It had softened, mellow, almost reverent. She couldn't hold it.

“We shouldn't be doing this,” she whispered, barely audible over the melody.

“I shouldn't do a lot of things.” Lance sighed, eyes trailing down her figure with unrepentant ease.

Her pulse skipped. “What if Theodore sees?”

His voice dropped. “What if he does? It's just a dance.”

She exhaled slowly, letting the logic settle over her shoulders like a shawl, but the knot in her stomach refused to loosen.

“I should apologize,” Lance said, guiding her hand with practiced ease. His gaze didn't meet hers. “The other day … I should've warned you about the memories.”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp. “Yes, you should've.” The words cut clean but softened with a scoff. “But I ask too many questions, don't I?”

“You do,” he said, almost fond. Then he drew her closer, the space between them vanishing.

Her breath hitched.

His brow arched, amused, but something in his expression shifted. Calculating. “You've been avoiding me.”

“I have not,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her voice thinned, trailing off.

Lance tilted his head, guiding her into a slow spin. Lantern light caught the shimmer of her gown, casting gold across her skin. When she returned to him, his hand found her waist again, firm.

“You haven't gotten any better at lying,” he said.

She sighed, gaze dropping. “Fine. Yes, I've been avoiding you.”

“Why?” His hand lifted, reaching for her cheek. She caught his wrist before he could touch her.

“Lance … you know exactly why.”

“Explain it to me,” he whispered, just low enough for her to hear.

“Do I have to?”

His golden eyes met hers, steady, almost pleading. It pulled at something in her chest she didn't want to name.

She took a breath, steadying herself. “What happened … It can't happen again.”

Lance's brow lifted, curious. “And that means you must avoid me?”

“Yes, I …” Her voice faltered. She swallowed hard. “I can't trust myself. Or you.”

The admission scraped against her pride, but it was true. It lived in the way her body leaned toward him even now, in the way her skin sparked beneath his touch, in the ache she couldn't quite silence.

He watched her closely, gaze unreadable. Then his hand returned to her waist, guiding her gently in time with the music. His grip was steady, grounding, like he feared she might slip through his fingers if he let go.

And maybe she would.

Her words had confirmed it. The distance wasn't punishment—it was protection. A line drawn not from indifference, but from the threat of losing control.

And that, more than anything, pleased him. Because it meant she wanted him. Just as badly as he wanted her.

“Come out with me tonight,” he said, searching her features.

“In your dreams,” Mabel scoffed.

“Oh, Miss Ravenov, if only you could see my dreams.” His voice wrapped around her slowly, coaxing. “Though I would wager they're not too different from your own.”

She could feel her cheeks burning. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” he laughed softly. The sound warmed something inside her. “You see me. You feel me. You need me.”

“And how do you know of my dreams?” She glared at him, but she couldn't deny the heat growing inside her.

“I'm there, aren't I?” he scoffed.

Mabel stilled. “What do you mean you're there?”

“What, you think it's Auren himself fucking you?”

She wanted to rip the smirk off his stupid face. “No one is fucking me—”

“Obviously.” He rolled his eyes.

“You aren't in my dreams,” she snapped, but the heat on her cheeks gave away her poor attempt at a lie.

“Fate isn't to be ignored, Mabel.”

“Fate?” She laughed in his face. “My fate was sealed when my father was crowned king. I'm to wed Theodore. Nothing can change that.”

“Do you enjoy angering our god?” he teased.

“Your god enjoys angering me,” she huffed. “What is your point?”

“Come with me tonight,” he said, breath brushing her ear. “I'll show you the truth of your Prince Charming. Maybe it'll help you see your real fate a little clearer.”

“The truth?” She glared at him. “Is that what this is about? All the whores he's fucked? He admitted it. Bu-but he's with me now—not them. Why are you trying so hard to ruin this for me?”

“Where was he last night?” Lance asked.

“What?”

“Or the night before? Where do you think he was when he did this?” He dropped his hand from her waist to point at the healing cuts along his brow.

“I-I don't know,” she said quietly.

“Exactly. You have no idea who the man you're marrying even is.” His hand returned to her waist, rougher, pulling her along to the music.

“What difference does it make? Why do you care so much?” She stepped in time with him, twirling as he lifted his hand to spin her. He dragged her back in with a force that almost had them crashing into each other.

“I don't”—a groan ripped from his chest—“I do. I care. Is that so bad? Is that wrong of me?”

Her gaze swept his face, searching for a lie, a tell, anything that would settle the flutter in her chest. But all she saw was sincerity. Raw. Rare.

Her body stiffened. The warmth rising in her only solidified her answer. “I'm not going anywhere with you,” she said, trying to pull back.

He didn't let her. His arms held firm, not cruel, just unyielding. His eyes met hers, steady, mischievous.

“You will,” he said quietly.

Lance's gaze flicked upward, a slow smirk forming. Mabel turned to follow his line of sight.

Theodore was striding toward them.

Mabel instinctively tried to pull back, but Lance didn't release her hand.

“Mabel?” Theodore's voice sliced through the music, sharp and unmistakable.

She wrenched free of Lance's grip, fire flashing in her eyes as she spun to face her fiancé.

His expression was carved from stone—brow furrowed, jaw clenched—but his gaze didn't even touch Lance. It landed fully on her.

Her breath tangled in her throat as he closed the space between them, reaching for her wrist and pulling her with him in a single, silent motion.

No words. Just the press of his hand and the weight of eyes all around them.

She desperately glanced back at Lance, but he was striding off in the other direction.

Mabel stumbled slightly, caught in the urgency of Theodore's steps.

“Theo,” she called out, breathless, trying to match his pace, but he didn't respond. His grip held steady as the crowd parted for them.

Whispers followed. Slippery. Unavoidable. Every glance was a question she wasn't ready to answer.

“Theodore, let go,” Mabel pleaded, her voice tight with pain. “You're hurting me.”

He didn't respond. His grip remained ironclad around her wrist.

He guided her past the glowing awning, beyond laughter and firelight, into the hedge maze looming beneath moonlight and cold breath. Shadows curled around the hedges like waiting hands.

Once swallowed by the foliage, Theodore stopped sharply, turning on her. His eyes flared with something raw, something she hadn't seen before. “What did I tell you?” he snapped, voice slicing through the hush.

Mabel recoiled instinctively, breath catching. “Wh-what do you mean?” she asked, heart thudding hard in her chest.

“I told you to stay away from him,” he growled. When she tried to pull back, he yanked her closer, his fingers pressing deep into her skin. “What is so hard to understand?” His voice dipped lower now, dangerous. “I was very clear.” His gaze held her in place like a cage, cold, possessive, and full of something she hadn't dared to name until now.

“It was just a dance,” Mabel said, voice shaking as she tried to hold her ground. “It meant nothing. Why are you so angry with me?”

“You disobeyed me.” Theodore's voice cracked like ice. Then—without warning—he shoved her.

She stumbled backward, fingers reaching for balance, but the ground rose too fast. Her body hit the frostbitten grass with a dull thud. Cold crept up her skin, but the ache was deeper, lodged in her chest. Staring at the ground, breath trembling, she tried to process it.

He pushed her.

He actually—

Her gaze lifted slowly, eyes wide with shock. “I …”

But the words failed her. All that rose was the sting behind her eyes. Tears brimming, unwelcome. “You said you were sorry,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “You apologized.”

“As if that means anything,” Theodore scoffed. “I apologize all the time, Mabel. It's practically ceremonial.”

She stared up at him, disbelief crashing through her chest as her heart slammed against her ribs.

“When I tell you something, you better fucking listen,” Theodore snarled. “You will not speak to him again.”

Mabel couldn't reply. Her voice clung to her throat, too stunned to rise. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, cold against flushed skin. She felt frozen, paralyzed on the ground.

Theodore had shoved her. Yelled. Crossed a line she hadn't known existed—until now.

Something inside her didn't just crack. It split.

She rose slowly, stiff as stone, jaw clenched, fingers trembling as she brushed the dirt and snow from her gown. Her palms stung. Her chest burned.

But her eyes—her eyes were steady. When she met his gaze again, they were no longer afraid. “You don't want me to speak to him? Fine, I won't,” she said, voice like steel. “But you're going to tell me where you've been disappearing every night—where you're going tonight.”

“What?” he barked, startled.

“You heard me.”

“You don't get to demand—”

“And you don't get to throw me to the ground!” she snapped, voice rising, raw at the edges. “As if I'm beneath you. As if I'm not the woman you're supposed to marry.”

She stepped forward, fury coiled in every limb. “I will not let you treat me like that,” she hissed. “I will not let you become my father. What he did to my mother—to me—I will not relive it.” Her makeup was streaked. Her face flushed. Her voice shook. But she stood her ground.

The ache in her chest twisted, surged. Her breath caught. Her fingers curled.

And the fire bloomed.

It erupted from her palms without warning, without incantation. No ritual. No restraint. Just heat, pure and alive, rushing through her like a scream finally released.

Theodore glared, fists clenched, a step forward—

Mabel didn't flinch. “I fucking dare you.”

He stared at her for a beat before his laugh came sharp and mocking, hollow beneath the polished charm that slid back over his features.

“You think your pathetic flames could hurt me?” he scoffed, inching closer. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would—and you wouldn't be able to stop me.”

Mabel stood her ground, gaze hardening on him. Her palms trembled, but the fire only flickered higher. “Do your worst.”

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy. Theodore studied her closely, tilting his head. He let out a short, dry laugh, eyes narrowing on her. “How do you know I'm going somewhere tonight?” he asked, too smooth, too careful.

“Answer me first,” Mabel snapped, voice rising with the flames in her fists.

Theodore's mouth twisted into something unreadable. “He told you, didn't he?” he mused aloud. “And here we go again—you believe him over me. Make me the villain.”

Her expression didn't waver. “You've just done that yourself,” she said, voice steady, fire pulsing between her fingers. “He didn't need to say anything.”

Their stares clashed like drawn blades, neither willing to yield.

“Do you not see the life carved out for you?” Theodore spat. “I am your best match. Your only match. You could be queen of the richest kingdom in Valken—and instead, you'd rather run off with my brother like some whore.”

“I don't want your brother!” Mabel cried, the words ripping through the frost. “I wanted you. I didn't care about the crown, or the power, or the wealth. I just—” Her voice cracked. “I just wanted you.” The fire in her palm dimmed, flickering low as anger gave way to hurt, deep and unraveling. “And this,” she whispered, tears threatening to spill over again, “is how you treat me?” Her breath came jagged, each one stealing the air from her chest. She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling, and turned away.

Theodore opened his mouth to speak, but Mabel was already moving, shoving past him with swift, forceful steps carrying her out of the maze and toward the gathering.

“Mabel,” he called. She didn't look back. “Mabel!”

Her pace quickened into a run, skirts sweeping around her legs as she fled through the crowd. Gasps followed her like ripples across water, heads turning, whispers blooming in her wake, but she didn't stop.

Mabel reached the carriage and climbed inside, shutting the door with trembling hands. She collapsed against the cushioned interior, heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum. Her breath came in ragged bursts, too quick to catch. She couldn't stop shaking.

Inside, the world felt muted.

The lantern light outside cast flickering shadows against the carriage walls, the hum of celebration now distant.

Mabel sat curled in on herself, fingers trembling as she wiped at her cheeks. Tears and makeup smeared into the soft hollow of her palm, streaks of vulnerability she didn't bother to hide.

The fire within her had quieted. But it hadn't gone. It pulsed low in her belly, coiled and waiting.

She could still feel it, like a second heartbeat. Not summoned by rage, not sparked by fear. It had come from her.

And now, in the silence, it stayed.

Her reflection shimmered faintly in the carriage window, eyes rimmed with red, crown slightly askew. She reached up and gently removed it, setting it beside her on the cushion. It no longer felt like a promise. Only a weight.

In the stillness, her breath began to slow. Her hands found her lap. Her spine straightened.

Theodore had secrets. He had rage tucked behind charm, control masked as protection. And tonight, he had shown her who he really was.

For the first time, she no longer wanted to understand him. She wanted answers. She wanted freedom. And she wanted to protect the version of herself that still believed she was worth tenderness.

The carriage rocked slightly as she sat forward, elbows on her knees, hands pressed to her cheeks. Her heart still thundered, but her tears had stopped.

He shoved me.

He mocked me.

He lied.

She had wanted him. She'd waited for him, forgave him, bent herself into a shape that fit his world, and tonight he threw her to the ground like she was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Mabel leaned back slowly, eyes trained on the dark window.

The flame inside her now sparked with something steady. Something cold. Something that wouldn't be ignored.

She wasn't going to let it go.

She had to find out the truth.

Even if it ruined everything.

11

Mabel had remained tucked inside the carriage through the rest of the celebration. Ada joined her not long after, settling quietly at her side. She didn't ask questions. She didn't need to. Whatever had happened left its mark on Mabel's face—red-rimmed eyes, rumpled gown, a crown discarded beside her.

Ada simply reached for her hand and held it.

Outside, the party dissolved into murmurs of farewell and one final speech from Thalen. Applause drifted in faintly, followed by footsteps and rustling cloaks. Then, the carriage door opened. Thalen stepped in first, steady and composed, offering a hand to Frey. She climbed in gracefully, eyes sweeping over the girls seated opposite with calculation, but said nothing. Not yet. She settled into her seat with Thalen beside her.

Then Lance appeared. He entered with practiced ease, glancing once at Mabel. She met his eyes, her expression guarded, worn. After a beat, she gave him a small nod, reluctant.

His smirk was subtle, but unmistakable. Victory in it. Or a warning.

The carriage door shut with a hollow finality. Theodore hadn't joined them. The space inside fell silent. The only sound was the steady roll of wheels beneath them, carrying them back to the castle.

After returning, Mabel and Ada slipped quietly into Mabel's chambers. The door closed with a soft click, sealing the outside world away.

Ada took down her hair and helped her out of her formal robes, fingers brushing over muddied stains as her brow furrowed. She glanced up, concern etched across her face, but didn't speak. Whatever had happened, she understood Mabel wasn't ready to say it aloud.

Instead, she pressed a kiss to her temple and wrapped her arms around her in a gentle, lingering hug. Then, she was gone.

But Mabel didn't want comfort. She wanted clarity. Control. Retribution.

She paced the length of the room in her slip, the cold stone biting at her bare feet, heart pounding like war drums in her chest. The candlelight flickered across the walls, casting restless shadows that seemed to echo her thoughts—thoughts that raced ahead of her, toward Lance, toward the secrets he held, toward the truth she was about to demand.

Could she really go through with it? She already knew the answer.

Theodore had shown his true colors. His temper, unchecked. His cruelty, no longer masked. And he'd taken it out on her.

She would make him regret it.

The anger surged again, hot and unrelenting, blooming across her chest and spilling into her fingertips. Silvery-blue flames flickered to life, dancing along her skin.

Don't get too angry, she reminded herself, Lance's warning echoing in her mind.

But she didn't extinguish it. She let the flame simmer, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. It warmed her palm.

This was hers.

Her spark.

Her defiance.

Her power.

She understood now. The flame hadn't rejected her out of cruelty. It had resisted because she'd been quiet. Controlled. Contained. But fire wasn't meant to be caged. It was wild. Chaotic. Unruly by nature.

It responded to fury. To feeling. To the moment she stopped folding herself into what others demanded and chose, instead, to burn. And in that heat, that flickering defiance, she found stillness. For the first time in years, she felt like herself.

A knock at the door broke the silence. Soft. Measured.

The flame flickered out.

She inhaled once, sharp and shallow, then crossed the room. She opened the door.

Lance leaned lazily against the frame, moonlight skimming across his smirk. “Evening, Mabel.” He'd changed. His robes had been swapped for an all-black ensemble, the cut of his top exposing much more of his dark, bare chest than she'd prepared for. She did her best not to stare.

“Where are we going?” she asked, voice clipped.

“Entertainment.” He winked, pushing off the door with a flair.

“The theater?” Her frown deepened.

“Oh, Miss Ravenov.” He chuckled. “You have no idea.”

He stepped past her into the room without invitation, eyes sweeping across the quiet space. With a flick of his fingers, magic shimmered in his palms. A folded swatch of black fabric hovered briefly in the air before dropping into his hand.

“Put this on,” he said, tossing it to her.

She caught it reflexively and let it unfold. Her mouth parted. So much lace. “Do you realize how cold it is?”

“Don't worry about that,” he said with a wink. “You won't mind once we get there.”

“I am a princess. I cannot be seen in something so … revealing.”

“Exactly. Do you realize how quickly word will spread that the princess is there if you're seen in a fine gown? Wear it.” He rolled his eyes, but it lacked malice.

“Fine.” Mabel swallowed, studying the black dress. She paused, waiting for him to take his leave, narrowing her gaze on him.

Lance raised a brow, amused. “I'll wait in the hall.”

He turned on his heel and disappeared with a snap of his cloak, leaving her with the dress.

Lace and silk shimmered faintly in the candlelight, delicate. Her fingers hovered then moved. She pulled off her slip, breath shallow, and drew the black dress over her head, letting it fall against her skin.

The plunging neckline framed her collarbones and the swell of her chest. The dark fabric clung softly to her skin.

She caught her reflection. Cheeks flushed. The dress left nothing to be desired. The thin fabric accented every curve, every dip. She could even make out the shape of her legs under the fabric.

The girl from the maze was still in there, but something else had emerged. Something sharper. Her hands, once trembling, found steadiness as she reached for a cloak. She draped it over her shoulders, fastening it at the throat.

Then she moved to the door, pausing only once.

One breath in. One resolve set.

Mabel stepped into the corridor; cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders as she followed the hush of moonlight through the halls. Lance waited just outside, leaning against the wall with practiced ease.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, brow lifting. “What, no preview?” he teased, voice dripping with mock disappointment.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the flutter in her chest. “You'll live.”

Without another word, they walked down the corridors and crossed the marble steps down into the courtyard. Cold air kissed her skin, a breath of winter threading through her hair.

A small carriage waited near the gates, dark and sleek, unlike the gilded ones used for royal appearances. It was quiet. Unmarked.

Mabel paused at the door, one hand hovering near the handle.

“Don't back down now,” Lance said.

She simply nodded, climbing into the carriage. He followed, a slow grin pulling at his lips as he settled across from her. The driver gave a subtle nod, and the carriage pulled forward into the thick of night, away from halls and expectations, and toward the truth she wasn't afraid to chase anymore.

The carriage was tight and hushed, filled with tension between unspoken truths. Mabel sat opposite Lance, her cloak drawn close, their eyes only meeting in stolen glances.

Her voice broke the quiet first, soft, hesitant, “Why are you helping me?”

Lance tilted his head slightly, studying her. He didn't speak for a moment. “Do you truly think I'm evil?” he finally asked. Not defensive. Just … curious.

“No,” she said quickly, her tone firm. “Definitely rude. Condescending. Arrogant beyond measure—”

“I get it,” he muttered, cutting her off, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“But not evil,” she said, and this time her words held. Her lips lifted in a faint smile, but it faded just as fast. “I've seen evil. In plenty of people.” She laughed dryly, eyes flickering away. “But not in you.”

She turned her gaze to the window, letting the blur of cobbled streets soothe the ache in her chest.

“Though, I didn't think I saw it in Theodore either … I'm not proving to be the best judge of character at the moment.” She glanced sideways at Lance.

He didn't speak. He just watched the road vanish behind them, one shadow at a time.

“You didn't answer the question.” She went to nudge her shoe against his but stopped herself.

“Truthfully?” Lance said after a moment. “I'm not sure. Arrogance, probably.” His gaze slid over to her with a teasing glint. “Pride, definitely. Maybe even spite—getting back at him for everything he's dragged me through.”

Mabel turned toward the carriage window, her breath ghosting against the glass as she leaned her forehead gently to the chill. “This might sound crazy”—her eyes met his for a moment—“but we're not so different.”

“That we're not,” Lance replied, studying her face in the faint moonlight.

The carriage rocked softly, wheels tracing a rhythm down cobbled roads as the night thickened around them.

When it finally came to a halt, the silence inside felt heavier than before. Lance opened the carriage door and stepped out first, the night curling around him like it had been expecting them. He extended a hand to Mabel, a smirk playing on his lips.

She ignored it, climbing out on her own, cloak drawn tight against the cold.

“This way,” he said, already striding down a narrow alley. Mabel followed, cautious footsteps echoing off stone.

She heard the music before she saw the building, low and sultry, strings pulsing like a heartbeat. The alley widened into a dimly lit street, and there it was. Tucked between two shuttered shops, pulsing with heat and sound.

Outside, couples clung to one another, breath misting in intimate exhales. Laughter drifted through the air like perfume.

Lance approached the door and knocked twice. A small hatch slid open. Sharp eyes peered out from the darkness.

“You,” the voice muttered. Metal scraped as locks unlatched from inside. The door creaked open to reveal a man with crossed arms and a frown carved deep—Branley. “You can't be here, not tonight—” he started.

“Branley,” Lance drawled, voice curling around the name like honey. “You'd bar me entry?”

Branley tilted his head. “After what happened last time? Absolutely.”

“About that …” Lance slipped a hand into his coat and pulled out a weighty pouch of coin.

Branley's eyes narrowed, drawn to the glint of promise.

Lance dangled it just out of reach. “Entry first.”

With a groan, Branley stepped aside.

Lance placed a hand on Mabel's back, guiding her forward. She moved stiffly, her steps cautious.

Branley's eyes widened in recognition as he saw her. “No. Absolutely not,” he said, body blocking the doorway again.

Lance exhaled, annoyed, and produced a second bag, even heavier. Branley hesitated, scowling, but he relented, snatching both pouches before stepping aside with a warning glare.

“After you, Miss Ravenov,” Lance said, voice unrepentant.

Mabel swallowed and stepped inside. The heat met her like a tide. Music coiled around her ankles, the scent of wine and sweat mixing with perfume. Laughter rose from dim corners. Eyes turned. The air buzzed with secrets.

Bodies pressed close, too close—hands trailing along skin, mouths brushing necks. Whispers of laughter and moans tangled in the low throb of music. Mabel froze in the entryway, breath shallow, eyes wide with shock. Heat flushed up her cheeks. She gripped her cloak tighter.

“What is this?” she whispered, voice barely audible over the pulse of music.

Lance stepped behind her, his breath ghosting against her ear. “This,” he started, fingers slipping around her to unfasten the clasp at her throat, “is Entertainment.”

The cloak slid from her shoulders, revealing the dress in a slow, deliberate fall, lace catching the dim light.

Mabel's arms flew to cover her chest instinctively. “Lance, I-I can't.”

He hung the cloak on a nearby hook, unbothered. “Too late,” he said with a smirk, voice velvety.

Then, gently, his hands found her elbows, guiding them down with unsettling ease.

“Don't worry, Miss Ravenov,” he said with exaggerated flair, stepping beside her as the crowd began to shift, “You'll fit right in.”

Lance guided her forward, one hand resting lightly on the small of her back. The crowd parted just enough to let them slip through, swallowed quickly again by bodies and breath.

The air was thick with laughter and the scent of wine. Heat pressed in from every side, and Mabel felt herself tense, arms instinctively hugging her torso as she moved deeper into the haze.

Couples leaned close in shadowed corners. Some whispered; some didn't speak at all, exchanging glances that made her pulse flicker. Fingers grazed skin. Mouths lingered. The mood hovered somewhere between performance and surrender.

Mabel's breath caught as they passed one lounge, a low semicircle padded in crimson. A woman laughed softly, reclined with her dress bunched around her thighs, another figure leaning close, murmuring something against her thighs that drew a shiver.

She looked away.

“This is …” Her voice faltered.

“A lot?” Lance offered, amused.

She didn't answer. Her gaze skimmed the room—glittering masks, half-buttoned shirts, silk and sin—and she understood suddenly why this place had such a vague name etched above the door. Once you were inside, you knew exactly what it meant.

Lance paused near the balcony rail, eyes scanning the lower floor. “There,” he said under his breath, tugging Mabel gently to his side.

She followed his gaze—and froze.

Theodore lounged on a velvet chaise, chest bare, head tipped back in laughter. His friends surrounded him, equally relaxed, equally entertained. Three women—barely dressed in ribbons and lace—draped themselves across laps, arms, shoulders. One fed him something from her fingers.

Another whispered in his ear. The third was straddling Theodore, lips pressed to his neck, hands trailing everywhere, her ginger hair catching the light.

Mabel's breath left her in a sharp exhale.

Hurt flickered through her, but it was brief. Thin. Hollow compared to the fire that surged next. After everything—after the maze, after the accusations, after telling her she couldn't even speak to Lance … this?

Her jaw tightened.

Hypocrisy. Disrespect.

Liar.

“Let's go,” she huffed, fighting back the urge to storm down there and cause a scene.

“Mabel.” Lance shook his head. “The night has just begun.” He stepped in front of her, blocking her lingering gaze from Theodore. “Don't let him ruin it—make him regret it.”

She looked up at him, fire swarming in her chest. She took a deep breath, sparing one last glance at Theodore and then at the thick crowd of bodies. Her heart thrummed. “I don't know,” she whispered, voice brittle beneath the music. “What if someone recognizes me? Sees me here—with you? The scandal—”

“That's the best part,” Lance said, his words curling around her fears delicately. “Here, no one gives a damn who you are.” He let the silence stretch, then leaned in closer, voice dropping to a razor's edge. “You're just another body,” he whispered, “desperate to be pleased.”

Mabel's eyes snapped up to meet his; fury flaring beneath flushed cheeks.

He smirked, unrepentant, inviting.

She stepped back on instinct.

He followed. No apology. No restraint. He wanted her angry. He wanted her to burn.

“So,” he purred, voice rich with challenge as he dipped to her level, eyes catching hers, breath shared in the inches between. “Are you going to run home and cry about it, or stay here and enjoy yourself?”

Mabel's throat tightened. Her heartbeat kicked harder, louder. “Don't talk to me like I'm a child,” she said, each word edged in restraint.

Lance's smirk twisted into something colder. “Then stop acting like one.”

The music faded into static in her ears. For a moment, the crowd blurred. Meshed bodies and half-shadowed desire spun together in a dizzying haze.

She could leave. Slip out the way she came, with dignity barely intact and scandal narrowly avoided. But what would that make her?

The girl too afraid to be seen? The one who continued to swallow rage and stitch herself back together in silence? Her gaze drifted toward the floor below, imagination painting Theodore in stark detail—laughing, sprawled bare-chested, soaked in sin and contradiction. What if he looked up and saw her here?

The thought burned hot across her skin. Reckless. Glorious.

She was tired of being measured by his standards. Tired of pretending silence was power. Her fingers curled into her palm. She turned slowly, eyes finding Lance where he stood watching her, amusement and something darker simmering behind his gaze.

Mabel gave a single nod. She would stay.

Lance moved toward her, like a predator stalking its prey. His fingers found her jaw, not rough, but firm, tilting her chin until her eyes met his.

A wicked smile curled on his lips. “Good girl.”

Her breath caught.

Butterflies twisted low in her stomach, nerves tangling with something far more dangerous. She swallowed hard, gaze locked on his—deep golden brown and far too captivating.

She didn't need to feel guilt. Not tonight. Not with Theodore just below them, laughing, drinking, betraying the vows they never spoke aloud but both understood.

The knot in her stomach—the one that had lived there for days—began to loosen under Lance's gaze.

“I'll be back,” he said with a wink, turning away.

“Where are you going?” Her voice cracked with urgency she hadn't meant to show.

“Drinks,” he replied.

“I thought you didn't drink?” She raised a brow at him.

He flashed a devilish smile, already walking away. “It's not for me, Miss Ravenov.”

Mabel stood alone, arms folded tightly across her body. The crowd seemed to pulse around her now, louder. Her gaze flicked across the room, struggling to find a place to land.

A woman met her eyes.

She was straddled across another figure on a velvet lounge, lips parted in laughter, fingers trailing along bare skin. Her gaze didn't waver. She winked.

Mabel's breath caught. She turned away quickly, heat rushing to her cheeks.

Her gaze dropped to the floor. Safer there. But curiosity tugged at her, insistent.

Slowly, her eyes lifted, scanning. Bodies pressed close, laughter spilling over mugs, limbs tangled. Her gaze snagged on a pair in the corner. A woman pinned to the wall, lips parted in a sigh, a hand slipping between her thighs.

Mabel looked away fast.

Her stomach twisted. She searched the room for Lance, fingers picking at the raw edge of her nail. But everywhere she looked, people were paired off—some in twos, some in threes—pleasure and abandon humming through the tavern like a second heartbeat.

She felt him before she saw him. Mabel turned, and there he was, standing behind her, two carved mugs in hand, eyes already on her.

“Lance …” she started, voice thin. “I don't think I fit in here. Not the way you say I do.”

He tilted his head, a hum curling from his throat. “Why not?”

“I …” The word barely left her lips. She didn't know if she should say it—if saying it would make it real.

Lance stepped in closer, breath mingling with hers, head dipping low. “Use your words.”

Her breath hitched at the tone, her chest tightening. “I'm a virgin,” she whispered, fast and fragile.

He blinked, then let out a quiet laugh through his nose, more amused than mocking. “Obviously,” he said, tilting his head.

He set the drinks down, stepping behind her with a slow, teasing ease. His hands found her arms, gentle. His lips hovered near the shell of her ear, close enough to steal her breath.

“Look,” he said, coaxing. His hand slid up her arm unhurriedly until it reached her chin. She tensed beneath his touch but followed the motion, letting him guide her gaze.

Bodies moved in rhythm across the tavern, pressed close, chasing passion.

“They're all here for the same reasons,” he said, drawing her back until her spine met his chest. “To forget. To feel something.” His breath brushed her skin. “To burn.”

Then his lips pressed just behind her ear, soft and consuming.

A shudder rolled through her.

“Virgin or not,” he whispered, voice molten. “You came to burn too.”

She didn't respond—couldn't. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out thought, breath, reason. His closeness only made it worse.

Then his hands shifted, without hesitation, slipping to the front of her dress. His fingers traced the edge of the lace at her neckline, featherlight, daring. The fabric left little to the imagination, and his touch even less. She trembled beneath it.

His warmth vanished too quickly.

She couldn't stop the soft sound that escaped her. A whimper, barely audible, but real.

“Come,” he called, gathering their mugs before slipping into the crowd.

She followed without thinking. Not because she trusted him. But because the thought of being alone in this place was worse than following him into the unknown.

They wove through bodies, brushing past until Lance stopped at an empty lounge tucked into the corner. He gestured toward the cushions.

She hesitated.

“Sit.”

Slowly, she lowered herself onto the plush seat, eyes wary as she looked up at him. He handed her a mug, dark, cold, firelight flickering off the liquid.

“Drink it,” he said, tapping the base with a finger.

She raised it, hesitant. The bitter liquor hit hard and unforgiving. She winced. He nudged the bottom again in silent encouragement.

She tipped it back, swallowing fast. The burn clawed its way down her throat, settling hot in her chest. Lance slid in beside her with ease, arm curling around her shoulders, pulling her close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And she let him.

He pushed the second mug into her hands.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“No. I just need you to relax.” He snorted, squeezing around her shoulders.

She stared at the drink a moment longer before taking a breath and downing its contents.

His lips found her neck. The press of his mouth sent heat spiraling through her, and when his hand slipped over the curve of her thigh, fingers tightening just enough to draw a gasp, she couldn't stop it.

“Lance,” she breethd, voice trembling with hesitation and something far more dangerous.

“Mabel,” he echoed, low and indulgent, before his tongue traced a slow line along the column of her throat.

“I-I don't …” The words tangled in her mouth, lost beneath the weight of him.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against her skin. “It's all I've wanted to do since I first saw you.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, gaze locked on hers, waiting.

Her throat felt tight. How much of her old self was she giving up tonight? She decided she'd already given her up.

She didn't speak. But she nodded.

His lips returned to her throat, teeth grazing the skin with a scrape that made her shudder.

“Words,” he groaned, breath hot against her. “Say it.”

“Y-yes,” she whispered, the sound fragile, trembling. She couldn't believe she'd said it. Couldn't believe she'd given in. But every inch of her ached for him. Every breath stoked the fire that had been simmering inside her for far too long.

His hand drifted higher, slow and teasing, pressing through the fabric of her dress. Her breath slipped out in a soft, involuntary sigh. “Tell me about your dreams.”

“Why? You know what happens,” she huffed.

“Mabel.” His voice dipped into a mock warning. His hand stilled on her thigh. “Tell me.”

Her teeth worried the inside of her lip, cheeks burning under his gaze. Her lips parted. “You're there,” she admitted, barely audible.

His laugh was smug. “And?”

“Y-you're touching me … like this.” Her voice trembled, trying to hold steady against his teasing strokes.

“I do far more than touch you, Mabel.” His lips against her skin were like fire to ice. His fingers slowed, teeth grazing her neck. “What else?”

“Lance.” She shook her head, eyes pleading.

“What else, baby?” he repeated, barely touching her where she needed him the most.

“Fuck—” Her hips bucked despite herself, chasing after any friction he would grant her. “You … you take me.”

“I fuck you,” he growled against her neck.

He offered her the relief she craved. His fingers pressed against her core through the silk and lace, rubbing slow circles. Each movement stole her breath.

She let out a cry, pleasure coursing through her. It wasn't enough.

“What do you like more?” Lance scraped his tongue along the column of her throat.

A moan escaped her, trembling and needy. “When I'm on … on top of you.” Her cheeks flushed. She couldn't believe what she was admitting.

She buried her face against his neck, breath catching in strangled bursts. The realization hit hard—how easily she'd become one of them. One of the bodies she'd watched with wide eyes and judgment. One of the tangled pairs she'd shied away from.

His fingers pulled away for a breath. Mabel cried from the loss, only to be hoisted onto his lap. Her eyes widened.

“Do you like the control?” he asked softly. The tenderness startled Mabel as she straddled him, resting on her knees, her hands clutching his shoulders.

“Yes.” She nodded. Her skirt rode up her thighs, exposing the soft skin under the candlelight.

His hands dragged up her skin, grazing the plump flesh until he dipped under the dark fabric pooling at her hips. Her head fell back in a moan as he traced her warmth. “So wet,” he groaned to himself. “Do you wake up like this every morning? Dripping fucking wet, wishing I'd march in there and finish you off myself?” His finger teased at her entrance, daring.

“Y-yes,” she admitted.

“Do you touch yourself?”

She quickly shook her head.

“No?” He laughed softly. “I do. I can't help myself. You behave so well in our dreams.” He sunk a finger deep inside her, his thumb lazily rubbing her clit. “Fuck.”

Mabel tensed, walls clenching around him. “Lance—”

“Move your hips,” he whispered into her ear, his free hand rising to rest on her waist. He guided her with a patience she'd never seen from him. “Good girl. Just like that.”

She rocked against his palm, quiet breaths leaving her with each thrust of his finger. Her eyes searched his golden ones. He watched her face; every flicker of pleasure he drew from her.

His thumb moved in slow, lazy arcs at first, teasing. Then the motion shifted, more chasing, more certain, pressing against her sensitive bundle of nerves.

Her breath hitched. A soft sound escaped her lips—half-whimper, half-surrender.

He heard it. And it thrilled him.

He moved slowly, as if committing every curve of her to memory. Her body betrayed her. He could feel it in the way she leaned into him, in the way her breath hitched with every thrust of his hand.

“Don't stop,” she whispered against him, voice raw with need.

So, he didn't. Not until her words dissolved into breathy moans and half-formed pleas, incoherent and raw. Not until her body trembled beneath his touch, gasping, unraveling, the tension he'd built so carefully finally breaking loose.

She clung to him, knuckles white as they fisted his tunic, face buried against his neck. Her cries spilled out, soft and broken, his name tangled in every breath like it belonged there.

And when he began to pull away, she didn't let go. She held on tighter.

She clung to him through the waves that rippled across her skin, ripe with pleasure and disbelief. Her body trembled with the release, her breath shallow, her thoughts scattered.

She'd never felt anything like it.

“You did so good, baby,” he praised her, voice warm. His fingers found her chin, lifting gently, coaxing her gaze to meet his.

The blush on her cheeks bloomed deep, radiant. He drank in every detail. The dazed softness in her eyes, the way her lips were parted and pink, bitten from trying to stay quiet.

She looked undone.

And he looked at her as if she were the most exquisite thing he'd ever touched. “You're beautiful,” he admitted, eyes tracing every inch of her flushed, breathless face.

“You're pretty,” she giggled.

“Pretty?” He smirked, tilting his head.

“Very.” Mabel sat up, meeting his gaze. She felt the press of him underneath her, warming her once again. Her hand trailed from his chest to the waistband of his trousers, eyes never leaving his.

His hand caught hers easily, gently. “Not now. Not here.” He pulled her palm up to his lips, pressing a kiss on her skin. He guided her hand to rest against his chest. Her fingers greedily slipped beneath the fabric.

“Oh, so just me then?” she scoffed. “Is that what this is? Get me here—alone—and let me make a fool of myself?”

“Mabel, no—”

“I'm teasing,” she whispered, a laugh bubbling up. “Though I am curious why you're suddenly so shy.”

Relief flooded his features before he leveled a playful glare at her. “I'm curious why you're suddenly so brave.”

She raised her hand, a piercing blue flame igniting in her palm. It danced along her fingers, fluttering with the pulse of her heart. “It might have something to do with this.”

A smile spread across his face with pride and something that might've been admiration. “How did you figure it out?”

She stilled in his lap. Her palm paused over his chest, pale fingers dimpling into ebony skin. The flame dimmed, just slightly, before flaring bright with her rage. “Your stupid brother.”

“Careful.” Lance grabbed her wrist, a spell disarming the flame with a jolt that made her wince. “What happened?”

Mabel pursed her lips, unable to meet his gaze. “I think I need another drink.”

“Come,” Lance said, helping her to stand and weaving through the crowd. Mabel glanced down at their fingers, laced together like they belonged that way. Her heart gave a flicker she didn't want to name.

At the bar, Branley stood drying mugs with a frayed cloth. He groaned when he spotted them. “You are bad for business,” he snapped. “I should've banned you after last time.”

“Last time?” Mabel asked, brows lifting.

Branley's gaze flicked to her, then softened. “I'm sorry, Your Highness, that you must deal with such insufferable men.”

Mabel giggled, the sound slipping out before she could stop it. “They really are, aren't they?”

“Insufferable man speaking,” Lance chimed in, rolling his eyes. “Another drink,” he added, pressing coins to the counter.

Branley eyed the money, then Lance. “Ugh. You're lucky you're so pretty.” He snatched the coins and turned away.

“I told you you were pretty,” Mabel teased, nudging him. Lance waved her off, but the smirk lingered.

The silence stretched, warm and taut, until Mabel spoke again, “Are you going to tell me about last time?”

Lance leaned against the bar, his gaze sharpening. “The last time Theodore and I were here,” he said, pointing to his face, “this happened.”

Mabel's eyes traced the faint cuts, nearly healed but still visible.

“Which is why Branley's so sour,” Lance added, just as he returned with the drink.

“You broke a table and two chairs,” Branley muttered, setting the mug down. “And somehow the guards got in. Someone keeps forgetting to lock that damn door.” He turned to Mabel, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Tell me, Princess. What brings you here? And with him?”

“Am I not allowed to be here?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Debatable,” Branley said dryly, already turning away.

Mabel took a sip of her drink, letting the warmth settle before she answered. “Fate has a funny way of meddling in my life,” she said simply, her gaze steady. She glanced toward Lance, then back to the crowd. “And maybe I needed a reminder that I'm allowed to want things.” Her voice was calm, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

“Poetic,” Branley said dryly. “You should be the one on that stage.” He shook his head then straightened, walking away.

Mabel watched the liquid swirl in her cup, the amber catching torchlight as it rippled. She glanced sideways. Lance's gaze was fixed on her.

“Do you want to say something,” she asked quietly, “or are you just going to keep staring?” She took a slow sip.

“You're beautiful,” he said again, voice low, meant only for her.

She turned away, heat blooming across her cheeks. She hated how easily it came, how easily he drew it out of her.

“This is wrong.” She sighed, shaking her head.

“What does that mean?” he asked, head tilting with curiosity.

“It means …” Her voice faltered. The words barely made it out. “That you shouldn't call me beautiful. We shouldn't be doing this.” Then sharper, steadier, “I still have to marry Theodore.” Her gaze snapped to his. “Can you imagine the fallout? He shoved me over a dance, Lance. What do you think he'd do if he found out about … this?”

Lance's smile vanished. His posture shifted, shoulders squaring, brows knitting tight. “He shoved you?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Just nodded.

A beat passed.

Then he turned, abrupt.

Mabel's eyes widened. “Lance—wait,” she said, reaching for him, fingers tightening around his wrist. “Please.”

He paused, glancing back. Her eyes met his, wide, pleading, impossible to ignore. He couldn't walk away. Not with her looking at him like that.

She took a step, closing the space between them. Her hands found his face, gentle but firm, guiding him down until their foreheads almost touched.

“Don't ruin this,” she whispered, voice trembling with something fragile and fierce.

“I thought you said we can't do this.” His words were hushed, barely holding back anger.

“I said we shouldn't.” Her stare was pointed. “Not that we can't.”

His hand leisurely moved to her waist. She didn't flinch. His fingers gently settled there. Steady.

Mabel met his gaze, lips pressing into a line before she spoke. “So, you can't go down there—because I want this feeling to last. I want you to touch me.” She stepped closer to him, her body pressing to his. “Again and again. I want you to ruin me for him.” Her hands found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his top, holding him there.

He paused only for a moment before giving in to her pleas, lips brushing hers before trailing heat down the line of her throat. His grip tightened, pulling her flush against him, close enough to feel the shape of him, the tension coiled beneath his skin.

She was breathless. Her heart thundered. Her cheeks burned. And beneath it all, something deeper stirred.

What was it about him that ignited her? Was it defiance? Was it the dreams? Or something she wasn't ready to name? She didn't answer. She didn't need to.

The night blurred—more drinks, caution slipping away with wild abandon. Lance's hands stayed greedy; his kisses on her skin stayed teasing.

They danced, bodies pressed close. Mabel, a few too many drinks deep, moved with abandon. Lance behind her, hands guiding her hips, constant with his praises.

It made her feel beautiful.

It made her feel wanted.

Lance had vanished again for refills. He'd motioned for her to follow, but she'd waved him off with a grumble about her aching feet and sunk into the nearest lounge.

She sat back, legs swinging, head tilted, eyes closed. The room spun gently around her, the music a distant hum. When the cushion dipped beside her, she instinctively curled toward the weight.

“Back so soon?” she giggled, turning her head with a lazy smile. But her breath caught when her eyes met someone unfamiliar.

“Evening, doll,” he slurred, voice thick with drink.

She didn't answer. Just shuffled further down the lounge, putting space between them.

“What?” he said, brow lifting. “You don't want company?”

She swallowed hard, shaking her head.

“Don't be like that,” he chuckled, sliding closer. “Someone as pretty as you shouldn't be sitting alone.”

“I-I'm not alone,” she said quickly, voice tight.

“I don't see anyone,” he hummed, reaching for her.

She tried to stand, but his hand snapped around her wrist, dragging her back down.

“Where do you think you're going?” he growled.

“Who the fuck are you?” Lance's voice cut through the noise, sharp and furious. Both their heads turned. Relief flooded Mabel's chest.

“Aye, mate, piss off,” the man barked.

Lance didn't speak. He set the mugs down, stepped forward, and in one swift motion, grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and hauled him upright.

“Hey, man, what's your problem—”

Lance's fist met his jaw. Gasps rippled through the room. Heads turned.

The man hit the floor hard, and Lance straddled him, fists flying.

Mabel scrambled to her feet. “Lance—stop!” she cried, reaching for him.

But she stood too fast. Her vision blurred, blood rushing. She stumbled, catching herself on the railing.

And when she looked up—

Theodore.

Sat in a lounge, frozen, eyes locked on hers. She held his gaze for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, breathless.

Then she backed away.

“Lance,” she pleaded, turning to him, tugging at his cloak. “We have to go. Theodore saw me.”

She glanced toward the lounge where Theodore had been.

Empty.

Lance threw one final punch, then rose, chest heaving. He turned to her, grabbed her wrist. And didn't let go.

A sharp buzz pulsed at her wrist. Then came the shudder—deep, unnatural, crawling through her bones.

She gasped as her vision blurred. Her copper hair darkened in an instant, shifting to a deep black. Her skin paled, features subtly altered. A dull hum simmered beneath her skin, like static trapped in her veins.

She barely had time to process it before she was being dragged backward, feet stumbling.

“Mabel!” Theodore's voice rang out, panicked, angry, searching, but his eyes swept past her.

Her heart pounded, breath ragged as Lance pulled her through the bodies. Past the crowd, and down the alley slick with frost.

The frigid winter air slapped her cheeks as they burst into the night. The carriage waited. The driver looked up, startled by their urgency, already reaching for the reins.

Lance yanked the door open and shoved her inside, climbing in after her. The door slammed shut.

The carriage lurched forward, wheels cracking against ice.

Lance released her wrist, and the illusion melted away, her hair bleeding back to copper, skin settling into its familiar glow. The magic fizzled, leaving only the echo of its hum.

They collapsed into the carriage seats, breath ragged, hearts pounding in their chests.

For a moment, silence hung between them, thick and electric.

Then Mabel laughed. It burst from her like a spark, unfiltered, full of disbelief and adrenaline. Her head tipped back, shoulders shaking, the sound raw and real.

Lance blinked, startled.

Then he laughed, too, low at first, then louder, pulled into her chaos. The sound filled the carriage, strange and bright against the cold night.

Laughter dissolved into breath. Their smiles lingered, but behind them, the chaos hadn't settled. It shimmered in their eyes, waiting.

Then their gazes locked.

Mabel's heart stuttered. One beat missed. Then another. Her eyes fell on his plump lips.

She moved first, drawn by something she couldn't name. Lance met her halfway, no hesitation. Just heat. Their lips met in a rush, mouths parting in invitation. Her fingers curled into his cloak. His hand tangled in her copper curls, tugging her closer, deeper.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a clash of fire and defiance. Of want and warning. Of escape and surrender.

They fought for control, and Lance let her win.

She pushed him back against the seat, climbed into his lap, thighs straddling him. Her lips found his again.

His hands gripped her hips, anchoring her. He kissed her back with the same hunger, the same recklessness.

Then he shifted. His hands slid to the hem of her skirt, dragging the fabric upward with lazy intent. His fingers pressed into her thigh. Her breath caught, a shiver chasing the heat that bloomed beneath his touch.

He didn't rush.

His hand halted just shy of the place she ached for, cupping her thigh, teasing the edge of her restraint. Her hips moved instinctively, seeking more, needing more.

She moaned into his mouth, the sound raw, unguarded.

He didn't push further. Just held her there, fingers greedy, lips relentless.

And in that moment, the world narrowed.

To breath and skin.

To heat and hunger.

To the burn of being wanted.

12

Mabel's giggles echoed down the corridor, spilling from her lips in breathless bursts. Her steps were uneven, her smile wide, flushed with drink and heat.

“Lance,” she breethd, laughing as his lips grazed her neck. Their bodies moved lazily through the castle's quiet halls, tangled in each other and the remnants of the night.

They turned down the corridor toward her room, Mabel tugging him along with urgency. Lance followed without hesitation. He'd follow her anywhere.

Her fingers curled around the doorknob, eyes never leaving his. “Come inside,” she whispered.

“I shouldn't,” he said, shaking his head. “You're far too drunk, Miss Ravenov.”

She pouted, but pushed the door open anyway, pulling him in with her. He stumbled after her, the door clicking shut behind them. “Mabel …” He sighed, watching her sway toward him, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded from liquor and want.

“Help me with my dress,” she cooed, turning her back to him, sweeping her hair over one shoulder.

He hesitated. Then stepped forward.

“You play with fire,” he mumbled, fingers finding the buttons at her spine. He undid them slowly, watching as silk slipped from her shoulders. She turned, arms crossed over her chest, fingers clutching the fabric. Then she moved to let it fall.

His hands caught hers, gentle but firm. Her brows drew together, confusion flickering in her gaze.

“You don't want me?” she asked, voice soft, slurred, wounded.

“Gods, Mabel,” he groaned, jaw tight. “I want you more than I've ever wanted anything.”

“Then why—”

“Because you're not thinking clearly,” he said, voice gentle. “And if you wake up tomorrow and regret this, it'll ruin everything.”

“I won't,” she whispered.

But he shook his head. “No.” The word was final. Steady.

She froze. Her eyes dropped. She pulled her hands from his and turned away, shoulders curling inward. And he stood there, aching.

“Fine,” she said bitterly, letting the dress slip to the floor in a whisper of silk. Her heels followed with a soft thud, but she didn't turn to face him.

Lance couldn't look away. His gaze traced the line of her bare shoulders, the dip of her spine, the sway of her hips as she moved—each curve etched into his memory. Down to the length of her legs, the way they carried her with defiance.

He stepped forward. Unclasping the cloak at his shoulders, he shrugged it off. She glanced back, a sly smile playing on her lips.

But instead of reaching for her, he draped the cloak around her frame. The fur swallowed her. “What—” she started.

His hand caught her wrist, pulling her gently but firmly back against his chest. His voice brushed her ear, low and edged with warning.

“Careful,” he purred. “Keep pushing, and I'll ruin you for good—you will regret it.”

A shiver ran down her spine. She didn't move.

“So, behave,” he growled in her ear.

The warning only deepened her hunger. “And if I don't behave?” she hummed, turning to face him, the cloak slipping just enough to reveal flushed skin beneath. “You'll ruin me?”

“I don't think you understand what I mean,” he said, head tilting. He stepped forward, and she stumbled back, legs brushing the edge of the bed. He guided her down, then caught her ankles, dragging her gently to the edge. A startled squeal escaped her lips, eyes wide as he stood between her thighs.

His hands tenderly skimmed up her legs. She trembled beneath his touch, breath hitching. Slowly, he bent over her small frame until their faces were inches apart. “Go. To. Bed.”

“Stay,” she begged, arms flying around him, clinging.

The sound of her gentle voice had him closing his eyes, inhaling sharply. But he pulled back. “I can't, baby,” he said, turning on his heel.

She sat up, eyes blazing, mouth parting to protest—

But the knock at the door came first. A sharp, echoing bang.

“Mabel!” Theodore's voice snarled through the wood. “Open the damn door!”

Lance froze mid-step, fists curling at his sides.

Mabel shrank back onto the bed, clutching the cloak tighter around her bare skin, heart thudding in her chest.

“What do you want me to do?” Lance asked, voice edged, dangerous. “Because if I do what I want, he won't walk out of here alive.”

“No,” she whispered, pleading. “Just … let me talk to him.”

“Not happening.” He turned to face her, fury blazing in his eyes. It caught her off guard how quickly the softness vanished.

“Well, you certainly can't talk to him,” she snapped, defiant despite the tremor in her voice.

A smirk tugged at his lips. He stepped toward her and grabbed her arm. A buzz surged through her body, but she wasn't the one shifting.

She watched, breath held, as Lance's features melted and reformed. Copper curls replaced his locs, his skin paled, eyes brightened to her shade of blue.

“What the fuck,” she breethd.

He didn't answer. Just turned, sauntering toward the door with his smirk on her lips.

“Mabel!” Theodore roared again.

“Coming!” Lance called out, her voice, pitch-perfect.

Mabel dove beneath the covers, heart hammering.

Lance cracked the door open, feigning a sleepy yawn. “It's the middle of the night, Theo. What do you want?”

“Why were you at Entertainment?” Theodore spat.

“Entertainment?” Mabel's voice echoed, laced with confusion. “You mean the theater?”

“Don't play dumb. I saw you there.”

“Theo …” Lance ducked slightly behind the door, feigning vulnerability. “I've been here all night.” He paused, then added, voice sharpening, “Not that you'd know. You were the one out drinking. You didn't even try to apologize for what you did. I had to ride back in that carriage absolutely humiliated,” he snapped. “And you were nowhere to be found. Now you're pounding on my door? Waking me up?”

“Mabel—” Theodore started.

“No, Theo,” her voice cut in, sharp and tired. “I'm tired. Goodnight.”

The door slammed shut. Silence lingered. Then the slow shuffle of boots faded down the corridor. Lance exhaled, the illusion unraveling as he shifted back into himself. Mabel peeked out from under the covers, then climbed out of bed, padding toward him.

“That was fucking weird,” she muttered, swatting his arm. “And you did not have to say all that.”

“He's gone, isn't he?” Lance huffed, reaching out to tug the cloak tighter around her shoulders. “And now he thinks you never left.”

“For now,” she said, narrowing her eyes, stepping closer. “Anyway—back to what you were promising me—”

“Goodnight, Mabel.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. But before he slipped out the door, he leaned in and pressed one last soft kiss to her lips.

And then he was gone.

She groaned, dragging herself back to the bed, the cloak still wrapped around her like a second skin. She crawled beneath the covers, limbs heavy, heart louder than her thoughts.

The fur brushed her cheek as she buried her face into it. It smelled like him, cinnamon and wood and something darker she couldn't name.

His voice echoed in her mind. His touch. The way he looked at her as though she were already his. It was dangerous.

And it made her body pulse with something so unfamiliar. For the first time, she'd stepped outside her mold. Gone against the grain.

And it felt good.

Sleep came easier that night. Her dreams were once more fueled by passion, but this time she welcomed them. Morning broke with merciless intent.

Mabel woke with her head pounding, stomach churning. She barely made it to the bin by her desk before vomiting the remnants of last night's indulgence. She groaned, slumping against the cold stone floor, the cloak still tangled around her.

And the day had only just begun.

The door creaked open behind her, Ada's footsteps gentle as she entered. She paused when she saw Mabel, still hunched over, sweat beading on her forehead. “Are you all right? Are you sick?” She hurried to Mabel's side, crouching behind her and gathering her hair.

“I'm wonderful,” Mabel coughed out sarcastically. Her eyes closed as Ada's hand pressed to her damp forehead.

“You're not hot—are-are you hungover?” Ada stood abruptly, eyeing the state Mabel was in. Her gaze narrowed on the cloak draped around her shoulders, then darted to Theodore's still hanging by the door, before settling back on Mabel. “Whose is that?”

Mabel frowned, looking up at her. “It's mine,” she bit back.

“It's twice your size,” Ada scoffed, then stilled. “Why are you lying?”

Mabel looked away from her. “It was given to me; therefore, it is mine.”

“Theodore?” Ada questioned.

“Sure.” Mabel stood, clutching the fur around her body tight. Her palm flew up to cup her forehead, trying to think past the pounding in her head to form a better lie.

Ada's gaze swept over her state, just enough to notice her bare skin beneath the cloak. “Mabel,” her voice cut through the air sharply, edged with warning. “What happened last night?”

Mabel stared at her for a beat too long. The silence stretched around them, thick and dangerous. “If you're here to badger me then you can leave.”

“Mabel—”

“Get out!” Mabel snapped.

Ada's brows furrowed together, hurt swirling in her chest. “Alright.” She nodded, tucking her hands behind her and straightening her spine. “As you wish, Princess.”

Mabel watched her leave, guilt sinking its teeth into her chest instantly. But before the weight of it could settle, she slipped out the door the second she was dressed.

She wandered the halls without purpose, each step slow, aimless. All she wanted was quiet—just a moment untouched by expectation or consequence.

Her head throbbed, stomach still unsettled. She knew she should eat, though the thought turned her queasy.

The dining hall was quiet when she slipped inside. Steam curled from silver platters, the scent of roasted meats and sweet breads hanging in the air. No one else lingered, so she tiptoed to the table, picking at whatever her body would tolerate.

“Morning, Princess,” came a voice behind her.

She spun, eyes wide. There stood Theodore—his golden hair braided neatly away from his face, catching the morning sunlight that drifted through the arched windows. He wore a deep wine-red tunic; the collar edged in intricate gold embroidery that shimmered faintly.

Brown leather trousers clung to long legs. He looked every inch the prince—and yet, something in his stillness made her breath catch.

She turned back to the table without a word, jaw clenched. Her grip tightened around the fruit in her hand. “Have you come with more accusations?”

Theodore stepped closer, his sigh heavy. His hand brushed her waist, tentative. She stepped away, eyes sharp.

“I'd like to apologize,” he said quietly. “For last night.”

“Which part?” she asked. “The part where you humiliated me in front of half the kingdom? When you shoved me? Or when you pounded on my door like a madman?”

“All of it,” he said, reaching again.

This time, she didn't move, just stiffened beneath his touch. She said nothing, biting into the pear with slow deliberation, eyes flicking sideways toward him.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I acted without reason. I should never have treated you like that.”

Her jaw worked as she chewed. She hated how rehearsed it sounded. Hated she hadn't seen it earlier. “You said it yourself,” she said, voice flat. “Your apologies are practically ceremonial.”

“I'm trying to make this right—”

“Try harder,” she snapped, her gaze burning into him as she slipped from his touch.

“Mabel—”

She brushed past him, anger sharp in her stride. But he caught her wrist, firm. Pulled her back into his arms, wrapping around her like he could hold the moment still.

“Talk to me,” he whispered against her ear.

She drew in a breath, trying to quiet the fury rising in her chest. But beneath it, something softer stirred—the shape of him, the familiarity she'd once found comfort in. Even after everything. She still cared for him.

But caring wasn't enough.

“I thought you were perfect,” she said with a soft, bitter laugh. “I spent years dreading this arrangement—then shaping myself into someone I thought you'd want.” Her voice cracked faintly as she continued, “Then I met you. With that charming smile, that infuriatingly pretty face—and gods, I really believed you cared.” The hurt surfaced then, raw, silent, and unmistakable. It threaded through her expression like a shadow. “But you don't, it was only a farce,” she said, voice cracking. “Seems my place is beneath you.”

Theodore was silent, his grip tightening as if he could hold the moment together with sheer force. “I do care for you,” he said. “You have to believe that.”

Mabel's voice was barely a whisper. “It doesn't matter, anyway, does it?” She seethed. “I still have to marry you.”

He faltered, and his shoulders sagged, the weight of her doubt settling heavily across his spine. He hadn't meant to hurt her. Not truly. But the anger inside him—coiled, buried, always waiting—had a way of slipping past his control.

“Do you not want this marriage?” he asked quietly.

Her pulse quickened. She felt the familiar creeping along her spine as she turned in his arms to face him. Her father's grip would never loosen. She would never escape him. “I don't have a choice, Theodore.”

His brows furrowed. His jaw set, ticking once. “So, no.” His hands dropped from her waist, lying limp at his sides. He tried his best to mask the hurt casting over his features.

She reached for him—she couldn't help it—but he stepped out of her grasp. “Theodore, I didn't mean—”

“What did you mean then?” he snapped, but it lacked the harshness he was aiming for. “Because it seems I haven't been the only one playing a part in this farce of an engagement.”

She studied every inch of his face that once made her heart beat faster, her cheeks heat, made her forget herself. “I wasn't pretending. I wasn't lying. I was prepared to give you my all.”

His lips pursed together. His hands at his sides clenched and unclenched as he fought with himself. “Do you want this marriage?” he repeated.

“I …” She paused, worrying her lower lip between her teeth before she closed the distance between them. She couldn't say it. He'd see through her lie. But she couldn't let him call it off either.

No matter how angry she was. No matter how much she truly didn't want it. Her life depended on it.

He stepped back, but she chased after him. Her fist curled in his tunic. She dragged him down to meet her lips and pressed herself against him.

He was stiff only for a second before returning the kiss with a hunger she hadn't expected. His hands slid along every curve, his mouth claimed hers. She felt it, the rush he still gave her.

“Theo …” she breethd as his lips dropped to her neck. She couldn't understand the effect he had on her. The effect he'd always had on her.

“Last night was supposed to be perfect,” he growled against her skin. “Your Yule was supposed to be perfect.” His teeth scraped along her neck until he bit down, hard.

A cry fell from her lips, and despite herself, she pulled him closer.

What am I doing?

Her hands found his hair, tangling in his blond strands to keep him against her skin.

This is wrong.

Or maybe it was right. He was the one she was to marry. He was the one her father wanted. Her fingers loosened then dropped to his chin, prying him from his attack on her skin.

His gaze met hers, his silver eyes flaming with heat. She cupped his cheek. A sad smile lifted her lips. “I … I want this to work. But you must let me breathe.”

He mirrored her, palming her cheek, fingers cradling her face as his thumb traced over her soft bottom lip. “If space is what you're asking for, I'm afraid that will be hard to grant.”

“I think you can manage an approval,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “I am marrying the future king.”

A wide, real smile spread across his face, one that almost made her forget herself. “I've heard he's quite stubborn.”

She snorted. “More than stubborn.”

“Fine. A week. Does that suit the Princess's needs?”

“Are you putting a time limit on how long it'll take for me to get over it?” she scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest.

“No, it's simply how long I can bare to be apart from you,” he said quietly. “Though in all honesty, I don't think you'll last that long.”

“Is that a wager?” She tilted her head at him.

“Simply an assumption.” He smiled.

Her own smile faltered. It could've been like this. It could've stayed like this.

But how long until his mask fell again? How long could she stay wrapped in this false sense of hope? Security? And how long until he found out about her and Lance? It would be inevitable. So would his rage.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, studying her like a puzzle he couldn't solve.

She blinked, then took a shaky breath. “That I probably won't last a week.”

His reply was a kiss, soft, gentle. “For my sake, I hope you don't.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, voice tender.

And for a moment, they just stayed there. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two people trying not to break.

They parted without another word. And as the silence settled, Mabel could only think—what had she gotten herself into?

Caught between Theodore and Lance. Between obligation and desire. Between the life she was meant to live and the one she was beginning to crave.

13

Mabel's fingers traced along worn leather spines. Shelves shadowed her between their towering forms as though they were sentinels shielding her from watchful eyes. She needed the silence, a moment to escape from everything.

Carefully, she plucked a book from the shelf, skimming the title before adding it to the growing pile in her arms. Afternoon light spilled through the arched windows at the far end of the room, casting silver rays onto the plush lounge. Mabel padded over silently and set the books down on the wooden table.

The pounding in her head had dulled to a low hum, and though she wanted silence, she hadn't wanted to sit around in her room, avoiding Theodore, any longer.

“Do you not allow yourself moments of peace?” An all-too-familiar voice called.

She fought the sigh threatening to leave her lips. Silence over. She turned to meet those golden eyes.

He'd curled a few locs into a knot, tucked nicely together with a black silky tie. The remaining coils dripped down his shoulder like ink spilling on paper.

Her heart stuttered.

“Perhaps this was my moment of peace—and you've just interrupted it. You do seem rather fond of doing so,” she teased. Her gaze wandered over him. Dark leather vest worn to softness, black tunic beneath it billowing at the cuffs. His trousers clung to long legs, the cut sharp.

He looked maddeningly good in leather. Even better in black.

Lance couldn't stop the smile curving on his lips. “I'm fond of you.”

Mabel could feel the rush of warmth on her cheeks. “Stop.” She barely managed the word. She quickly cleared her throat, turning sharply toward her assortment of books. “If you'll excuse me, I have some reading to do.”

Not that she wanted him to leave. She needed him to leave, just as much as she needed him.

His long legs carried him over anyway, pausing at the table and eyeing the books she'd grabbed. “You plan to read all of these in an afternoon?”

She sank down on the lounge, snatching a leather cover irritably and cracking it open. “Seems I won't even finish the first,” she groaned, side-glancing him.

Lance shifted on his feet. He studied her carefully. “Do you … do you not remember last night?”

Mabel's fingers froze on the corner of the page she was turning before closing the book. She discarded it on the table, turning in her seat to fully look at him. She'd never seen him nervous before. His words were usually sharp, effortless. But now he stood before her, uncertain.

“Of course I remember,” she said softly. Her hands busied themselves by pressing out the wrinkles on the skirt of her dress. “I fear it's a night I'll never be able to forget.”

“Then why the cold shoulder?” he hummed, trying for a smile that fell flat.

She could feel her heart pounding as he sank onto the cushion beside her. Cinnamon and warmth flooded her senses. She couldn't stop herself from leaning in closer, gaze dropping to his full lips. “Because I want you more than I've ever wanted anything. And that can't happen.”

“Why?” he whispered, his hand sliding next to hers on the seat.

“I have a duty to fulfill. If anyone were to discover what we've done …” her voice trailed off, her cheeks flushed. Their faces were inches apart, warm breath mingling.

His eyes scanned her features. He could see the want, the lust swirling behind her eyes. Her failure at subtlety every time she inched closer. The only sign of restraint was her balled-up fists, knuckles white, nails no doubt digging into her palms.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, but a smirk toyed on his lips.

“I think I've made that obvious.” She cleared her throat, lifting her chin.

“Have you?” He tilted his head, looking her up and down. “Because right now, everything about you is saying otherwise.”

Mabel bit her lip, a whine barely escaping her. “That's why you need to leave.”

“And if I don't?”

Her lips met his in a rush, full of longing. Lance's hands slid behind her neck, pulling her in. Her fingers curled into the front of his tunic, anchoring herself to him.

She felt the pulse of desire spread through her like wildfire. The need for distraction. The need for him.

When he kissed her, everything fell away. Theodore, her father. It was only him. And it was a pleasure she didn't think she could keep herself from.

They broke apart only long enough to breathe before crashing together again, lips desperate, hands searching.

When he pulled away, she chased him—hands lifting to his cheeks, pulling him back down to meet her mouth.

“Mabel,” he groaned into the kiss, voice frayed with restraint.

His hands gripped her hips through the wool, fingers digging in like he could memorize her shape. She gasped against him, arms winding around his shoulders, nails catching on fabric.

“Gods, Mabel,” he groaned, his mouth trailing down her neck, teeth grazing skin in a way that made her breath catch.

“Lance,” she pleaded. Her fingers looped into his vest and yanked him forward. Her back sank into the plush lounge.

Her grip on him was tight as she pulled him over her. Her hips bucked to meet his. Her breath was hot and quick. Her eyes wild with want, with need.

But then—he pulled back. Reluctant. Controlled.

He stood, hands curling at his sides like he needed somewhere to put the heat still burning in them.

A chill rushed in with his absence. Her chest rose sharply, eyes blinking open to find his back tense, shoulders drawn tight as though he were holding something in.

“Are you alright?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

At the sound of her voice, his shoulders eased just slightly. He turned, hands unclenching, gaze flicking to hers. “Sorry,” he said, breath uneven. “I … I was getting carried away.”

She studied him. The faint flicker of light at his palms, barely there, but unmistakable. He tucked his hands behind his back when he saw her looking.

“What's wrong?” she asked softly, standing from the lounge.

He didn't answer right away. His jaw worked, eyes distant, as if weighing how much truth he could afford to give. Then, slowly, he extended his palm.

Sparks danced across his skin, small, erratic, sparking in time with his heart.

“My magic … flares,” he said quietly. “When I feel too much. It surges. Unpredictable. I've trained to control it, but sometimes …” he trailed off, fingers twitching. “I don't want to risk hurting you—even by accident.”

There was more he wasn't saying. She could feel it. But she didn't move, just watched him, the space between them humming with restraint and something deeper.

“Frey told me,” she said. “You're Velmirian.”

Lance stilled, hand dropping to his side as he eyed her. “I am,” he said after a beat. “At least that's what Thalen told me. He found me after the siege. Said I was barely a month old.”

She tilted her head, searching his face. “Is that why your magic flares?”

Lance's gaze drifted upward, distant. “Probably. They say Velmirian blood carries magic in every drop. I don't know if that's true. I just know I feel things others don't.” His hands clenched at his sides.

“You do,” she said, voice sure. “I've seen it. You move like the magic listens to you.”

He smiled faintly, but his eyes didn't hold it. “Sometimes I wonder what I'd be if Velmira hadn't burned. If I'd grown up there. If I'd had a name that wasn't given by the man who destroyed it.”

Mabel finally stepped toward him and reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. She felt the dulling hum in his palm. “Have you ever thought about going back?”

Lance's brows drew together. “Back?” he scoffed. “To stare at ash and ruin? It's inhospitable, Mabel. Nothing's left.”

She shook her head. “I meant for your magic. Maybe there's something still waiting for you there.”

He sighed, eyes tracing the soft curves of her face and the rosiness still clinging to her cheeks. “The frost-fire wiped it clean. They recovered what they could but there're no relics. No survivors. No one's dared to make the journey since.”

“You survived,” she said softly. “Maybe you could make it.”

He smirked, tugging her closer. “Only if you came with me.”

“I'm serious, Lance,” she pressed. “Why haven't you tried?”

He exhaled, gaze narrowing with mock seriousness. “Let's see. First, I'd have to survive the Mirewilde.”

“Easy.” She blinked, feigning innocence. “I was a child and brave enough to do it.”

“Mabel.” He laughed. “It's impassible. If the spirits didn't drag me under, the beasts would tear me to pieces.”

“Maybe not,” she said, eyes gleaming. “If you're truly Velmirian, wouldn't they let you pass?”

He tilted his head. “That's a generous theory.”

“Well,” she hummed, “there's only one way to test it.”

He gave her a look. “Say I do make it through—somehow—I'd still have to face Valkaroth. And they don't exactly roll out the welcome mats for Northerners.”

“Technically,” she said, brushing his shoulder, “you're southern.”

He huffed a laugh. “Sure. Let's see how far that gets me.”

“They're gullible,” she teased, lips curving.

He raised a brow. “And when's the last time you met someone from Valkaroth?”

“In Moorthwyn,” she said casually, as if it meant nothing.

Lance stepped back, frowning. “What do you mean?”

She caught the shift in his tone, his posture. “Don't tell me the Queen of Valkaroth has never visited Aurevyn.”

“She hasn't,” Lance said, voice sharp.

“My father met with her and her court several times,” Mabel said, shaking her head. “Terrifying woman. But her council were idiots.”

Lance's expression darkened. “Why was he meeting with Valkaroth?”

“I don't know—strategy, politics.” She shrugged. “Why does it matter?”

“Mabel,” he said, almost incredulous. “Valkaroth ordered the assassination of King Alric.”

She blinked, frowning. “No. That's not right. It was Velmira. That's why they burned it to the ground.”

“Yes,” Lance groaned, jaw tight. “Velmira carried it out. But Valkaroth couldn't breach Aurevyn themselves. They used Velmira's magic—manipulated them. And when the deed was done, they let Velmira take the fall.”

Mabel's breath caught.

“They turned Velmira into a weapon,” Lance continued. “Then wiped it from the map to erase the evidence.”

“Then … how do we know?” Mabel questioned him.

“The letter,” Lance said as if it were obvious.

She blinked at him, confused.

“You don't know about the letter?” he scoffed.

She shook her head.

Before she could ask again, he was already tugging her forward, weaving them through the towering shelves toward a locked wooden door hidden in the library's farthest corner. He drew her against his chest, breath warm at her temple as he pressed a soft kiss there.

The jolt of his magic hit a heartbeat later. The world lurched—floor, air, light bending—before they reformed on the other side of the door. Mabel swayed, disoriented, and his hands steadied her with certainty before he slipped away, long strides carrying him across the room.

It was small, cramped even, but overflowing with cabinets and shelves. A heavy table dominated the center, ringed by ornate chairs. Rolled scrolls lay scattered across the polished mahogany, each one freshly stamped with Aurevyn's sigil.

Mabel took in the tight space, her fingers worrying at her nail beds. “Are we supposed to be in here?”

Lance barked a laugh. “Doesn't our method of entry answer that?”

She stilled, brows furrowing. “What if we get caught?”

“Always so many questions.” He turned toward her. “What will they do? Cut off the hands of the prince and future queen?”

“My father would,” she said quietly. “He doesn't take kindly to intruders.”

“Good thing we aren't in Moorthwyn.” Lance moved with purpose, rifling through drawers, flipping past folders and parchment until he found it—an envelope, worn at the edges.

“We intercepted this,” he said, handing it to her. “We don't know who it was meant for. But it came from Valkaroth.”

Mabel took it slowly, fingers brushing the brittle paper. She unfolded the letter inside, eyes scanning the faded ink, heart pounding with every word.

To the Esteemed Council,

The task has been completed. The northern king no longer draws breath, and Velmira has played its part with precision. Their magic proved sufficient, if volatile. The blood spilled was not ours.

As anticipated, the North's retaliation has fallen squarely upon Velmira's shoulders. The kingdom burns, and with it, the trail of our involvement. The frost-fire has done its work. No relics remain. No survivors to speak.

We await confirmation of the next phase.

Should we proceed with the trade embargo, or initiate the second wave of infiltration?

Respond with urgency. The window narrows.

—V. S.

Mabel looked up at Lance, eyes wide. “I didn't know,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Why didn't the North do anything?”

Lance took the letter from her fingers, gaze dark. “Moorthwyn intercepted it after the siege. After the treaties were signed. The southern kingdoms saw what the North could do and surrendered.

Thalen was already king then,” he added, tilting his head. “He didn't want another war. He wanted to rebuild.”

Mabel's brow furrowed. “But the letter—my uncle brought it to court?”

Lance nodded. “He did. And Thalen still refused to retaliate.”

“My uncle …” She hesitated. “Do you think he was involved?”

“There's no way to know,” Lance said softly. “Unless you've gotten good at necromancy without my knowing.”

Mabel rolled her eyes at him.

“But Thalen made his stance clear,” he continued. “Valkaroth is still considered an enemy of Aurevyn—even after the treaties.”

He reached for her wrist, gently pulling her back as she turned away. “So why,” he asked, voice edged, “is your father meeting with them?”

Mabel met his gaze, her breath catching.

The question echoed louder than his voice. What if it wasn't King Veyr?

“I don't know,” she whispered, the words barely holding shape.

“I need to tell Thalen,” Lance said, voice hard as he stepped past her.

“Lance—wait,” Mabel pleaded, rushing to block his path. Her hands pressed to his chest, desperate. “Think about what this could ignite. The outrage. The North could fall apart if this gets out.”

He stilled, gaze narrowing. His lips parted, then pressed into a line as he studied her too closely.

A bitter laugh escaped him. “You're the only thing holding the North together.”

She looked away, guilt flickering across her face. She hadn't wanted to say it. But he saw too much. Always did.

She stepped back.

“What do you know?” he asked, following her retreat.

“I don't know anything,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “Lance, I swear on the gods—I don't.”

His hand slipped behind her neck, grip firm, pulling her close. “He's using you to get inside Aurevyn.”

“You don't know that,” she whispered. “None of us do. These are assumptions, suspicions—we have no proof.”

“So, I stay quiet?” he snapped. “We say nothing and hope it's not true?” His breath was sharp against her cheek. “What if it is?”

“What if it isn't?” she cried, voice cracking. “We can't risk being wrong.”

“We can't risk silence either,” Lance said, pressing his forehead to hers. “Not if it's true.”

“My father—he …” Her voice faltered. Tears welled, unbidden. That familiar dread clawed its way up her spine.

Her chest tightened, breath shallow. She could already feel the consequences—what he'd say, what he'd do.

Lance felt her trembling beneath his hands. Saw the panic blooming in her eyes. It hit him like a blow. His anger faltered, replaced by something quieter. Fierce. Protective.

“Mabel,” he whispered, voice gentling. “You're safe. I swear it.”

But she wasn't sure safety existed anymore.

“If you say anything, I won't be,” Mabel gasped, breath hitching. “He'll know it was me. He'll stop at nothing, Lance—nothing.”

Lance pulled her into him. She collapsed against his chest, burying her face in the fabric, her whole body shaking.

“You can't,” she whispered, pleading. “Please. You can't say anything.”

He held her tightly, arms steady around her, grounding her against the storm inside. His thoughts spun—truth, duty, consequence—but the way she trembled in his arms struck something deep. Something immovable.

“I won't,” he said, certain. “I won't say a word.”

The tremors held until he coaxed them out of her with quiet words, each one a thread pulling her back from the edge.

“You're safe here,” he whispered into her hair. “I'll keep you safe.”

And he meant it. Whether it was Cavric, Theodore, or Aurevyn itself—he'd stand between her and the storm.

Because the truth was simple and terrifying.

He was falling for her. Falling fast, in a way he hadn't known was possible. Not for anyone.

It had started with the blush on her cheeks the day they'd met, then the copper sweep of her hair, the sharp clarity of her eyes. But that wasn't what held him.

It was the mind behind those eyes. The wit. The defiance. The fire he'd seen flicker in her during their sparring match—the moment she stopped holding back and let herself burn.

She wasn't some timid girl from a neighboring kingdom. She was a force to be reckoned with. And he would make sure she knew it.

So yes—he'd do whatever she asked.

Even if it meant silence. Even if it meant war.

“Thank you,” she whispered softly against his chest, pulling back to catch his gaze. Her eyes were rimmed with red, cheeks stained. He had his own share of her tears left on his tunic, but he didn't mind.

He brushed away a final tear, cupping her cheek and gently pressing a kiss on her lips. “I would do anything for you,” he whispered against her lips.

The door clicked with the turn of a lock, the sound echoing through the vaulted silence.

Lance stepped back from Mabel, slow and reluctant. She moved quicker, startling with a yelp and rushing behind him.

Frey pushed open the door, blonde curls braided neatly atop her head, nose buried in a book, her voice light as she looked up. “Ah—there you are. I had a feeling you'd be hiding in here.”

She smiled at Lance, who stepped forward and pressed a fond kiss to her cheek.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” he said, warmth in his voice.

“Well, aren't you in a rare mood,” Frey teased, cupping his face. Her gaze flicked to Mabel, eyes twinkling. “I wonder what's got you smiling.”

Mabel let out a quiet laugh, unable to help herself.

“Lessons going well, I assume?” Frey asked, a page in her book turning by itself.

“We were going over Velmirian history,” Lance replied, glancing back at Mabel with a subtle smile.

Frey glanced between the two before lifting her brows. She quickly shook her head and offered a smile. “I knew you'd be a good teacher,” she cooed. “Show me what he's taught you, child.”

With a whisper, Mabel showed her protection spell, glowing sigils lighting her skin. A soft orb of light pulsed in her palm.

“Impressive,” Frey hummed, her smile soft and full.

Mabel's heart skipped. She stepped closer, pressing her palms together. “I've just learned this one,” she said quietly. She whispered the incantation, and a silvery-blue flame sparked to life at her fingertips.

“Oh!” Frey's delight was immediate. “Fire is difficult for new casters. Yours is stunning. And the color …” She leaned in, studying it. “It burns brighter than most.”

Mabel blushed. The flame flared higher.

“You might want to put that out, Miss Ravenov,” Lance hummed. “I'm rather fond of this library.”

The flame danced at his tease. Mabel quickly snuffed it out, cheeks still warm.

“Well done, Mabel,” Frey said warmly, her smile full of pride. “We'll make a sorceress of you yet.”

“Thank you, my queen,” Mabel replied with a graceful nod. Her gaze drifted to Lance. “And thank you, my prince, for your lessons.”

A blush crept across his cheeks, rarer than his real smile. He looked away quickly, pretending to study the nearest shelf.

Frey placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I've received word about your mission.”

Lance's face lit up. “Really? When do I leave?”

“In one week,” she said, eyes bright. “You and your brother will head to Thistleveil.”

His smile faltered. “Ah. Of course. He's coming.” He glanced at Mabel, then back to his mother.

“Don't be so sour,” Frey teased, swatting his arm. “He's your brother. It'll be good for you both.”

“I'm sure,” Lance muttered. “If I don't return, you'll know why.”

“Hush,” she said, squeezing his arm. “This is a victory. Don't let him ruin it.”

Mabel's brows drew together. “Thistleveil is Moorthwyn territory,” she said quietly. “Has my father not sent aid?” She already knew the answer. The people of Moorthwyn had long been neglected under her father's reign.

Frey's expression softened. “I'm afraid not, dear. But your marriage to Theodore will change that. It will unite us all.”

Mabel's heart flickered with doubt. She masked it with a practiced smile. “Of course,” she said gently. “Our kingdoms will be stronger than ever.”

Lance's lips pressed into a line. His gaze drifted away. “I have much to prepare,” he said, clearing his throat. He leaned in, kissed his mother's cheek, whispered a quiet thank you, and left without another word.

Mabel watched him go, her heart tugging after him. But she didn't let it show. Not in front of Frey.

“Come, dear,” Frey said, offering her arm.

Mabel took it without hesitation.

Their heels echoed against the stone floors as they left the library behind, the silence between them filled with unspoken thoughts.

“Are you not angry that we were in there?” Mabel asked quietly.

“Oh, dear, of course not. It's nothing new for Lance. Once he learned to teleport it was no use keeping him out of anything.” Frey laughed softly.

Mabel's shoulders eased. “Can you teleport?”

“Oh, heavens no. Many texts suggest only true Velmirians could, but of course we had no knowledge of this magic until after King Alric's demise. We haven't seen it since the war … well, except for my exceptional son, of course.” Frey beamed with pride. “And every loss comes with a lesson. Many rooms are now warded against entry by teleportation.”

“Why are they warded? If Lance is the last Velmirian, is there still a threat?” Mabel tilted her head, brows furrowing.

Frey faltered in step before quickly adjusting. She cleared her throat, fixing a calm smile on her lips. “Why do you think we put up wards, dear?” she teased playfully. “He's too nosey for his own good.”

Lie. Mabel frowned, eyeing her closely. What is she hiding?

“Thank you,” Frey said softly, quickly changing the subject. “For being kind to Lance. He's needed a friend more than he lets on.”

Mabel didn't meet her gaze. If only she knew just how close they'd become. “He's been kind to me,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral.

“I'm glad,” Frey chimed. “He and Theodore have rarely gotten along, too busy fighting each other's egos. Princes,” she added with a laugh, the word laced with fond exasperation. “Everything's a competition. Doesn't matter what the task is—they'll find a way to argue over it.”

Mabel felt a sting in her chest. The thought crept in, unwelcome. Was she just another prize between them?

But she knew better. She had to. The way Lance looked at her, touched her, spoke to her—it wasn't rivalry. It was something else. Something dangerous.

But the deeper she fell, the harder the marriage to Theodore would become. And after the wedding … what then? Would they keep their stolen moments?

Their whispered truths? Or would the ceremony sever them for good?

Frey's voice pulled her back. “I have something for you,” she said gently. “An early wedding gift.”

Mabel blinked up at her, surprised.

They stepped into Frey's study, warm and quiet. Magic hummed faintly in the air, mingling with the scent of wax and lavender. On the desk sat a covered dome.

“Go on,” Frey encouraged, smiling.

Mabel hesitated, then stepped forward and lifted the maroon cloth. Beneath it sat a gilded cage, its metalwork delicate and ornate. But it was the creature inside that stole her breath.

A small raven perched on a bed of moss and lavender sprigs. Midnight-feathered, sharp-eyed. Young, but steady. It tilted its head at her, letting out a soft coo, half greeting, half question.

Mabel drew in a breath, hands rising instinctively to her chest. “You didn't …”

“I did,” Frey hummed, smiling. “I promised you I would, didn't I?”

Mabel let out a breath that was almost a laugh, her eyes shimmering.

The raven blinked at her, solemn and watchful.

“A wedding gift,” Frey said, settling gentle hands on Mabel. “For you. For your new beginning. He's clever. A little wild. Just like you.”

Mabel leaned closer, fingers brushing the cage's bars. The bird didn't shy away. “What's his name?” she asked softly.

“I thought you might name him yourself,” Frey replied, warmth tucked into every word. “But I've been calling him Whisper. He doesn't cry or caw much—he just … listens.”

Mabel nodded slowly, still watching him. There were no flowers that could've meant as much.

“Whisper,” she repeated quietly, admiring the raven. “I think it suits him. May I?” she asked, glancing back at Frey, fingers hovering at the latch.

“Of course, dear,” Frey beamed.

Mabel's excitement shimmered just beneath her skin as she opened the cage. She extended her palm slowly, carefully. The raven studied her fingers, gave a gentle peck, then hopped onto her wrist.

“Hello,” she whispered, lifting him to eye level.

He cocked his head, glossy black eyes locking with hers. Then, with a flutter of wings, he climbed onto her shoulder.

A delighted giggle escaped her lips.

Whisper pecked curiously at her earrings, then tugged at the blue jewel nestled at her throat. He croaked softly, unimpressed.

“I think he likes you,” Frey said, voice warm.

Mabel turned, radiant. “Thank you, Frey. I don't know what to say—he's perfect.”

“You don't have to say anything,” Frey said, cupping her cheek. “I was going to wait until the wedding, but after last night …” her voice trailed off.

Mabel's smile faltered. She looked away.

“Are you alright?” Frey asked gently. “Thalen and I were worried. You seemed so distraught. And when Theodore didn't join us … I feared he'd been unkind.”

Mabel steadied her breath. Whisper nudged his beak beneath her jaw, sensing the shift. She stroked his feathers, grounding herself.

“He was,” she said softly. “He lost his temper. He was cruel.”

“I'm so sorry, dear. I'll speak to him—”

“No, it's alright,” Mabel said quickly. “We spoke this morning. He apologized.”

“An apology doesn't erase the harm,” Frey said firmly. “When I saw you running, saw you in the carriage—I wanted to shake sense into him. What happened?”

Mabel hesitated. “He saw me dancing with Lance. He'd forbidden me from speaking to him. I-I overstepped.”

“Forbade you?” Frey scoffed. “Who gave him that kind of authority?”

Mabel let out a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly. The memory of Theodore's grip, the way he'd shoved her—it settled cold in her chest. She looked away. Should she say it? Would it only make things worse?

“You can tell me,” Frey said, voice gentle but unwavering.

“He shoved me,” Mabel whispered.

Without a word, Frey stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her with a warmth so caring, so motherly, it stirred something deep inside Mabel.

“This is my failing. I'm so sorry.” Frey squeezed her tighter before pulling back. “I truly thought I'd raised him better than that.”

Mabel glanced down, fingers absently picking at the skin around her nails. “It's not your fault, my queen.”

Whisper let out a sharp, dissatisfied caw and fluttered down to her wrist, pecking at her hand with impatient precision.

A soft laugh escaped her lips as she pulled her hand away. “He is clever,” she said in awe of the raven.

“Just like you,” Frey said gently. “Which is why I trust you know how to handle yourself. But if you'd like me to speak with him—”

“No,” Mabel said quickly, before shaking her head. “My apologies. It's … We've spoken. We're … giving each other space. For now.”

Frey nodded, though her eyes still held a flicker of disapproval. She was glad Mabel had stood her ground, but it wasn't enough.

“If he gives you trouble again, you come to me,” she said firmly. “I am his mother. He will listen.”

Mabel nodded, grateful but uncertain.

Frey sighed, brushing a hand over her own temple. “Now, I have a dozen things to tend to—Lance's mission, the council, the usual chaos.”

She pulled Mabel into a warm hug. Whisper fluttered up, settling once more on Mabel's shoulder, talons light, eyes sharp.

“Thank you,” Mabel whispered again.

Frey opened the door to the study, and Mabel stepped out, the raven still tugging at her necklace with indignation.

14

Theodore sat draped in maroon and gold, the royal robes framing him like a portrait of inherited power. The throne beneath him gleamed, gilded, towering, unapologetically grand.

The room was vast. Uncut trunks lined the walls like living statues. Their surfaces were etched with glowing runes flickering under the torchlight. Shimmering maroon and gold fabric draped from their bare branches.

Above, heavy beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling. Between each interlocking span, the gods watched from painted constellations set against a deep, star strewn sky: Meryth's raven in mid-dive, Cava's prowling lioness, Valkrona's viscous bear, Veyra's moonlit wolf, Mirewyn's steadfast tortoise, and Varkeyrish's two-headed bull locked in eternal charge.

Auren dominated the chamber's center. White stones traced the full sweep of The Great Stag mid-leap, its constellation mapped across the obsidian floor as if frozen in motion.

And behind the throne, antlers branched in great spiraling racks, layer upon layer of pale bone fanning outward like a crown.

Theodore couldn't help but feel small. He presided in his father's absence, entrusted to offer guidance, to speak for the crown. To his right, Mabel.

Her chair was closer than it should've been.

She hadn't moved it. She suspected Theodore had.

The smile he gave her when she entered—fractured, aching—nearly stole her breath.

She'd been summoned to sit beside him, an unusual request for a princess, especially in council. But she suspected it was his doing too.

Mabel took her seat beside him, offering a small smile. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. She couldn't stop the blush flaming her cheeks as he pressed a soft kiss onto her knuckles.

“Miss me yet?” he asked, interlacing their fingers.

“I miss who I thought you were before the solstice,” she quipped, eyes narrowing on him. She leaned in closer and hesitated for only a moment before lifting a hand to cup his cheek. “Though, I suppose I have missed that smile.”

His grin only widened despite her dig, turning slightly to press a kiss to her palm. “I apologize for breaking our agreement. I couldn't last one more day.”

“No harm done, my prince,” she said quietly.

Theodore leaned in closer, breath fanning the shell of her ear. “I've decided your perfect night will be made up to you. How does our wedding night sound?” His lips grazed her ear before settling on the point of her jaw.

A gasp left her lips, face burning under his tease. “My prince—”

“Say my name,” he said, voice soft.

“Theodore.” She tilted her head at him. “I-I look forward to it,” she stuttered through the lie with uneven breath, unable to meet his gaze.

The corner of his mouth twitched down, eyes searching hers carefully. “I'm sure.” He nodded, pulling away from her.

He didn't understand how he could be so powerless with her. With others, he commanded attention with his charm and wit. But none of it worked on Mabel. He thought he'd once had her.

Maybe he had. But she saw through him now. Saw the anger he kept buried. The years of refinement that hadn't softened him. The weight of legacy pressing down, relentless.

The fear.

What if he couldn't live up to the name? What if he failed the crown?

The doors opened.

Lance strode in, boots echoing against polished stone.

Lance.

Always performing. Always provoking. Always making Theodore feel like he had something to prove. The court whispered about him—an asshole, but clever, loyal, magnetic. Their father praised his mind. Their mother saw no flaw. Even after the blood. Even after the scars Lance left on Theodore. She never saw the darkness.

He saw it in the way his mother looked at Lance like he was something holy. He felt the shift, even as a child. The weight of favoritism. The silence where love used to be.

He'd only been four when Thalen had brought Lance home. But he remembered. He remembered the wailing. His mother's endless sobs echoing through the halls. The way she clutched the cradle that no longer held a child. He knew he'd lost his sister, even if no one said the words.

He tried to comfort her. Crawled into her lap, offered clumsy hugs, whispered promises he didn't understand. But she refused him.

The maids ushered him out, murmuring soft explanations he couldn't grasp. He watched from the doorway, small and confused, as grief hollowed her out.

And then Lance arrived. An infant. And suddenly, she had something to hold again.

She held him like he were salvation. She loved him like she'd never loved Theodore.

Theodore had hated him ever since.

And yes, he was cruel. He'd admit that. He wore it like armor. Maybe he would've felt guilty for the way he treated his 'brother'—if Lance hadn't nearly killed him.

He was only reminded of it every time he saw his reflection. He remembered the flash of light. His vision going black. And just for a moment he felt nothing.

It was almost peaceful. Then he woke to chaos. His mother bent over him, nurses scrambling, hands pressing, voices shouting.

He could barely see, but he saw her tears. The flush on her cheeks. The panic. And then the pain hit.

A scream tore from his throat, raw and animalistic. Everyone froze. Then moved all at once, hands pinning him down, a bitter liquid forced past his lips, the world spinning into fire. And somewhere in it all, he realized she was crying for him.

But she'd never looked at him like she looked at Lance.

He'd heard his father's voice echo through the castle, thunderous and raw, “He nearly died! You could've killed my son—my only son!”

And for a moment, Theodore felt vindicated. But it didn't last. Because it didn't change anything.

Frey had pleaded Lance's case, voice trembling, eyes wet. She begged Thalen to understand, to forgive. “It was an accident. His magic defended him.”

Thalen had relented. Lance was barely punished. And when Theodore finally healed—when the blood dried and the stitches held—it was as if nothing had happened. And yet Lance had the audacity to stand before him, chin lifted, voice smooth, as if he hadn't once left Theodore bleeding on the stone floor.

Theodore's jaw tightened.

Some wounds didn't bleed anymore. But gods, did they burn.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was summoned,” Lance said, voice smooth. “Thalen thought it wise I join the council. Something about balance.”

His confidence was unmistakable—shoulders squared, chin lifted. His eyes found Mabel's.

He winked.

She turned away sharply, heat rushing to her cheeks.

“There are advisers for that,” Theodore snapped, arms crossing. “Your presence isn't required.”

“If I may,” one of the older advisers interjected, voice cautious, “Prince Lance's rapport with the people may prove useful. He's known to mingle with the common folk.”

Even as the words offered support, Lance felt the sting beneath them.

Theodore's glare cut toward the adviser, sharp and unyielding.

The man stepped back, bowing his head.

Lance didn't flinch. He just smiled. “Why yes, I do speak to our people.” He nodded. “I don't place myself so high up on a pedestal I forget how to talk to—what was it? Common folk?” he scoffed, eyes flicking toward Theodore.

“Your pedestal isn't high enough to belong in this court,” Theodore muttered.

Lance stepped closer, hands folding behind his back. “What was that, brother?”

“You heard me,” Theodore said, lifting his chin, spine straightening.

Lance's mouth parted, ready to retort—

But Mabel spoke first. “I think it would be good for the people to see you both.”

The room stilled. Both princes turned to her.

Theodore's brow furrowed. “Excuse me?” He leaned in, voice edged. “What are you doing?”

She didn't flinch. “I'm suggesting you not get into a shouting match with a line of citizens waiting outside.”

Her gaze shifted to Lance, steady and unyielding. “Take your seat,” she said. “Or leave.”

Lance smirked, his strides long and prideful as he made his way to his seat. He sank into it with practiced ease.

Theodore turned to Mabel, brow furrowed. He took a steadying breath. “I need this to go well. I can't have you—”

“You're welcome.” She side-glanced him.

He blinked, cleared his throat, then straightened in his seat. “Open the doors,” Theodore called, voice clear.

The royal guards obeyed his command without hesitation.

One by one, citizens entered, faces worn, voices steady. They spoke of ruined harvests, vanished kin, homes swallowed by flood or flame. They asked for aid.

A farmer stepped forward, hat clutched in his hands, voice worn thin. “There was a sickness,” he said. “Took every last cow. My herd's gone. My boys are hungry.

I'm not asking for coin—I just need cattle. Enough to start again.”

The room fell quiet. Theodore leaned forward, fingers steepled. “You'll be granted two. That should suffice for breeding.”

The farmer hesitated, lips parting in disbelief. “Two, sir?”

Lance shifted in his seat, scoffing. “Two cows won't rebuild a herd. He needs at least eight—seven cows and a bull. Otherwise, he'll be back here in a season, asking again.”

Theodore's eyes narrowed. “We can't hand out herds to every farmer. We have limited resources.”

“And yet, we gild our chairs.” Lance rolled his eyes, absently picking at a loose thread on his tunic.

Theodore sat straighter. “You think throwing livestock at every problem makes you generous?”

“I think pretending two cows solves anything makes you foolish.”

Their voices rose, sharp and clashing. Mabel exhaled slowly, irritation blooming behind her ribs. “A bull and four cows,” Mabel said, gaze steady, subsequently ending the brothers' bickering. “If he keeps them healthy, he'll have a substantial herd within six solstices. That's sustainable. That's realistic.”

Theodore blinked at her, his mouth tight.

Lance leaned back, lips twitching.

The farmer bowed low. “Thank you, Princess.”

She nodded once, then looked between the brothers. “Now,” she said, “shall we move on before someone starts throwing chairs?”

Theodore's gaze darkened, narrowing on her.

“Hold,” he called to the guards. “Don't let the next one in.” He leaned in, voice low and clipped. “Do not undermine me in front of the commoners.”

Mabel didn't flinch. “I wouldn't have to if you two could put aside whatever petty differences you have and actually lead.”

Both men stilled. Lance looked up from his clothes, eyes landing on the pink scar running up Theodore's neck.

Lance snorted. Petty differences.

Theodore didn't bother looking back. His jaw tightened. “Do you not see that I'm trying?” he snapped. “If I didn't have the two of you speaking over me, maybe I could lead.”

“A bull and a cow is hardly trying,” she scoffed.

Lance barked out a laugh, and Theodore's glare snapped toward him before swinging back to Mabel.

“I invited you simply as company, not to govern,” he said, voice cutting. “This is my court. My responsibility. Not yours.”

Mabel pursed her lips. “Apologies, my prince. I'll remember my place next time.”

Theodore's scowl fell, his lips parting slightly, searching for any words that could possibly save him.

“Prince Theodore, shall we bring in the next visitor?” the royal guard called from the large wooden doors.

Mabel crossed her arms, raising a brow.

Theodore reached for her. “No—”

“Yes,” she called, gaze fixing forward.

The doors opened. And the people kept coming.

If Theodore had summoned her to impress, he was failing spectacularly.

His people might still be dazzled by his charm and clever rhetoric, but Mabel wasn't. Not anymore. She sat silently as the brothers bickered in front of their subjects, rarely able to come to an agreement without their advisers chiming in.

The line of citizens dwindled, one by one, until none remained. Then the door shut for the final time, a dull, resonant thud that settled over the chamber.

“Are we done here?” Mabel asked, rising from her chair.

Theodore took hold of her wrist. “I have not dismissed the court.”

She turned a glare on him. “Then do it.”

“Sit down,” he said, doing his best to ease his tone.

Mabel tried and failed to pull her arm from his grasp. “Let me go.”

“Mabel,” his voice was edged. “Do not make a fool of me. Sit. Down.”

She leaned in, voice dropping. “You made a fool of me. Maybe it's what you deserve.”

He rose to his feet instantly, towering over her. “Court is dismissed. Everyone out.”

The advisers scattered, tripping over their robes in a rush to escape the storm brewing between all three royals.

“You would purposely humiliate me in front of my council?” His silver eyes locked onto hers, cold and cutting.

“You humiliated me in front of everyone,” she seethed. “Even now, you silence me in front of your court—”

“It is not your place!” he roared, his last thread of composure snapping. His grip on her arm tightened, dragging her down.

She hit the chair with a thud, a gasp ripping from her throat as she stared wide-eyed at him—then directly past him.

Lance.

He was already moving, his hand fisting around Theodore's collar and yanking him back with enough force to make him stumble. “Don't you dare lay a hand on her.”

Theodore recovered instantly, pivoting to face him. “Or what?”

“How does a matching scar sound?”

Mabel surged to her feet, slipping between them before either could lunge. Her palms pressed to Theodore's chest, holding him back. For a heartbeat, his weight leaned into her hands, coiled and dangerous.

His glare stayed fixed on Lance … until it slid down to her. Slowly. Eerily.

The silence that followed cut right through her.

Mabel felt his stare settle on her like a weight. Not angry—not yet—but assessing. Calculating. His chest rose beneath her palms slowly, as if he were steadying himself. “Theo,” her voice trembled, heart threatening to escape her chest.

“Interesting,” he said under his breath, the sound low enough to vibrate against her ribs. The ease in his voice chilled her more than any shout.

His arm slid around her waist, possessive, fingers tracing the line of her spine as if mapping every inch. His other hand caught her chin, guiding her face upward until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. He studied her—slowly, intently—his thumb brushing her jaw in a gesture that looked tender but felt like a warning. Beneath each touch, she sensed the tension in him, the fury he was holding back by sheer force of will.

Every glance, every measured breath, carried the weight of a man trying to decide whether he was imagining things … or whether the truth was standing right in front of him. “What have you done, Princess?” He leaned in close.

“W-what do you mean?” she whispered.

“Why does he care for your safety? Why is he still standing there as if he is a part of any of this?” he growled.

Mabel opened her mouth to speak, but no words fell.

“Someone has to,” Lance interjected. His hands tucked themselves firmly behind his back to keep from hitting him, but mostly to keep from touching her.

Theodore took a deep breath, trying to settle the rage building in his chest. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Come now, brother. How you treat the princess is no secret. Half the kingdom saw her running from you.” Lance shook his head. “I've dealt with your temper firsthand. I don't think it wise to leave her unattended at the height of it.”

“I can handle myself.” Mabel turned to him. “Leave.” Then silently, she mouthed, “Please.”

Lance's brows drew together, eyes searching her for any sign telling him to stay. He nodded once and turned on his heel. “Remember, strike her, and you'll regret it.” He threw the words over his shoulder as he stepped out of the throne room.

Mabel spun back toward Theodore, hesitant as she assessed him.

He stepped back from her, hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to regain his composure. “Are you fucking him?”

“No,” she answered. Not yet.

He was quiet for a long moment, analyzing every flicker in her face, the rising of her chest, the near-constant flush of her skin. He sank back onto the throne. Then, finally, softly, “I'm sorry.”

Mabel had to fight from rolling her eyes. “I tire of your apologies.”

Theodore reached out, slowly linking their fingers together. His touch was tentative. Like he wasn't sure he had the right anymore. And he didn't. “I know.”

Mabel let their hands rest together for a breath longer, just long enough to acknowledge what had been, before she pulled away.

“I'm not ready to forgive you,” she said, turning her back to him. “Not yet.”

Theodore's gaze fell, brows knitting as he curled the hand that had held hers into a fist. “I understand,” he said.

She let out a bitter laugh. “I don't think you do. Do you really think so little of me—that I shouldn't have a voice at your side?”

“That's not it,” he said quickly. “I'm supposed to lead. My father entrusted me with this. I can't have a princess speaking over me in front of the court.”

She turned then, eyes sweeping over him with judgment. “I'll be their queen one day,” she said. “If you can't trust me to lead beside you, how can they trust me to lead at all?”

Theodore didn't answer.

He just stared at his lap, the silence between them thick with everything he couldn't say.

Her expression softened just slightly. She stepped forward, laying a hand gently over his clenched fingers.

“You'll make a good king,” she sighed. “But only if you learn to hear advice without mistaking it for insult. Don't push away help just because it challenges you.” Then her tone sharpened, steel threading through silk. “And if you ever speak to me like that again in front of the court,” she said, “you'll regret it.”

She held his gaze. And this time, he didn't look away. He smirked. “Noted. So another week, then?”

She didn't offer him a reply.

She left the chamber with every ounce of fury wrapped in grace, her steps measured, her spine unyielding.

And he watched her leave, a smirk on his lips.

He didn't mind a challenge.

15

Firelight danced across the stone walls of Mabel's room, casting warm shadows as she sat curled in her chair, legs crossed, a book balanced in her lap. The hearth crackled softly, its glow brushing the edges of her dress and the worn leather books scattered across the room.

Whisper prowled through the space with curious grace, wings fluttering as he inspected every corner—her desk, her vanity, the windowsill dusted with ash from burnt incense. Occasionally, Mabel glanced up from her reading to watch him peck at a quill or tilt his head at a candle flame.

Frey had lent her a stack of beginner texts—levitation, summoning, minor sigils. Nothing she couldn't master with time.

Her fingers turned another page, tracing the inked diagrams and runes. Her gaze flicked to the bookshelf across the room, eyes narrowing on a spine worn smooth with age. She extended her palm slowly, breath steady, and whispered the incantation, “Svifa, koma til mín.”

The book trembled, then jolted free from the shelf, sailing across the room. It landed in her hand with a heavy thud, the force nudging her deeper into the chair as its edge scraped against the stone floor.

Whisper let out a sharp caw and fluttered to the top of her bedpost; feathers ruffled in surprise.

Mabel glanced over her shoulder, cheeks flushed. “Sorry,” she said softly.

He cocked his head, eyes gleaming, watching her like he knew something she didn't. The silence was soft, almost sacred, just the crackle of the hearth and the rustle of Whisper's wings.

Then came the tap. Light. Sharp. Repeated.

Mabel blinked, looking up from her book.

Another tap. Then another.

She rose, crossing the room to the window. The chill bit at her skin as she unlatched it, the night air rushing in. Below, in the courtyard, Lance stood with a handful of pebbles and a crooked grin. “Come down,” he called, his voice barely louder than the wind.

She hesitated, fingers gripping the windowsill. “It's late.”

He shrugged, beckoning her with a tilt of his head. “So?”

The fire behind her crackled. Whisper cawed once from the bedpost, as if disapproving. But Mabel was already reaching for her cloak.

She didn't know why she was going. Only that she wanted to.

“Keep watch for me?” Mabel whispered to Whisper, who clicked his beak in reply, hopping to the windowsill.

She slipped out quietly, the drop just a story below, but still enough to make her breath hitch. Fingers curled around the sill, she closed her eyes, inhaled the night air, and let go.

A laugh escaped her lips mid-fall.

Lance caught her with a grunt, arms steady as he eased her onto the garden path. The stone was cool beneath her boots, the air sharp against her skin. She straightened her skirts out of habit, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He was cloaked in black from head to toe, a fur-lined hood shadowing his face, the heavy fabric draping over his tall frame like night itself.

She almost asked where they were going, but he took her hand before the words could form, tugging her gently forward. Her heart pounded, fierce and fast. Fear clung to her. What if someone saw? What if this were reckless?

But the thrill drowned it out. Lance was gravity. And she was already falling.

“I thought you could use a taste of freedom after today,” Lance said, his voice gentle as he led her past moonlit hedges and silent fountains. The garden stretched wide around them, shadows pooling at their feet.

“I think I'm already feeling it,” she said gingerly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Ahead, the iron gates stood tall, ancient, stained with rust.

Without warning, Lance pulled her close. Her hands pressed to his chest. “Hold tight, baby,” he cooed. It made her chest flutter. There was a flash, a sharp sting of heat, and then they were through.

Mabel gasped, stumbling slightly as the world reformed around her. He caught her, hands steady at her waist.

“It's not any better with a warning,” she groaned, heart racing.

Lance laughed, intertwining their fingers once more.

Together under the hush of night, they ventured to the forest's edge, where the trees rose into the night. She paused beneath their towering forms, her breath catching. There was something almost watchful about the way they loomed, but instead of turning back, she stepped forward. The fear that stirred in her chest wasn't unwelcome.

As they crossed into the woods, the dark swallowed them. The air shifted. Chirping insects stitched threads of sound through the trees, and an owl called once, solemn and distant. She listened with a kind of gratitude, as if the forest had remembered her.

“Don't worry,” Lance whispered, leaning close, his breath warm against her ear. “There's no beasts in these woods.”

“I'm not scared,” she hummed, eyes drifting through the greenery. “It's peaceful out here.”

Lance stepped beside her, eyes lingering over her cheeks, reddened by the cold.

“The Mirewilde isn't far from Moorthwyn. I could see the treeline from my bedroom window,” she whispered. “It seems so far from the castle here.”

“Where it should stay.” He laughed softly.

Mabel's eyes drifted through the branches. “I survived it for a few minutes. It can't be that bad.”

“Maybe you're just braver than all the warriors who fled it.” Lance smirked down at her.

She felt the warmth in her cheeks, not just from the cold. She let it settle into her chest. “I'm not brave. If I were, I'd have the courage to say no to this wedding.”

Lance studied her face as the distant look washed over her. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her to his side as they walked. Her hand slipped underneath his cloak into the warmth he offered.

“Being brave doesn't mean you can't have fears,” he said softly. “It's acting in spite of those fears. You're doing it now.”

Mabel looked down at the half-melted snow lingering on the forest floor.

“I'm not saying call off the wedding.” Lance sighed. “But keep your fire. Don't let it—or him—diminish you.” His hand squeezed her waist.

They walked deeper into the woods, feet tracing a path worn by memory. Lance moved as if he'd walked it a hundred times, each step sure, each turn familiar.

The trees thinned, and the lake revealed itself—broad, still, silvered by moonlight. Gentle waves lapped at the shore, a rhythm so soft it echoed in her chest. Insects chirped, frogs croaked, and the hush of night wrapped around them.

Mabel gasped, breath catching at the sight.

But Lance didn't stop. He tugged her forward, toward the edge of the water.

There, nestled against the shore, was a boat. A lantern swayed from the boat's bow, casting golden ripples across the surface of the lake. Pillows and blankets were piled high inside, a haven floating in the dark.

Her steps slowed, heart thudding. “What is this?”

“A secret,” he whispered, mischief curling at the edge of his grin. “No one will see us out here.”

Mabel laughed, light and breathless. She reached for his hand and pulled him toward the boat.

Lance steadied her as she stepped in, the boat tilting just enough to send a thrill through her. She sank into the cushions, tucking her legs beneath her and pulling a blanket over her lap. The lake lapped softly at the sides, as if keeping their secret.

Lance gave the boat a firm shove, the hull gliding away from the shore with a soft scrape. He leaped in after it, landing off balance and sending the vessel into a gentle wobble.

Mabel giggled as he toppled forward and landed squarely in her lap. She looked down at him, her fingers naturally sliding into his locs, threading through the coils as if they belonged there.

“I really ought to steer,” he breethd, grinning up at her.

“But you're so adorable from this angle,” she teased.

“I am not adorable,” he scoffed with mock offense, lifting himself upright. “I am a prince.”

“Mm-hmm.” Mabel arched a brow. “An adorable prince.”

He chuckled, reaching for the oars with a flourish. As he rowed, the boat creaked softly, rocking them further into the open lake beneath a canopy of stars. Mabel nestled into the pile of blankets, letting the quiet pull her in.

Lance glanced at her, eyes lingering. “You were incredible today.”

“You don't mean that,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of something unspoken. Distant voices echoed faintly in her memory. “I was merely a prop in Theodore's court.”

“Of course I mean it,” he said, tone gentle. “Are you alright?”

She hesitated. Then nodded. “I am now.”

Lance didn't look away. There was something raw in her honesty, something familiar. Trust was a hard thing to come by, but with Mabel, he didn't feel the need to guard himself. With her, the walls he'd built didn't feel quite so necessary.

Mabel's cheeks flushed under Lance's gaze, a blush blooming before she could will it away. “You're staring,” she murmured, glancing sideways at him.

“How could I not?” he said in earnest.

Her stomach fluttered. She stole another glance at him, at the way his arms moved with strength as he rowed, the easy confidence in his posture, the way his eyes never seemed to leave her.

He was smirking. “And now you're staring.”

“How could I not?” she echoed, a playful lilt in her voice. They both laughed, the sound echoing gently across the water.

“For the record, I would have let you lead the court. You're wiser than you let on.” Lance tilted his head at her.

“I am a daughter of Meryth.” She side-glanced him. “But it's not a lady's place to lead court,” she mocked the words and rolled her eyes. “I would simply be a hindrance.”

“Bullshit,” Lance scoffed.

“Careful. Varkeyrish is always listening,” she teased.

He flashed a crooked smile at her. “That may be how Moorthwyn rules, but my mother leads court alongside Thalen. Theodore is simply an arrogant ass.”

Mabel frowned softly, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. Her gaze fell over the glassy lake, how the boat broke against the surface and rippled, breaking up the reflected sea of stars. Her arm lazily fell over the side, fingers dipping into the icy water and sending a chill through her skin.

Lance watched her with a look that couldn't quite pull itself away. Her copper hair was cascading down her shoulders in untamed waves, bent over the edge to touch the water. For a moment she looked almost serene, suspended in some fragile peace.

But then his eyes found hers. There was no peace in her eyes. Only the constant churning of thoughts he knew had long haunted her.

“Mabel,” he called gently. Her eyes flicked toward him, and for the briefest moment the storm inside them halted before returning to the water below. “Tell me what's swirling in that head.”

She took in a long, deep breath, lashes fluttering shut before she spoke, “I spent every waking moment trying to be … perfect. Not just for him. But for my father, my mother, this entire kingdom. But … its different now. I push; I overstep—I've never done that before.” She shook her head, her gaze shifting up to meet Lance's.

“I don't think that's a bad thing,” he said, voice soft.

“It isn't—but it is.” She let out a laugh despite herself. “If my father could see how I've behaved this past week …” She sighed, fingers rising to cover her eyes as though she were shielding herself from her own thoughts. “My life would be in Meryth's hands.”

“I wouldn't let that happen,” Lance said sharply.

Mabel peered through the gap in her fingers, watching the soft smile spread across his face as he caught her looking. “You are under Auren's protection here. My protection.”

She lifted her head, resting her chin in her palm. “And you could stop an all-powerful sorcerer?” She raised a brow.

He clutched a hand to his chest, feigning injury. “You wound me.”

She smiled but it quickly faded. “You underestimate my father.”

“No one is all-powerful. The gods wouldn't allow such a thing,” he shot back.

“Meryth has always favored the Ravenov line.” Mabel tapped her fingers along her cheek. “It wouldn't surprise me if she turned a blind eye.”

“Maybe he's not the one she's turned a blind eye toward,” Lance said, tilting his head. “You've never known magic, never felt it in your veins—until now. And you're only getting stronger, Mabel. Every day, every lesson, I'm in awe of how … easy it is for you.”

She could feel the warmth in her cheeks rising. “You don't—”

“I do. I don't waste my words. You should know this by now.” He extended his boot to nudge her leg. “Even the gods see it. Why else would Auren shove us together? He wants me to teach you.”

Mabel sighed, leaning back. Her eyes scanned the starry night sky. “What if this is bigger than us?” she whispered softly.

“Then we'll know in time,” he replied, sure of his answer.

As she shot him a playful glare, something caught her attention on the distant shoreline—soft candlelight flickering, a blanket spread beneath the branches of a tree.

“What's that?” she asked, eyebrows lifting.

“I had a little time to plan,” Lance said with a casual shrug, but his grin gave him away.

Mabel's eyes widened. “You made us a picnic?”

“Guilty,” he hummed, delighting in the wonder lighting up her face.

She turned back to him, beaming. There was something so bright in her expression, so unguarded, that Lance felt his heart tighten. In all the moments they'd shared, he didn't think he'd seen her this radiant.

When the boat bumped gently against the shore, Lance climbed out first, offering a hand to steady Mabel. He tugged the boat higher onto the sand, then kneeled by a small compartment and pulled out a basket. Mabel's fingers interlaced with his as she led him to the blanket beneath the tree, candlelight casting gold across the grass.

“I've never had a picnic before,” she said, her voice airy with delight. She gave a playful twirl, her dress catching the breeze and billowing around her legs.

Lance watched her with a smile, setting the basket down. When he reached for her hand, she met him halfway, and he spun her gently beneath the stars. Her laughter rose in the night air, light, full and free.

He caught her around the waist and pulled her close, his forehead brushing hers. Then, a kiss, gentle at first, blooming slow and sure. She smiled into it, unable to stop herself.

He guided her back until she touched the tree behind her. She looked up, heart thudding, drinking in the sight of him, tall and steady, gaze fixed on her like she were the only thing he saw.

She bit her lip, reached up to trace the edge of his jaw, barely brushing stubble, then threaded her fingers into his locs. And when she pulled him down, it was with certainty.

Their kiss lingered, softening into something quiet and content. When they finally pulled apart, Mabel stayed close, her head resting briefly against Lance's chest as the wind stirred the leaves above them.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and nodded toward the basket at their feet. “Hungry?” he asked, his voice warm.

“A little,” she admitted, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Lance kneeled to unfasten the lid of the basket, lifting it open with a dramatic flourish. “Welcome to Cafe de Lance,” he teased, pulling out its contents one by one.

He laid everything carefully on the blanket. A still-warm loaf of braided bread wrapped in linen, a wedge of soft cheese nestled in wax paper, fresh strawberries tucked in a tin, and a small jar of dark chocolate spread. There was even a jar of lavender tea, its scent mingling with the night air.

Mabel watched with delight as the little spread came together. She reached for a strawberry and popped it into her mouth, eyes gleaming.

Lance passed Mabel a slice of bread smeared with chocolate spread, eyes twinkling. “Careful, this might be the most dangerously charming part of the evening.”

Mabel raised an eyebrow, taking a bite. “Oh? Not the secret boat or the surprise picnic?”

He leaned back on one elbow, grinning. “Nope. This right here—me, bread, and chocolate. The full seduction trifecta.”

“So, your plan is to seduce me, my prince?” She lifted her chin, narrowing her gaze playfully.

“It's simply a possibility—but highly likely.” He winked.

Her cheeks flushed instantly. Around him, she couldn't even think clearly. She became so absorbed in his presence.

She closed the distance between them, her movements slow. Her lips brushed the hollow of his throat, lingering as she drew in the familiar scent of warm cinnamon and oils. “I think it's working,” she whispered.

Her hand found his chest, fingertips pressing gently through the fabric, tracing the strength beneath. The rhythm of his heartbeat pulsed under her touch, steady and close, anchoring her in this moment. Her lips remained at his throat, brushing soft kisses against his pulse point before pulling away, her mouth leaving warmth in its wake. She traced her fingers along his chest; gaze fixed on his lips as he spoke.

He exhaled a breathy laugh. “Forgotten all about my picnic already, have we?”

Mabel couldn't deny it.

She barely registered the spread anymore. None of it mattered compared to him. There was no enchantment at play, no whispered incantation. Just the way he looked at her, like she was more than the polished princess she had been raised to be. It pulled at something deep inside her, something hungry and human.

Her lips met his in a kiss that left no room for hesitation. She shifted, straddling him in one fluid motion, the weight of her presence drawing a groan from his throat.

His hands found her waist, fingers curling there like he never wanted to let go. He kissed her back just as fiercely, matching her intensity with his own, the world around them blurring until all that remained was the feel of each other.

Mabel's stomach fluttered with the attention. She hesitantly ground her hips against Lance, a surprised gasp leaving her as she felt his hardened bulge, tight underneath his trousers.

Her own body reacted with excitement, chills cascading down her spine.

Lance grabbed her hips and pressed her against himself again, grinding into the heat between her legs. Another shudder of pleasure erupted inside her. “Lance,” she breethd, her voice catching as her legs trembled beneath her.

In one fluid motion, Lance shifted their positions, easing her down against the blanket until he hovered above her, his body a protective frame around hers. “You're impossible to resist,” he groaned, his eyes searching hers with a mix of heat and awe. “Do you know how hard it's been? To see you every day and be unable to have you? To fuck you?” He dipped his head, pressing a trail of slow, longing kisses along the curve of her collarbone, then up the line of her neck, each one sending a shiver through her. “Dreams aren't enough.

I need to have you. I need every inch of you wrapped around me. I need you beneath me, begging me for more.”

“Please,” Mabel whimpered. “I'm yours.”

Lance's gaze locked with hers, searching her face with silent intent. He noted the heat in her cheeks, the parted lips that trembled with breath, and those wide, glacial blue eyes, unguarded, silently asking him not to stop.

A soft breath escaped her as his lips reached the plump of her breasts. Her fingers found the edge of his shirt, clutching it to anchor herself. Her eyes fluttered closed, and when she opened them again, they were darker, hazier, full of something tender and aching.

His palm lifted to knead her breast. His lips attacked the other, on a mission to mark what belonged to him. He didn't pull away until her skin was bruised red, tongue lapping at it before his gaze lifted to meet hers. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want everything, Lance,” she said softly. “Your mind, your body.” Her palm dropped, hesitating over his chest before pressing into the fabric. “Your heart. A-and maybe that's selfish of me. I have no right taking what I can't keep—”

His lips found hers, clearing every doubt in her mind. “It's yours. Everything. It always has been.”

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full of everything neither of them had dared to say until now. Hovering above her, he paused, eyes locked with hers, his hand brushing a copper strand from her face.

His hand glided down her side, tracing her waist, her hip, the curve of her thigh, never rushing. He savored every inch, fingertips featherlight, teasing, before slipping back up to rest against her stomach.

She arched into his touch, needing more, but he only smiled against her collarbone, his breath warm as he whispered, “Not yet … Let me take my time with you.”

Each touch lingered longer than the last. Her body trembled beneath him, caught between anticipation and aching need, the tension stretching deliciously thin. “You're so fucking beautiful. Too beautiful to hide,” Lance said, his voice husky, almost awed.

He unclipped the button on her cloak. His hands slid to her hem, fingers brushing lightly against her thigh before gathering the fabric. He inched it upward, kissing the newly revealed skin as he went—her knee, the soft inside of her thigh, the dip of her hip. Each kiss was slow, appreciative, leaving her trembling beneath him.

Mabel's breath hitched, her hands twisting in the sheet below, the rising need nearly unbearable. She silently thanked Auren for the lack of a corset.

The slip rose higher, baring her stomach, the delicate line of her waist. He paused there, lips pressing tenderly on her skin. “Beautiful,” he whispered again, as though he couldn't stop saying it.

Finally, Lance drew the fabric up and over her, his knuckles grazing her arms as he slipped it free. He let it fall aside without looking, too intent on her, every inch of her laid bare beneath his gaze.

Her skin burned in the freezing air, flushing beyond what he'd already drawn out of her. “Fuck—it's so cold,” she gasped, her entire body tensing.

“Shh,” he sounded in her ear. His hands found her waist, pulsing against her skin with that familiar buzz of magic. She watched his lips as he mouthed an incantation, unneeded but ingrained in muscle memory. Warmth flooded her, and every inch of her body relaxed against his touch with a grateful sigh.

For a moment, he only hovered, eyes roaming with appreciation, his chest rising and falling as though he needed to steady himself. Then, slowly, he lowered himself back down, covering her body with his own.

When his lips closed around her breast, his tongue circling slow and hot around her hardened nipple, Mabel gasped, her hand clutching his shoulder. He groaned at her response, the sound vibrating against her skin.

Every movement was unhurried. Lance wanted to remember every second. The blush on her skin, the gasps and moans, the way his name fell from her lips.

Mabel's body arched ever so slightly as his fingers traced the edge of her softness, teasing but not yet giving. It made her whimper, a sound that drew a low groan from his chest.

“Shh … I'm going to take care of you,” Lance assured her, his lips brushing her cheek as his hand finally slipped against her, granting the contact she'd been aching for.

The first touch was featherlight, almost unbearable in its care. He stroked his fingers between her folds, savoring every shiver, every gasp that escaped her lips.

Her hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in as her hips lifted, seeking more with a desperation that had him straining in his trousers.

He obliged only gradually, his fingers moving with patience, circling, pressing, enough to drive her mad. His name spilled from her mouth like a prayer, and he answered with a groan, his forehead pressing to hers. “Such a good girl,” he whispered, voice raw, as though the sheer intimacy of touching her like this was undoing him. “So wet for me, baby.”

His fingers moved with aching care, stroking her clit in slow, deliberate patterns that made her body tense, then melt beneath him. Every touch drew another sound from her lips, breathless and needy, the sheet twisting under her clenched fists.

“Lance …” His name broke from her throat, half a plea, half a gasp.

He kissed her jaw, her temple, anywhere his mouth could reach, whispering soft praise between each press of his lips. “That's it, baby … Let me hear you … So fucking good for me.”

Her hips lifted to meet his touch, chasing the rhythm he set. The pressure built inside her, tight and burning, each movement winding her closer to breaking.

“Please—don't stop,” she begged, her voice trembling as her head fell back against the blanket.

“How could I?” he whispered, his forehead pressing to hers, their breaths mingling. “I'm right here, you can do it.”

His fingers worked her steadily, coaxing her higher. Her moans grew softer but sharper. The heat coiled low in her belly until it snapped, her body arching up into his touch as release flooded through her.

“Lance!” she cried out, clinging to him as the wave took her, her entire body trembling with the force of it.

He held her through it, kissing her hair, her cheeks, her lips, whispering against her skin as her shudders slowly subsided. “So beautiful … so incredible … I love watching you fall apart.”

Her body was still quaking, every nerve sensitive, when his fingers found her clit again. She gasped, trying to catch her breath, but his fingers didn't leave. Instead, he stroked her softly, coaxing little aftershocks from her trembling body.

“Wait, it's—” but she couldn't stop the moan that escaped her, half-delirious, her voice cracking on his name.

“I know, baby,” he muttered against her ear, kissing the shell of it tenderly. “I'm not done with you yet. Unless you want me to take you right now—stretch you open on my cock—is that what you want?”

His hands pushed his trousers down, his hot, thick length hanging proudly between his legs. She had to swallow at the sight of him. Without warning, he pressed it against her warm entrance, teasing. His hand guided his tip, threatening her tight, fluttering hole with its presence.

Her wide eyes couldn't leave the sight of it. Her hips pressed up, catching his tip on the rim of her wet heat. A desperate cry left her lips, aching for something, anything.

“You're not ready for that, baby. But I'll get you there,” he purred. Slowly, carefully, he pressed a finger inside, then another, stretching her gently. The sensation made her whimper, her hips shifting against him instinctively.

“You're so tight,” he whispered, his voice ragged with awe. His thumb circled her clit with agonizing care, syncing with the slow thrust of his fingers. “Fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

Her breath hitched, a soft cry escaping her as the coil of pleasure began to return, sharper now against the rawness of her sensitivity. She clung to him, nails digging into his arm, her legs parting wider to welcome his touch. “Yes … Oh gods, Lance …”

He groaned at the sound of his name on her lips, quickening his rhythm. Each stroke brought her higher, every movement guided by her gasps and cries.

She trembled beneath him as he stretched her open. He pushed in a third finger slowly, watching her face twist in pleasure. Her head tilted back. A moan escaped her.

And he wanted nothing more than to make her feel like she was on fire.

“You're so close again,” he said with a smile, his lips brushing hers as he pushed deeper, curling his fingers until she shattered around him once more.

Her body arched, a sob of pleasure breaking free as she came undone, trembling violently against his hand. He kissed her through it, swallowing her cries, whispering praise into her mouth until she collapsed back onto the blanket, spent but glowing.

Her body still quivered from the waves he'd drawn out of her, every breath unsteady as she lay bare against the frigid night air. Lance kissed her softly, brushing damp strands of copper hair from her face, letting her settle back into herself.

For a long moment, he only looked at her—eyes dark, full of both need and something deeper, almost worshipful.

His thumb traced her cheekbone, his tone soft when he finally spoke. “Mabel … I need to hear it. Tell me you want this.”

Her lips parted, her chest still rising and falling quickly. She searched his gaze, finding only devotion there, only patience. Her throat tightened, but her answer came steady, certain. “Mind and body, Lance. I want you.”

A groan tore from him, relief and hunger tangled together, and he kissed her fiercely—then gentled it, as though to honor her words. She tugged at his tunic, eyes pleading. He made quick work of pulling it from his body, tossing the top with abandon before he kicked off his boots and trousers.

Her eyes swept over his bare skin with appreciation, hands reaching to run over his sculpted chest. Her featherlight touch sent a chill through him as she dipped her fingers down his waist. “Beautiful.” The word slipped from her without thought, simply in awe of him.

He shifted, guiding her carefully, until she straddled him, her knees sinking into the earth on either side of his hips. His hands steadied her, sliding up her thighs, caressing the curve of her waist. “Slow,” he whispered, his voice ragged but tender. “I'll guide you.”

She nodded, trembling as she looked between their bodies. He took her hand, reached down, and wrapped her fingers around his warm cock. She swallowed, the size of him filling her palm delightfully. Lance's hand steadied hers, and he carefully pressed his hips up.

Her breath caught the moment she began to lower herself onto him, her body stretching slowly, achingly, around his fullness. The sensation was sharp at first, almost overwhelming, but heat rushed through her, flooding every nerve.

“That's it.” His own breath caught in his throat. “Fuck—good girl. Just like that.”

A gasp tore from her lips, her hands bracing against his chest as her body adjusted, inch by inch. He whispered her name, steadying her with praise and gentle hands on her hips, but she barely heard him over the rush of her own heartbeat.

“Shh.” He held her close. “Let it hurt a little.”

When she finally rested against his hips, a tremor rippled through her, her thighs quivering as she stilled. The ache was there, yes, but threaded with a deep, intoxicating pleasure that made her chest tighten. “Lance—you're so—” She couldn't finish, her voice breaking on a cry.

He would've flashed a cocky smirk if he wasn't so lost in her tight warmth.

Her eyes fluttered closed, savoring the fullness, the way he stretched and filled her completely. She felt opened, claimed, cherished all at once, her body alive in ways she hadn't known it could be.

His hands stroked her waist, grounding her, but it was the slow pulse of her own body around him that made her shiver. She shifted slightly, testing the feel of him within her, and a moan slipped from her throat before she could stop it. The sound seemed to ignite her. She pressed her palms harder against his chest, lifting herself only to sink back down again, this time with a soft cry. The friction sparked pleasure through her, tender but consuming, each movement unraveling her more.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of it, from the way being with him like this felt both fragile and infinite.

“You—you feel so good,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she rocked against him, careful but full of need. “Please, Lance … I need more.”

Her plea undid him.

Lance's restraint frayed, his fingers tightening on her hips as he guided her into a steadier rhythm. He'd meant to be careful, to hold back for her sake, but watching her tremble, hearing her voice crack on his name—it was too much. He lifted her until the tip of his cock threatened to slip, then pulled her back down, hips rising sharply to meet hers.

“Gods, Mabel,” he groaned, thrusting harder to meet her movements. She couldn't speak, mouth hanging open, endless whines falling from her swollen lips.

She moved with him, her body finding its rhythm, each rise and fall flooding her with pleasure. The stretch was still sharp, still new, but the ache melted into something deeper, waves of heat pulsing through her, curling low in her belly.

Her head tipped back, a moan spilling from her lips, and the sight made his chest seize. He couldn't look anywhere else. “You're so beautiful,” he rasped, his hands gliding up her waist, careful even as his hips lifted harder beneath her.

Every motion drew another sound from her—gasps, moans, his name whispered like a prayer. She felt consumed, undone by the mix of his control and the moments he lost it, by the way he seemed to worship her even as passion overtook him.

Then she felt it under the firm grip of his hands. It felt like something almost shocked her, it buzzed her skin, burned for just a moment, and pulled a sharp gasp from her throat.

Lance stilled his motions, eyes wide. His hands pulled from her. “Mabel, I'm sorry—”

But her hands were pulling his back to her waist, hips desperately rocking against him. “Don't you dare let me go.”

His magic flared again, sending the pulse through her skin once more. She moaned in surprise at the sensation, body trembling, pleasure building with every flare of his magic.

He blinked at her, eyes wide. “You … Do you like that?” he asked, half in awe, half in shock. He gripped her waist firmly.

Her response was a whimper and a desperate plea. “Yes—gods, yes,” she cried.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders now, nails digging in for anchor as her body moved with his, her skin slick and flushed. He kissed her collarbone, her throat, anywhere his mouth could reach, as though he couldn't get close enough.

His palm lifted to her breast, the jolt of magic pulsing through the plump skin. She gasped, head tilting back as he kneaded the soft mound.

Their breaths tangled, uneven. She felt herself spiraling, her body building again, and from the spark in his hands, the tightness of his grip, she knew he was breaking too. Her body quaked with each motion, her voice breaking as she clung to him. “Please, Lance—please, I need you—”

Something inside him snapped. With a groan, he shifted suddenly, gripping her waist and pressing her back into the ground. Her gasp was swallowed by his mouth as he hovered over her, kissing her fiercely, every ounce of restraint gone.

“Hold on to me,” he breethd, his voice rough, before driving into her with a rhythm no longer tempered by patience. His weight pressed her into the blanket, his body consuming hers, every thrust making her cry out.

She broke almost instantly, her body shattering around him, trembling violently as release crashed through her yet again. “Lance!” she sobbed, her voice raw, her hands clawing at his back as she came undone beneath him.

Her trembling only spurred him further. He groaned into her neck, his thrusts relentless, using the tight, pulsing grip of her body as she quaked beneath him. Each sound she made, each shudder of aftershock, dragged him closer to the edge.

Her pleas turned to whimpers, her body pliant beneath his as he clutched her hips, burying himself deeper, faster. His name spilled from her lips again and again, breaking with every breath.

Finally, with a ragged shout, he drove into her one last time, hands bracing on the grass, face tucked into her neck, before reluctantly pulling out as his release tore through him. Mabel felt the ground pulse hard beneath them as his magic released into the grass. He collapsed against her, shaking, his forehead pressed to hers, their breaths mingling in the silence that followed.

He kissed her softly—again and again—like she were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Mabel clung to him, her body still trembling, breath uneven as it tried to catch up with her heart.

“You were perfect,” Lance whispered, low and worshipful as he buried his face into the curve of her neck. “You gave me everything.”

He settled beside her, arms wrapping around her like armor.

She turned slowly, her gaze finding his in the hush between them.

No masks. No titles. Just them.

The hush of night wrapped around them, gentle and unspoken. Tangled limbs. Shared breath. Laughter that faded into silence.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

She shivered beneath the question, not from cold, but from the way he touched her, like she was something to be cherished, not claimed. Her eyes fluttered open, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes,” she breethd, the words carried on the tail of a sigh. “So much I don't think I'll ever forget it.”

It wasn't just satisfaction she felt; it was something deeper, more fragile. Like she'd let down a wall she hadn't realized she'd been holding. And he hadn't rushed in to tear it down. He'd waited. Asked. Treated her heart like it mattered.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words barely more than a breath as she laid her hand over his.

Lance glanced over at her, a curious hum in his throat. “For what?”

She turned toward him, her eyes shining in the soft light. “For this. All of it. Tonight. You made it feel … special.”

His features softened. “You deserve special,” he said.

Mabel leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. The quiet wrapped around them like a blanket, the lake mirroring the stars as if the sky had fallen just for them. And in that stillness, with his arm brushing lightly against hers, she felt something she hadn't in a long time—wanted.

His fingers drifted over her bare hip, dipping to her thigh. He traced the raised edges of a crescent scar on her soft skin. “Is this … from the memory?” he asked quietly.

She froze under his touch, jarred by the thought, just for a moment. A deep, steadying breath of air mixing with the tangled scents of them both was all it took to lull her back into their peace. “Yes,” she admitted.

“A dog?” He met her gaze.

She nodded. “They tracked me down and when they found me …” She shuddered at the memory. She lifted her arm, showing him a matching scar curling along her bicep. “I decided hiding in a tree stump was a good idea. They dragged me out by their teeth.”

His eyes traced the marred flesh before meeting her gaze. “That's why you're afraid of them.”

“And spiders,” she teased.

“And men who think they can read you.” He smirked.

“Terrifying.” She nodded with a smile. But her gaze fell. “I wonder what would've happened if I'd really made it into the Mirewilde.”

“I thought you said you had?” His hand brushed her hair back from her face, thumb grazing her cheek.

She let out a self-deprecating laugh. “It's what I told myself. The only thing that made my attempt seem like it was worth something. I made it to the Mirewilde.” Her gaze drifted to the treeline across the lake. “But the truth is … I was too scared.

I gave up. I hid in that stump like it would save me from the years of torment.” Her breath trembled. “But what if I'd been brave enough? What if I made it … and survived?”

Lance pressed a kiss to her neck, warm and sweet. “Well, I guess I'd have to fall in love with a witch.” He laughed gently, but as the words fell from his lips, they both stilled.

Mabel's heart leaped in her chest. Fall in love. Fall in love. Fall in love. The words repeated over and over again in her head. Her pulse quickened.

Her eyes met his. And where she thought she'd see panic, regret, she only saw a man who was sure of his words.

She swallowed thickly. “Lance, I—”

He kissed her once. Gentle. Lingering. “I know. It's okay.”

Her gaze flickered between them, trying to see any hesitation, any sign of danger, anything that would tell her to run. She only saw him. He was her home. He was her peace.

She dropped back against the blanket, scanning the stars until her eyes found Auren's constellation. The Great Stag, ever prideful, leaping into the night sky. She mouthed a soft thank you.

A star, bright and burning, flew across the sky for the briefest of moments. If she'd blinked, she would've missed it. But she saw it. She nodded, then curled into Lance's side, breathing in the warm scent of him.

They lay there beneath the hush of night, listening to the quiet kind of peace it delivered. Insects chirping, the tangled breaths between them. Mabel wanted nothing more than to make it last forever.

Their fingers lazily tangled together. His thumb drifted over hers. She could still feel the hum of his magic warming them both.

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

“Does what hurt?” he hummed, shifting closer to her. She gladly accepted.

“Keeping your magic … on?” Her fingers squeezed his.

“Not this.” He shook his head. “Some magic is passive. For me, most of it is.”

She raised a brow at him.

He scoffed. “You like it when I brag.”

“Maybe,” she admitted.

He shook his head and then raised a hand with a flourish, small stars flickering in his palm. “Illusions are the easiest. Smaller ones I can maintain without thought. Potentially forever. Larger ones I could hold for months, maybe more if I really wanted to.” The stars vanished with a wave.

“Will I be able to do that?” she asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn't you be able to?” He smiled at her. “Miss Ravenov, do you doubt your talent?”

Her cheeks flushed. “No—Frey told me there are some magics only Velmirians can perform.”

“Good.” He nodded, sweeping her beneath him with a swift motion. She laughed, bright and dazzled. He rested on his elbows, arms caging her to the blanket beneath them, their cloaks shielding their bare skin from the chill winds.

“My mother reads ghost stories and myths. The Velmirians lived separate from everyone. They never shared their knowledge.

Very seldom did they allow visitors. But we mustn't blame Veyra for her secrecy,” he huffed with a roll of his eyes. He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. “They recovered what they could from Velmira after the siege, but it was minimal.

I've read every single tome. None mention Velmirians having spells only they can cast. My mother is dealing in hypotheticals.”

“So teleporting?” Mabel hummed. “Only you can do it but it's hypothetical?”

He watched her closely, a smile framing his pretty face. “Maybe I'm simply that powerful.”

Mabel snorted, hiding her face in her arm. He pushed her arm away, eyes tracing the lines on her face as she laughed.

“Your arrogance becomes you, my prince.” She swatted at him. “Why do you deny it?”

“Who says I'm even Velmirian?” He frowned. Mabel stilled at his tone. “Why can't I just be a Venhart? An Aurevynian?”

Her heart thudded. Her fingers fisted into the blanket beneath her. But then he pressed his forehead to hers, and she remembered herself—remembered him. Her arms linked around his neck, keeping him close.

“It's always felt like it's me against everyone else. They all see me as a threat—because my magic is different, Mabel.” He closed his eyes, pressing his face into her copper hair. “I don't … I don't want to be like this.”

“Lance,” she cooed softly. “You can't deny your legacy.”

“What even is my legacy? Death? War—”

“Magic,” she answered for him. “In its truest form. It's raw, and pure, and beautiful.”

“It's dangerous.” He shook his head. “I've hurt people, Mabel.”

She pressed a kiss to the deepening lines between his frown. “On purpose?”

“No. I would never—”

“Exactly,” she whispered. “You are not evil, you are not a threat. You just don't understand your magic fully. Let Frey have her hypotheticals. Let her make assumptions. Or …”

“Or?” Lance asked quietly.

“Or you could go to Velmira.” She grinned.

“You have a death wish for me.” He laughed softly, the sound buzzing between them as he collapsed by her side again.

“You'd make it. I know you would.” She settled closer beside him, tangled in his warmth. The fur of the cloaks brushed her cheek. Her gaze lingered on the sky above, captivated.

“This has been the best night of my life,” she whispered, her breath brushing against his collarbone. “I don't think I've ever felt this free.”

Lance smiled, brushing a kiss to the top of her head. “Then we'll call it a success.”

Mabel exhaled a soft sigh and let her eyes drift toward the lake, now quiet under the blanket of stars. She wished they could stay like this, tucked away from everything, suspended in this perfect stillness. But the reality of the castle loomed on the edge of her thoughts, tugging gently like the distant toll of a bell.

Not yet, she thought, curling in a little closer. Just a little longer.

“This isn't torture, is it?” Lance asked, voice barely audible, like he wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

Mabel blinked, frowning. Her hand rose to cup his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble on his jaw. “What? Why would you say that?”

He didn't answer right away. His eyes searched hers, stormy with doubt. “How could it not be?” he muttered. “Wanting something you know you shouldn't. Something you might ruin just by holding too tightly.”

Her breath caught, but she didn't pull away.

“Lance,” she whispered, “if anything … you're the only part of this life that doesn't feel like a cage. You're the one thing that makes me forget how heavy it all is.”

He closed his eyes at that, leaning into her touch as though it hurt to be believed.

“I'm afraid,” he admitted, “of what I feel. Of what I could do if I lost control. Of what I already am.”

“You're not dangerous to me,” she said softly.

“You don't know that.”

“I do,” she insisted, firmer now. “Because I see you. Not just the magic. Not just the sharp edges. You.”

He opened his eyes, and for a moment, the storm in them stilled.

“Is it … Is this torture for you?” she whispered.

He didn't respond right away. His eyes were lost in thought before he finally spoke, “It's not torture, but it's close.” He laughed softly, but the sound was pained. “I don't want to be your escape,” he said. “I want to be something real. Something you can choose, not just run to.”

Mabel's hand slid from his cheek to his chest, resting over the steady thrum of his heart.

“You don't know how badly I want that,” she whispered, voice trembling with truth. “You don't know how badly I wish I was yours.”

“You are mine,” he said, the words edged with heat. His hand found her waist, firm and possessive. “Only mine.”

Her breath hitched.

Then his mouth was on her again, teeth grazing the hollow of her collarbone, each touch a promise. “Must I remind you again?” he purred against her skin.

Her heart stuttered, cheeks flushed. His hand drifted lower, teasing, coaxing.

“I wouldn't mind that,” she breethd.

And he gave it, slow and delicate.

His body pressed to hers, passionate and unrelenting. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word was a vow etched into her skin. He worshipped her with the kind of devotion that blurred the line between magic and madness until the night folded around them and nothing else existed but the heat they shared.

16

Mabel stirred first, the soft tap of talons hopping along her bare skin pulling her from sleep.

Whisper.

She sent him a playful glare, but her hand reached for him anyway, fingers brushing his feathers with affection.

Lance still held her, his arm heavy around her waist, his breath warm against her shoulder. He hadn't let go once. They'd escaped back to the quiet of her room after snow dared to fall on their peace, bundling in each other to fight off the frost that clung to their bones.

She watched him sleep, studying the way peace softened his features when the weight of the court wasn't pressing down on him. Her lips found his cheek, trailing gentle kisses across his skin.

He grumbled, brows knitting. “Baby,” he groaned, voice thick with sleep. “Too early.” He buried his face against her neck, inhaling her as if she were the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

“You have your mission today,” she hummed, one hand stroking his back, the other keeping Whisper from pecking at her collarbone.

Lance let out a long, dramatic groan, lifting his head just enough to look at her. His eyes roamed her skin, slow and hungry. “If only I could wake up to this every morning,” he purred, hand slipping beneath the sheets.

Whisper let out a sharp caw and pecked at his wrist.

Lance glanced back, then rolled his eyes. “This is my woman.” He swatted gently, and Whisper fluttered to the bookshelf with a disgruntled trill.

Lance turned back to Mabel, his hand continuing its descent until it met warmth and softness.

She gasped, breath catching.

But then his brow furrowed. He pulled back the sheets, and a soft laugh escaped him.

Blood. Not much. Just a trace. But enough. It stained her thighs. Her sheets. Mabel sat up quickly, eyes wide. “No—”

His lips were on hers before she could finish her panic, pressing her gently back into the mattress, his mouth warm and grounding. “Shh,” he whispered. “It's okay.”

She blinked up at him.

“You're mine,” he stated. “That's all that matters.”

She huffed playfully, swatting at his chest. “You're ridiculous.”

He grinned, catching her wrist and kissing her palm. “And you're beautiful.”

The sheets rustled as he shifted, pulling her beneath him again. Their mouths found each other, slow. No words passed between them. Just breath. Just touch.

Time unraveled into warmth and skin again, into the ache of closeness. He took his time, worshipping every inch of her, every sound she gave him—soft gasps, whispered pleas, the music of surrender.

And when they finally stilled, limbs tangled, hearts steadying, the morning light had crept across the floor, golden and quiet, like it, too, had been waiting for them to fall back into each other.

Lance sighed, forehead resting against hers. “If I don't leave now, I won't.”

She smiled, fingers brushing the stubble along his jaw. “Then stay.”

“You know I can't.” He kissed her once more, soft, lingering, before rising from the bed, gathering his clothes with reluctant hands.

Whisper fluttered down from the bookshelf, landing beside Mabel with a trill that sounded suspiciously like judgment.

Lance glanced back at them both, one hand on the doorframe. “I'll come back to you,” he said, voice gentle. “No matter what the mission brings.”

He pulled on his clothes and then he was gone.

Lance moved through the halls with a swagger, a smile tugging at his lips. Let Theodore join the mission. Let the court whisper. It didn't matter anymore.

He had Mabel. Her heart. Her body. Her choice. No vow could erase that.

He stepped into the winter air, boots crunching through fresh snow, the cold biting but not enough to dull the heat still lingering in his chest.

Ahead, carriages were being loaded—supplies stacked, soldiers bustling.

Theodore stood waiting, arms crossed, gaze sharp.

Lance brushed past him, a smirk carved into his face.

“It would be like you to show up late for your own mission,” Theodore said, voice clipped.

Lance turned, eyes gleaming. “Apologies, brother. I had something far more important to attend to.”

Theodore's eyes narrowed. “And what might that be?”

Lance let out a low, cruel laugh. “Wouldn't you like to know.” He turned away, hands already reaching for the nearest crate, the smirk never leaving his face.

Theodore watched them load the final crates, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. When the last latch was secured, he climbed into the carriage behind Lance, the air between them already thick.

The interior was lavish—deep maroon velvet, gold trim, the kind of opulence meant to soothe tempers and mask tension.

It failed.

Lance settled into his seat with maddening ease, legs crossed, posture relaxed. Like he hadn't just shattered something sacred.

Theodore entered slowly, eyes locked on his brother. He sat across from him, spine rigid, gaze burning through the calm facade Lance wore like armor. The carriage lurched forward, wheels crunching over snow. Outside, the world blurred into white.

Inside, Theodore's thoughts roared. She'd told him it was nothing. She'd made him feel insane.

He'd gone out, slept with a whore, as he always did. It didn't make the rage any quieter, it never did. And then, just steps from his quarters, a servant had pulled him aside, eyes wide, whispering of what had unfolded behind closed doors.

Lance.

Mabel.

The rage had been instantaneous. Blinding. But beneath it, something colder curled—a sick, bitter laugh. Of course it was Lance. Of course it was betrayal.

He had every right to forbid them from speaking. Every right to strip Lance of his rank, his title, his access. But none of that would undo the image burned into his mind of Mabel, flushed and breathless, tangled in sheets that weren't his.

He'd rehearsed the confrontation all morning. Words sharpened like blades. But now, faced with Lance's infuriating calm, they stuck in his throat, sour and useless.

Lance stared out the window, as if the snowfall deserved more attention than the fury seated across from him.

As if nothing had changed.

But everything had.

And Theodore wasn't sure if he wanted to speak. Or strike.

Lance shifted in his seat, clearing his throat, dismissive. Not an invitation.

Then Theodore spoke, voice slicing through the stillness. “I know you've been sneaking off with my fiancée.”

Lance didn't flinch. His gaze stayed locked on the blur of snow-dusted trees beyond the carriage window. But inside, something twisted. Who told him? How much did he know?

“I'm not sure what you mean,” Lance said, tone smooth, laced with mock innocence.

Theodore's jaw clenched, fury flashing in his eyes. “Don't play dumb.”

Lance finally turned, slow and cocky, meeting his brother's gaze with a smirk that only made the fire burn hotter.

“You bastard,” Theodore spat venomously. “You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

The air between them crackled.

The word hit harder than it should've. Lance froze for a heartbeat. Something flickered behind his eyes, a shadow of something unspoken. Old wounds never quite healed. The echo of whispered court rumors, of backhanded titles and names that never belonged to him.

It only honed the edge of Lance's voice. “Oh, right—Mabel,” he purred, letting her name roll off his tongue like it was laced with venom. “She really is something, isn't she?” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Though I suppose you wouldn't know. Not really.”

Theodore's spine stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Lance's smile widened, cruel and unrepentant. “Now who's playing dumb, brother?” He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something darker. “You treated her like a pawn. Like a prize to be claimed.” He laughed, bitter. “And you lost her the moment you made her feel disposable.”

Theodore's fists clenched, his knuckles white. He growled, “You know nothing about us—”

“Correction,” Lance said coolly, glancing toward him. “I know everything.” His voice was calm, but the words cut deep. “It's you who knows nothing. Not her thoughts. Not her dreams. Certainly not her desires.”

Theodore's eyes narrowed. “And you do?”

Lance's smile curled, mocking. “I really shouldn't say too much.” He sighed, casting a sidelong glance.

“Because you don't have anything to say,” Theodore scoffed. “You must've forgotten you weren't the one who spent weeks at her side.”

Lance cocked his head. “You weren't the one in her bed this morning.”

Theodore surged forward, fury igniting. He slammed Lance back against the wooden frame of the carriage, the entire compartment shuddering with the force.

Lance grunted but didn't fight back. Not yet.

Theodore's breath came hot and fast, chest heaving, fists clenched at Lance's collar.

Lance just looked at him, unflinching, unrepentant. “You asked.”

“Stay away from her,” Theodore growled through clenched teeth.

Lance's smirk deepened, sharp and calculated. “If you can keep her away,” he said, voice cool and coiled with arrogance.

He watched Theodore closely; the danger behind his charm unmistakable. And in his eyes, there was no apology, just challenge. A fuse lit with one sentence, daring Theodore to strike the match.

Theodore's grip tightened. “You arrogant—”

“Temper,” Lance warned, voice restrained, though the flicker of fury behind his eyes betrayed the calm. Then, in a blink, he vanished, teleporting from Theodore's grasp to the opposite side of the carriage.

Theodore spun, jaw clenched, fists still curled, breath ragged.

“We're on a diplomatic mission, brother,” Lance said, straightening his coat with maddening ease. “Show some diplomacy.”

Their eyes locked—two storms held in check by velvet walls and royal obligation. And then, as if nothing had happened, Lance sat again, legs crossed, gaze drifting back to the snow-laced window.

The wildfire beneath Theodore's skin burned hotter. “This isn't over,” he growled.

“Of course not,” Lance replied, voice smooth as satin. “But tell me—do you think it wise to arrive at a welfare mission bruised and bloodied? What message would that send?”

Theodore froze, the words catching like ice in his throat.

Lance leaned back, tilting his head. “I'm sure Thalen would be thrilled to hear about it.”

Theodore inhaled sharply, trying to steady the pulse hammering in his chest. With one last glare, he dropped into the seat across from Lance, his eyes boring into the back of his brother's head.

The silence returned.

But this time, it was armed.

The carriage rumbled on, wheels carving through snow-packed roads as the forest blurred past in streaks of white and shadow. Inside, silence reigned, simmering. Lance stared out the window, unreadable. Theodore sat across from him, fists clenched, his thoughts a storm behind his eyes.

But miles away, the castle stood warm against the winter chill, its stone halls humming with life.

Inside Mabel's chambers, the mood was entirely different.

She twirled across the room in bare feet, silk skirts fluttering around her ankles, Whisper darting after her in playful loops. The little creature chirped and flapped, landing briefly on her shoulder before leaping off again in pursuit of invisible prey.

Mabel laughed, breathless and bright, her cheeks still flushed with the memory of morning. She reached for Whisper mid-flight, catching him with a triumphant grin before cradling him to her chest.

Across the room, Ada moved quietly, folding linens, smoothing pillows, straightening the scattered remnants of Mabel's joy. Her eyes flicked toward the princess now and then, lingering with questions she didn't dare voice.

She'd heard the whispers. The servants' gossip. The stolen glances. The late-night absences.

And now, watching Mabel glow like someone lit from within, Ada didn't need confirmation.

She already knew.

But she said nothing. Just kept tidying, her silence heavy with assumptions and the weight of loyalty.

Mabel didn't notice—or pretended not to. She was too busy spinning, laughing, alive.

Ada moved toward the bed, arms full of folded linens. She reached for the edge of the sheets, fingers brushing the fabric with intent.

Mabel froze. Her laughter faltered, Whisper fluttering from her hands as she stepped forward, too fast, too eager.

“I've got that,” she said quickly, voice too bright. “Really—I'll change them myself.”

Ada paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. But she didn't move.

Mabel reached again, fingers trembling now, but Ada had already pulled the sheet back.

The stain was there. Blood. Faint, but unmistakable.

Ada's gaze lingered on it, then lifted slowly to meet Mabel's.

Mabel's breath caught, her cheeks flushing, not from shame, but from the sudden vulnerability of being seen.

Ada didn't speak. She didn't need to. She simply folded the sheet with precision, her expression unreadable.

But her eyes held questions. Too many.

“Ada, I can explain,” Mabel blurted, panic threading through her voice like a fraying seam.

Ada froze, eyes fixed on the floor, her breath slow. “You don't need to explain,” she said, voice tight. “Every servant in this gods-forsaken castle already has.” She dropped the linens with a sharp thud, stepping over them as she closed the distance between them. “How did you think you could hide this?” Her voice cracked, fury bleeding into betrayal. “And why didn't you tell me? I could've helped. I could've stopped it before it got this far. I could've talked some sense into that foolish, reckless heart of yours.”

Mabel stepped back, brows knitting. “That's exactly why I didn't tell you. You don't understand—”

Ada's voice rose, raw and trembling. “No, you don't understand.” She shook her head. “How could you be so stupid? What if your father finds out? Or Theodore—if he hasn't already.”

“You don't know what Theodore's done,” Mabel snapped, voice cracking. “You don't know what he's capable of.”

“Then tell me,” Ada pleaded, stepping closer, her voice softer now.

“Why should I?” Mabel scoffed. “So you can report it to my father?”

“I will if I have to.” Ada stared at her with a sharp gaze.

Mabel's jaw tightened. “Can you just back off?”

“Back off?” Ada scoffed, folding her arms. “You're kidding, right?”

“Stop acting like I owe you an explanation,” Mabel snapped. “My parents aren't here—you don't need to play watchdog.”

Ada's voice hardened. “It's not a game, Mabel. This could change everything. This could cost you your life.”

“Maybe this life isn't worth living,” Mabel snapped. “Maybe I want it to change. I'm exhausted, Ada. I can't live like this anymore.”

“How else would you live? Are you going to run again?” Ada raised her brows. “Because that worked out so well the last time.”

“Maybe I will.”

Ada stilled. “Mabel, you can't.” Her voice was laced with desperation. “He will kill you.”

“He can't kill me,” Mabel muttered. “He needs me alive so I can marry Theodore. He needs heirs.”

Ada's eyes traced her features. She didn't recognize the girl standing in front of her. The quiet, docile creature she'd raised had vanished. She had to bite back the swirl of pride rising in her chest. “Let's say you run,” Ada humored her. “He can't kill you, but he will spend every waking moment tracking you down.

And when he finds you—because he will—what do you think will happen? Do you think he'll simply let you go?” She laughed in disbelief. “He will break you, Mabel.”

Mabel turned from her. Her fingers ran through her hair, pulling at the roots. She wanted to believe she could make it. Wanted to believe she'd survive.

But she knew her father. She knew better than anyone what he was capable of.

“I'm only trying to look out for you,” Ada said, voice gentle. “I don't want you to get hurt.”

“Are you?” Mabel's voice cracked as she looked over her shoulder at Ada. “Or are you looking out for yourself?”

Ada couldn't meet her gaze. Both were true. And though she tried to convince herself the majority was for Mabel's safety, she knew if Mabel ran, she'd be the one dead. Cavric would have her head for her incompetence, treason even. “Your choices affect more than just you,” she whispered.

“Go on then. Tell my father. Save yourself.” Mabel stepped to the pile of linens, gathering the ruined sheets before spinning on her heels and shoving them into Ada's chest. “I'm sure he'll reward you greatly.” She dropped the sheets, eyes locking on Ada's as they crumbled to her feet. “Get out.”

“Listen to me—”

“Why should I?” Mabel's voice cracked with fury. “Why should I keep killing pieces of myself for people who never asked what I wanted? You don't care about me, Ada. You just don't want to lose your place.” She took a breath, fists clenched. “You're bitter because you have nothing else.”

Ada flinched, eyes shutting tight as if bracing for impact. She didn't speak, just stood there, shoulders trembling under the weight of everything she couldn't say. She kept her eyes shut, the sting of Mabel's words echoing louder than the silence that followed.

It wasn't the first time someone had said it—just the first time it actually hurt.

She breethd slowly, forcing air into lungs that suddenly felt too tight. Mabel's anger had been sharp and wild, but there'd been truth buried under the venom. Ada was bitter. Not because she was empty, but because she'd once been full—of dreams, of conviction, of the foolish belief that love could stand up to legacy. And she'd lost.

I was you, she wanted to scream. I fought for what I wanted, too—and I'm still bleeding for it.

But instead, she opened her eyes and said nothing. Because Mabel didn't need more rules or warnings. She needed space. And maybe one day, she'd understand that Ada wasn't her warden, she was the ghost of a girl who'd made the same mistake and wanted, desperately, to stop her from falling off the same ledge.

Mabel turned away in silence, the words lodged in her throat like thorns, better unspoken, for both their sakes.

Ada blinked, her expression tightening. Her fingers curled, then released. She kneeled without a word, gathering the tangled sheets from the floor. “If you'll excuse me,” she said coldly, “I have to scrub the evidence of your betrayal out of the linens.” She brushed past Mabel, the door groaning open, then clicking shut behind her.

Mabel stared at the empty space she left behind.

Whisper fluttered to her shoulder, nudging his beak against her chin, soft and insistent. She lifted a hand, brushing beneath his feathers absently.

Far beyond Aurevyn's walls, past snow-laced hills and frozen rivers, the tension was rising.

The brothers stalked toward the carriage, boots crunching against ice-packed stone. The wind bit through their cloaks, carrying the scent of pine and smoke from the village fires.

The mission was complete.

Crates of grain, fresh produce, salt, and dried venison had been delivered to the outpost at Thistleveil, a huddled ring of stone homes pressed between a frostbitten cliff and the edge of the Mirewilde.

The forest loomed behind them, vast and ancient, its trees blackened with age and laced with snow-like bone. Whispers curled from its depths, too soft to name, too steady to ignore.

The villagers bowed, yes, but not with joy.

Their eyes lingered too long, flicking between the soldiers and the treeline. Their thanks came in hushed tones, as if afraid the forest might overhear.

No one lingered outside after dusk.

The elders spoke of a time when Thistleveil thrived, when the soil was generous, the harvests abundant, and the forest behind them was merely a backdrop of green.

But that was before the war. Before Velmira was reduced to ash and ruin.

They said the Mirewilde changed after that. That the spirits of the fallen took root in its soil, twisted its trees, and claimed it as sacred ground. No army could pass through it. No priest could bless it. No traveler returned from its depths alive.

And the village, nestled too close to its edge, had suffered ever since.

It began slowly.

Whispers in the night, too soft to name. Winds that howled without warning, strong enough to knock grown men to their knees. Children spoke of ghost stories, of shadows that moved without light.

Then the farmhouse nearest the treeline caught fire. No one had been inside. No one had even approached it. But it burned.

After that, the crops withered. Livestock vanished. People disappeared.

Still, they refused to leave.

Theodore had asked why. They'd answered with reverence: it was their ancestors' land, protected by Meryth.

Lance had glanced at Theodore. Theodore had glanced back. And in that brief exchange, both had to restrain themselves from breaking their princely masks.

There were no gods here. Only grief.

Thistleveil had been the first to fall when Caelvorn struck, hidden in the woods, attacking under moonlight.

And the village had never recovered.

Lance had watched the way the villagers touched the runes carved into their doorframes as the soldiers passed, fingers brushing symbols, protection spells from a time before Moorthwyn's rule.

As if the forest still listened. As if it still remembered.

As they neared the carriage, Lance's gaze drifted past the stone homes to the treeline beyond.

He thought of Mabel's words.

You survived. Maybe you could make it.

Maybe he could. Maybe the forest would know him. Maybe it would remember Velmirian blood.

Then—movement.

A flicker of copper between the trunks. Gone as quickly as it came.

Lance blinked, heart stuttering. He stared into the trees, searching for it again.

Nothing.

He shook his head and followed Theodore, gloved hands tucked into his pockets. The wind tugged at his collar, sharp and insistent, like it wanted to pull him back.

But he didn't flinch. He didn't look back.

Lance stepped up first, brushing snow from his coat before settling into his seat with practiced ease. He crossed one leg over the other and, with a flick of his fingers, conjured a book into his hand, one he likely had no intention of actually reading.

Theodore followed, pausing briefly at the door before stepping inside. He closed it behind him a little too firmly. His eyes drifted to Lance. So calm. So smug.

Theodore sat rigidly across from him, shoulders tense, jaw locked. His glare lingered but he couldn't decide what burned hotter. The betrayal itself, or how effortlessly Lance wore it. Like it cost him nothing.

Lance leaned back, unbothered, the carriage rocking gently beneath them. “Are you going to keep sulking like a wounded animal,” he drawled, “or actually say something?” His voice was smooth.

Theodore's fists curled. “You'd better wipe that smug look off your face before I break it,” he growled, voice charged.

Lance didn't flinch. He barely looked up from the book in his lap. “Always so eager to throw punches,” he hummed. “Try using your brain for once, brother.”

“I'm not your brother,” Theodore snapped. “Not after this. Not after you poisoned Mabel with whatever twisted thoughts crawl through your head.”

Lance sighed, finally closing the book with a soft thud. “I didn't have to poison anything,” he said. “You made it far too easy—you practically handed her to me. I didn't need charm. Just honesty.”

Theodore's eyes narrowed. “Honesty?”

Lance smiled, gaze steady. “Because when she's with me, she doesn't have to pretend.”

“And what exactly is she pretending?” Theodore snapped.

“That she wants this life,” Lance said, voice quiet but cutting. “That she wants the crown. That she wants you.”

Theodore's fists clenched at his sides. “Then why is she still here? If she hated it so much, she'd leave!”

Lance scoffed, rising to meet him. “Or maybe she's afraid. Afraid of what happens if she does. Have you ever thought of that?”

Theodore shook his head, jaw tight. “She's not a prisoner. She can make her own choices.”

“Then let her,” Lance said, stepping closer. “Strip away the titles. The duty. The pressure.”

Theodore's brows pulled together as he made the realization. “You have feelings for her.” He scoffed. “And here I thought you were doing all of this as some trick—a stupid game so you could prove some idiotic point.” He shook his head, eyes wild as they pierced Lance. “I would have actually preferred that but no—you've taken it even further than that, you selfish bastard!”

“Stop calling me that!” Lance seethed, shoving Theodore. Hurt bit at the words as they rang through the carriage. “You think you're the victim in this?” he snapped. “You, with your title and your birthright? You've always had everything handed to you while I clawed my way just to be tolerated.” He took a step forward, eyes burning. “You don't know what it's like to walk into every room and feel like an intruder. To be reminded with every glance that no matter how many times I bleed for this kingdom, I'll still be the outsider Thalen dragged in after a war you don't even remember.”

Lance's breathing slowed. The edge in his voice dulled as the weight of it caught up to him. He looked away, chest rising and falling with something heavier than anger. “I didn't want this life. I didn't ask for the name or the palace or the blood-soaked legacy.

But it was all I had. So I did what I could with it.” His voice dropped to something quiet. Steady. “And then she came along. And for once, someone looked at me without seeing a burden. Without comparing me to you. She listened. She stayed. She smiled like I hadn't already lost.” He let out a bitter laugh, barely a breath. “You can call it betrayal. You can call it reckless.” He turned back to Theodore, eyes weary now. “But I didn't steal her from you, Theo,” Lance said, voice calm, almost pitying. “Maybe you just never realized she was never yours to begin with.”

Theodore's chest heaved, breath ragged, fury boiling beneath his skin. “You're right,” he spat. “You are the outsider. The parasite clinging to a kingdom that was never yours.” His voice cracked like ice, brittle and cruel. “You've always been the burden. The mistake we never should've let in.”

Lance's fists curled at his sides, knuckles taut, but he held his ground. “It's almost amusing,” he said, voice dry. “All this fury—and none of it will change her heart. If anything, you're handing it to me.”

Theodore's eyes darkened. “You really think I'll let her choose anyone but me?” His voice dropped. “When we return, you'll see just how easily I can rewrite the story. Erase you. Like it never happened.”

Lance's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. “You'll regret that.” He stepped closer, gaze unwavering. “You can command her silence. You can cage her body. But you'll never own her love.” He turned away, settling into his seat, eyes fixed on the blur of trees and stone beyond the carriage window.

Theodore's glare didn't waver.

He could strike him. Break his nose. Leave him bloodied and silent.

But that would be mercy.

No—he'd wound him deeper. He'd take the one thing Lance couldn't bear to lose. Mabel would be his. Not by love.

By force. By inevitability.

The carriage rumbled forward, indifferent to the storm brewing within. Wheels groaned over stone, shadows stretched long across Aurevyn's hills as the sun dipped low, gilding rooftops in fading gold. It rolled into the castle grounds, swallowed by the looming silhouette of Aurevyn's walls.

Frey and Thalen stood at the front, arms linked in pride. Mabel lingered just to their left, picking at her nails, gaze distant.

Theodore stepped out first. His eyes found hers instantly.

And for a breath, she saw it, the flicker of something sharp behind them. Anger. Knowledge. But it vanished beneath a smile too smooth to be real.

Lance followed, and her eyes flicked to him without meaning to. He was already watching her.

But Theodore didn't pause. He didn't wait for Thalen's welcome or Frey's praise. He climbed the steps with purpose, straight toward her.

Before she could react, he pulled her in and crushed his mouth to hers.

Her eyes flew open, startled. She grabbed his arms to steady herself under the force of it, breath stolen.

Behind them, Lance lingered, unreadable. He stepped up to his parents, dipping his head in greeting.

Thalen tore his gaze from Theodore long enough to clasp Lance's shoulder and offer congratulations. Frey followed with a nod.

Mabel pulled back, gasping for air, but Theodore didn't let go. He took her hand and tugged her forward, leading her inside with a grip that didn't ask—it demanded.

She stumbled after him, dazed.

Just before the doors closed, her eyes caught Lance's again.

And something in his expression made her chest tighten. Because she didn't know what Theodore knew. But she could feel it.

Something had shifted.

17

Ada moved quickly down the narrow staff hall, hands clasped behind her back as if she could hold herself together by force. Her pulse hammered, each step a reminder of how many wrong turns had led her here.

She paused at the thin door that opened toward the grand entrance. On the other side, she caught the low murmur of Theodore and Mabel, indistinct words, but his tone was enough to make her fingers curl around the handle. She squeezed hard, willing herself to stay put, to be sensible, to wait.

She needed to speak with him. She couldn't let him unravel everything they'd fought to hold together. She couldn't let him endanger her—or Mabel.

The footsteps outside drifted away. Ada found herself leaning against the door, breath shallow, listening for any sign of him. Then she heard it. His low, honey-warm cadence. Lance.

She eased the door open a sliver, just enough to see.

Lance stood with his back to her, deep in conversation with Frey. Ada watched them, small and silent in the crack of the doorway.

Then Frey's gaze lifted and landed directly on her.

Ada slammed the door shut, pulse exploding, her heart clawing at her ribs as if it meant to break free.

She forced herself to breathe, to gather whatever composure she had left. When no one came barreling toward the door, she eased it open again.

Frey was already striding down the corridor.

But Lance—

Where was—

No. She'd missed her chance.

“Spying, are we?” His voice came from directly behind her.

Ada yelped, slamming the door shut as she spun around, nearly tripping over her own feet. “How did—”

“Magic,” he said, rolling his eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “What are you doing?”

She drew in a steadying breath and stepped toward him. “I need to speak with you.”

“Well, I'm here.” He flicked his hand, and soft, glowing lights rose between them, washing the cramped space in warm gold. “Go ahead.”

“You—” The word snagged in her throat. Now that she was standing in front of him, face-to-face with the prince, everything she'd rehearsed scattered.

“Me?” he hummed, head tilting, eyes narrowing with that maddening curiosity.

“Stop doing that,” she groaned.

“I'm not doing anything,” he said, frowning as if genuinely offended.

“Just—shut up,” she snapped.

His mouth curved, slow and delighted. “Bold of you to tell a prince to shut up.” He laughed.

Ada dragged her hands down her face. “Apologies, young prince. I forget myself—”

“No harm done.” His smile was easy, almost warm. “You're Ada, right?”

Of course he knew her name. And suddenly, she understood—far too well—how Mabel could have fallen for him.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I need to speak with you about … Mabel.” Her throat tightened. “I mean no offense, my prince, but …” She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “You must leave her. You cannot toy with her any longer. I ask this for her safety.”

Lance's brows knit together. “Pardon me?” A short, incredulous laugh escaped him, sharp with disbelief.

“Do not mistake me for a fool, sir.” Ada straightened, forcing steel into her voice. “You must end whatever lies between you and Mabel. She is not equipped to make this choice for herself. And she certainly does not deserve to be dragged into the petty, selfish games you play with your brother.”

Lance's expression shuttered instantly; that smooth, unreadable mask sliding into place. He stepped as if to pass her. “The next time you ask for something, I'd suggest not insulting both myself and the princess in the same breath.”

“Wait.” She spun, reaching for him before she could think better of it. Her fingers barely brushed his sleeve before his hand clamped around her wrist, slamming her back against the cold stone.

“Do not test my temper today, wench,” he hissed, then released her just as quickly.

Ada staggered, catching herself against the damp wall. “You must listen to me.”

“And why would I do that?” Lance snapped, bitterness cutting through every word. “You judged me before we even spoke.” He stepped back, studying her with a cold, calculating eye. “And you vastly underestimate the princess.”

“It is not that I underestimate her,” Ada insisted. “It is the opposite. But you've blinded her. She believes she has a chance at being yours. At surviving her father's wrath—”

“I would not allow him to lay a hand on her,” he growled.

Ada dragged her fingers through her hair, tugging at the strands. “You do not understand the power at hand. The king's magic knows no limits.”

“Even gods can be slain,” Lance bit out. He moved closer, eyes blazing. “You do not know what she is to me. This is not a game. She is not a prize to be won—though I would count myself fortunate to win her hand.” A small, unguarded smile flickered across his face, as if he could see it—just for a heartbeat. Then the mask snapped back into place. “I will stand by her until she drives me away.”

Ada searched his face for any crack, any lie, any hesitation. Her stomach dropped when she found none. “Even if it kills her?” she whispered.

“I would sooner lay down my life for hers than allow harm to touch her,” he said, straightening. “Are we finished?”

Ada didn't answer him. Couldn't. Something in her chest twisted, slow and sickening, as she stared at him. The anger she'd braced for wasn't there. No arrogance. No cruelty. No game. Just conviction. Fierce and unshakable.

And suddenly she felt the ground tilt beneath her.

“You …” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, trying again. “You meant every word.”

Lance's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. “I did.”

Ada's breath hitched. She stepped back as if distance could soften the truth pressing in on her.

All this time—

All her warnings, her accusations, her certainty—

She had been wrong.

Horribly, dangerously wrong.

Because if he loved Mabel—truly loved her—then everything Ada feared was no longer hypothetical. It was inevitable. A collision she could not stop.

Her pulse hammered. “Gods,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “You're not the danger.”

Lance's eyes flickered, something sharp and wounded passing through them. “No,” he said quietly. “I'm not.”

Ada pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, the realization settling like ice in her stomach. “Does she love you?” Ada asked.

Lance's gaze flicked away. He'd practically laid his heart bare, and somehow that had been the easiest part. Mabel's silence afterward—the fear, the disbelief—cut deeper than any insult that could be thrown at him. But he understood her pain. He knew why she couldn't say it.

“As much as she can,” he said at last. “All things considered.” His eyes lifted then, sharp and searching, pinning Ada in place.

Ada turned from him, breath trembling. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Lance stared at her a moment longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then turned on his heel toward the door. “If you'll excuse me,” he muttered, voice rough. “I have matters to attend.”

“Does Prince Theodore know?” Ada called after him, the words leaving her before she could think.

Lance paused. His fingers tightened around the handle. “He does.”

Ada drew a slow, steady breath. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Theodore's grip tightened as he dragged Mabel forward, fingers clamped around her wrist like a shackle.

Mabel yanked herself free, glaring. “I can walk just fine. You don't need to drag me like a prisoner.”

He didn't turn. Just flexed his hand, as if he were holding back something worse. “Oh, Princess,” he said with a bitter laugh. “You've lost whatever upper hand you thought you had.”

Her brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Then he turned. His gaze cut through her. “Did you really think you could hide this from me?”

“Theo, I don't—”

“Don't,” he snapped, voice slicing through hers. “Don't insult us both with lies.”

She stepped back instinctively, the weight of his fury pressing her into retreat.

He followed, anger simmering in his chest. “I told you not to speak to him,” he said, malice threading through his voice. “I warned you.”

Mabel's breath caught.

“And yet,” he continued, eyes narrowing, “you've been sneaking off with him behind my back.”

The air between them thickened. And Mabel realized—he knew. He knew everything.

“I-it's not like that,” Mabel stammered. “He's just been teaching me—”

“Don't you dare lie to me,” Theodore roared, voice echoing off the stone.

She flinched. The tension snapped taut between them, thick enough to choke on.

“Is everything alright?” Frey's voice cut through the silence as she stepped into the grand entrance, eyes flicking between their faces.

Theodore's gaze lingered on Mabel, burning, before he turned to his mother. “Yes,” he bit.

Frey didn't move. Her eyes narrowed. “Mabel?”

Mabel stepped back from Theodore, pulse pounding, throat tight. “Yes,” she said softly.

Theodore's eyes didn't leave hers. They narrowed, calculating. “If you wouldn't mind, Mother,” he said, voice smooth, “Mabel and I have matters to discuss. Privately.” He turned on his heel, cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow.

Mabel hesitated, watching him disappear down the corridor. Her feet didn't move at first. Then she glanced at Frey, offered a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes, and followed.

But her stomach twisted as they neared his door. She paused just behind him, breath shallow.

Theodore said nothing. He turned the knob, the door groaning open like it resented the intrusion. Then he looked back at her, waiting—expecting.

The room swallowed her as she stepped inside.

It was grand, almost theatrical in its excess. Deep maroon fabric draped the stone walls, trimmed in gold that caught the firelight. The hearth crackled beneath a carved mantle, its heat casting flickering shadows across the polished floor.

Above it hung a portrait, Theodore, regal and unsmiling, painted in oil with a gaze that followed her no matter where she stood. His cloak was the same shade as the bed linens, the same shade as the curtains, a deliberate palette of dominance.

The furniture was heavy, ornate. A four-poster bed loomed in the center, its frame carved with stags and laurels. The desk near the window was stacked with maps, sealed letters, and a dagger that looked more ceremonial than practical, but still sharp.

It was a room designed to impress. To intimidate. To remind her whose world she'd stepped into.

And she felt it in her bones.

Theodore's hands gripped her waist from behind, fingers digging in with restrained fury.

He dipped his head, lips brushing the curve of her neck, possessive. Controlled. His hand settled on her, fingers splayed against her skin, and she felt it then, the rage coiled in his touch, the restraint it barely held.

It wasn't love. It was desperation.

And it was dangerous.

“Theodore—”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “I don't want to hear it.” His voice dipped lower, edged with rage. “I thought I could trust you. I gave you space. I waited. I held out hope you'd come back to me.”

Mabel's gaze dropped to the fur rug beneath her feet, the silence between them thick with dread.

“We could've had everything,” he hissed. “You could've been mine. You still could be.” His breath brushed her neck, voice dropping to something venomous. “But would that ever be enough for you? Would I ever be enough?”

She didn't answer.

He yanked her closer, grip bruising, voice dark and venomous. His hand caught her throat, just enough to make her struggle for breath. “Is this what it takes, Mabel? Must I break you to make you love me?”

She shoved against his arms, voice cracking. “Theo, stop.”

“I should kill him,” he muttered. “For touching you, for thinking you were allowed to be anything but mine.” His hand tightened. “I should kill you for letting him.” The edge in his voice cut through her like ice, sending a shiver down her spine.

His fingers clamped around her throat with possessive force, dragging her face toward his. His grip tightened, claiming, choking.

Her hands flew up, clawing at his wrist, nails scraping skin. Tears welled in her eyes as she fought for breath.

She met his gaze, eyes burning. And like a spark catching dry kindling, the flame bloomed in her palm. Her fingers locked around his wrist, heat surging through her skin.

It seared.

He shouted, yanking back, clutching his arm, eyes narrowing with fury and something darker.

She dropped to the floor, the fire in her palm dying out as she gasped for breath. Her hands rose to her neck quickly, tracing the sting his fingers had left behind. Her gaze never dropped.

“Yes,” she rasped dryly, slowly regaining her footing. “I slept with Lance. But you've been sleeping with whores behind my back this whole time. You chose their beds over mine.”

He stilled. Mabel could see the realization wash over his face. “You were there that night.”

“I was,” she admitted. “I saw the women you draped yourself with. And now you have the audacity to drag me here and threaten my life over a sin you are just as guilty of?”

His scoff was immediate, bitter. “It is not the same.”

“Is it not?” she snapped, stepping forward. “You betrayed me. You betrayed us. Don't pretend your vows mean more than mine.”

“I am a man—”

“And I am a woman!” Her voice cracked, fury and heartbreak colliding. “I have wants. I have needs. I wanted you, Theodore. I could've loved you. You could've had me. You could've had everything.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn't stop.

“I just wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel alive. Not owned. Not silenced.” Her chest heaved, eyes burning. “I wanted to taste freedom for once in my life.” She paused, a cruel smile on her lips. “And it felt good,” she seethed.

Theodore's glare cut through her. He stalked toward her, each step measured like a predator circling prey.

Mabel didn't move.

He stopped just short of her, towering above, hand sliding to the small of her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine like he owned it.

She didn't stop him.

“You fucking whore,” he spat at her, voice laced with venom. His hand surged up, grabbing a fistful of hair along the nape of her neck. With a forceful tug, he made her look up at him. “You ruined our marriage before it even started all because you couldn't keep your legs shut?

If you needed to be fucked so badly, all you had to do was ask. You didn't have to sleep with my fucking brother!”

Mabel sucked in a breath as his fingers tightened in her copper hair, tugging her closer until his chest pressed flush against hers. Fury radiated off him, hot and unrestrained, yet beneath it, she felt the same desperate pull he'd always had toward her, the hunger to simply touch her that he could never quite hide. But now, with his breath crowding her and his grip refusing to let her move, the truth settled cold and certain in her ribs.

Those hands were claiming. Steering. Shaping every moment to his will. A touch that masqueraded as affection but had always been something far more than possessive—something that wanted control, not closeness.

“Do you know how much he's taken from me?” Theodore's voice was low, almost steady, but the look in his eyes made Mabel's stomach twist. “He took my mother from me.” He dragged a hand to his collar and yanked the fabric down, exposing the jagged scar that carved across his chest and climbed his neck. “He almost took my life.”

Mabel's breath hitched. She couldn't fathom how anyone survived a wound like that. The worst of it bloomed where his neck met his shoulder, then split into cruel, branching paths over his skin.

He stalked forward, forcing her spine against the stone wall with nowhere to go.

“And now,” he seethed, fury simmering beneath every word, “he thinks he can take you too. Take what's mine.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her voice held steady. “I am not yours.”

His fist crashed into the wall beside her head, the impact cracking through the air. She flinched, a startled cry slipping out as she jerked away from the blow.

“You're mistaken, Princess.” His laugh was cruel, the sound scraping down her spine. “You've been mine since the moment that contract was signed.” He leaned in, shadow swallowing her whole. “You will always be mine.”

Then, he moved.

His mouth crashed into hers, a collision of breath and fury. It wasn't a kiss; it was a claim. Possession laced with longing, twisted into something brutal and raw.

She gasped, eyes wide, fury flaring. But his hand was already in her hair, fingers tight at the base, tilting her head with practiced force.

She didn't yield. Her hands shoved hard against his chest, enough to break the stolen kiss. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, gaze locked on his.

He smiled again, innocent, like he hadn't just tried to set her on fire.

Mabel didn't move. She watched him—watched the way his smile faded, the way the heat in his eyes cooled into something harder.

He didn't speak right away.

Instead, he looked at her as though he were trying to remember who she was. Or maybe who he was supposed to be.

“All this fighting …” His breath brushed her ear, low and poisonous. “When we both know how this ends. As you said yourself, Princess—you don't have a choice.”

His tone sharpened into something colder. “And when our wedding night comes, you'll learn quickly where your place truly is.”

Mabel's throat tightened. She forced the words out anyway. “You will not touch me—”

He snapped. “Grow up, Mabel.” His voice cracked like a whip. “This isn't about love. It never was. It's about the North. What we were born for. What we were trained for.”

He released her so abruptly she stumbled into the wall, palms scraping stone. Theodore paced a few steps away, dragging both hands through his golden hair. His shoulders rose and fell too fast, like he were fighting the urge to break something—or someone.

Mabel watched him, pulse thundering, unsure if he was about to scream or collapse.

Then he turned.

His hair hung in wild strands around his face, and a smile—thin, strained, wrong—pulled at his mouth. “I can't afford to fail,” he whispered, almost to himself. “And I won't let you be the reason I do.” He stepped toward her again, slow and cynical, eyes locked on hers with a frightening clarity. “So,” he whispered, “let's start over. Maybe this time you'll look past my anger.” His gaze darkened. “And maybe this time, I won't underestimate you.”

This wasn't the life she wanted. She didn't want the crown. She didn't want him.

But she'd always known it would be her only choice. From the moment her father arrived in Moorthwyn with the news, she'd felt it settle in her bones—that it would end with Theodore. That her future had already been decided.

But then Lance happened. Unexpected. Electric. A breath of air in a world that had never let her breathe. He was the closest thing to freedom she'd ever touched. And now, she couldn't bear the thought of feeling anything less.

But the crown didn't care about her wants. Her dreams. Her heart. It demanded sacrifice. And that truth twisted something deep inside her.

She'd told Lance she chose him. That she wanted him.

But now Theodore stood before her, offering her something she hadn't expected—grace. A chance to rewrite the ending. A chance she hadn't given him.

Slowly, she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Inches apart. She felt the heat of him. The weight of everything between them.

Her hand settled on his chest. Her gaze met his.

And though it hollowed her out, she whispered, “Okay.”

18

Mabel stalked the halls of Aurevyn's castle, fingers absently picking at the raw skin around her nails. The corridor stretched long and dim, lit by flickering sconces casting gold and shadow across the stone. The air was cold, laced with the scent of burning cedar and something older.

Her steps were slow. Measured. Almost defeated.

She'd told Theodore she'd try. The words had scraped her throat raw, but they were the only move left.

If she wanted to win, she had to play.

And she would play well. She would wear the mask. Bury the storm. Let duty drown desire.

Let desire whisper escape.

She faltered mid-step, fingers pausing their assault on her nail beds. The thought echoed through her like a drumbeat: Escape.

She let it settle. Let it root.

And when she moved again, her pace quickened. Her breath sharpened. Her eyes burned with something new. She drifted through the castle, rounding corners, climbing staircases carved from stone.

The freezing salt air bit at her skin and tugged at her cloak as she stepped onto the southern balcony. Below, Aurevyn sprawled in splendor, lanterns glowing across the city like scattered constellations, streets winding like veins through the heart of the kingdom.

But Mabel's gaze reached farther. Beyond the walls. Beyond the farmland.

To the edge. Where the Mirewilde began.

The forest loomed in the distance, its treeline jagged and black against the snow. Even in the dark, it pulsed with presence.

She stared at it, heart thudding.

Could she make it? Alone?

And if she did—

Would it let her in? Or would it consume her whole?

Mabel gripped the icy stone railing, letting the cold bite deep into her palms. Frost laced the edges, the wind whispered through the balustrades in a tongue she almost understood.

Above, the sky churned, clouds thick and restless, bruised with storm light. They parted only slightly, revealing a sliver of moon, pale and watchful, as if even it hesitated to bear witness.

Mabel's pulse held steady, but her thoughts spun.

Was she truly cursed? Bound to a life of silence, of obedience? She'd dared to believe Lance might be her escape. But even that, she now saw, would be taken. Stripped away like everything else.

Was this punishment? Had the gods marked her for her family's sins? Was Lance their cruel messenger, their twisted answer to a question she hadn't meant to ask?

She looked at the stars, searching for mercy, for meaning.

“Is this what you wanted?” she shouted at the sky. “To see me broken? To see me fall?”

No answer came. Her chest tightened. And slowly, she sank to her knees, the cold stone biting through silk and skin. Her breath trembled. Her hands folded, not in grace, but in desperation.

Her eyes shut tight.

“Please,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Please forgive me.” The words spilled like a confession, fragile and raw. “I've broken my vows. I've shamed my house. I was blind—I thought I could be more than what I was given.”

The silence pressed in, vast and unyielding.

“If you're listening,” she said, voice barely audible, “if any of you are listening—Auren, Meryth, anyone—I'm sorry. I tried to be good. I tried to be what they wanted.” Her fingers curled against the stone. “I wanted to be chosen. I wanted to be loved.”

She looked up, eyes glistening, searching the clouds as if they might split open and offer her a sign.

Her voice broke. “What do I do?” she cried, not to anyone in particular, but to the silence itself. “Please … just tell me what to do.” The question hung in the air like a spell, trembling between breath and silence.

And then—movement.

A single streak of light pierced the clouds. A shooting star, falling fast beyond the horizon, past the snow-laced hills and into the shadow of the Mirewilde.

She watched, breath caught.

Had it been a sign? Had a god heard her?

The wind answered.

It surged around her in a sudden rush, lifting her hair, spinning her skirts in a spiral of motion. The air turned sharp, electric. She gasped, the cold slicing through her throat like glass.

Magic stirred in the night.

And for a moment, she wasn't sure if she was alone.

She'd grown up on stories, whispers passed between servants, warnings etched into lullabies. Tales of spirits and beasts that haunted the Mirewilde. Of wind that called your name not to guide, but to lure. And if it ever did, you were to run the other way.

Moorthwyn had always sat close to the forest's edge. From her bedroom window, she could see the treeline. As a child, she'd spent hours watching it, waiting for movement. A flicker of light. A ghost between the branches.

And once, when she was small and reckless, the wind had called her.

It was the night she tried to run.

Her father had struck her in court—open-handed. She'd been meant to serve wine, to stand silent and invisible. But she'd listened. She'd heard him propose raising taxes on families already starving through winter.

And she'd scoffed. She'd spoken. She'd defended the people.

The room had gone still. Her father rose from his seat, his shadow stretching long across the stone floor. She'd shrunk beneath it, but he didn't hesitate. His hand came down hard, the sound echoing off the walls, sharp as a blade.

The council had watched in silence.

He dismissed them with a wave, and she stood trembling, her cheek burning, her eyes wide with something that felt like betrayal.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

The marks he left in the council's absence said enough.

She was no longer his daughter. She was a symbol. A servant. A girl meant to be seen, not heard.

That night, she wandered into the back gardens; the frost crunching beneath her slippers. The moon hung low, and the wind curled around her.

She felt it then—the pull.

It tugged at her bones, at the hollow place her father had carved out.

And she ran.

She'd stepped beyond the garden wall, feet bare, heart thudding. And she couldn't do it.

But the forest had never let her go. It had left her with questions that never quieted. Why me? Why then? Why now?

Was it mercy? Or something else?

She looked out over the horizon one last time, the Mirewilde a shadowed line against the snow. The wind curled around her ankles, soft and coaxing.

“What waits for me out there?” her voice trembled.

A sweep of black cut across her vision. Mabel spun just as a raven dropped onto the balustrade, claws clicking against the stone.

“Let's try this again,” a voice chimed through her mind—bright, impossible to ignore.

She staggered back, heart thudding. “Meryth …?”

“Yes, my child.” The raven fluffed its wings in a proud, almost regal flare. “I have watched you closely. You are ready.”

Mabel's throat tightened. “Ready for what?”

“So many questions.” The raven gave a low, amused croak. “The gods have chosen you. We have seen your growth, your endurance. We know the sacrifices behind you … and the ones ahead. You are prepared to face them.”

“But—”

“Hush.” The raven's eyes narrowed, dark and depthless. “You will wed the Aurevynian prince. The rest will follow.”

Mabel's gaze drifted past the railing, toward the distant treeline dissolving into dusk. “What of Lance?”

“The Prince of Magic will take his rightful place in time. Do not fear for him.”

Her breath hitched. She looked back at the goddess wearing a raven's skin, a dozen questions burning behind her tongue.

“I cannot answer the one you're about to ask,” Meryth said, cutting her off with eerie gentleness. “Do as you are commanded. The rest will follow.” The raven hopped closer, tilting its head, studying her as though weighing her soul. “And when I tell you to run—run.”

Mabel lurched upright, covers twisting around her waist, sweat cooling on her brow. Her heart hammered against her ribs as her gaze swept the darkened room. Had it been a dream?

She clutched the sheets—then froze. Something solid pressed against her palm.

Slowly, she lifted her hand.

A crystal lay there, heavy and cold. Obsidian, carved with impossible delicacy into the shape of a raven in mid-flight. Its edges caught the faint moonlight drifting from the window, sharp as truth.

Her breath stuttered.

It wasn't a dream.

It was real.

Terrifyingly, undeniably real.

Whisper stirred atop the bookshelf, feathers rustling as he blinked down at her. His gaze was sharp, curious, already reading her mood.

“Come,” she called gently.

He made a theatrical show of stretching, wings out, tail flicking, before gliding down to land on the blankets beside her.

“You're not Meryth in disguise, are you?” she teased, a tired smile tugging at her lips.

Whisper tilted his head, blinked once, then twice.

“I'll take that as a no.” She sank back into her pillows, fingers slipping under his beak. He leaned into the touch with a soft, pleased chirr.

“I need air,” she breethd out.

Whisper clicked his beak in firm agreement.

Under the hush of night, she pulled on her cloak. Whisper hopped onto her shoulder, settling like he belonged, and together they slipped into the corridor, swallowed by shadow and silence.

She darted through corridors, skipped past servants, and finally landed in front of the tall doors.

With a soft groan, they opened.

The frozen air rushed up to meet them, sharp enough to steal her breath. Her skirts lifted with the breeze, swirling around her legs as she stepped outside.

“Stay close,” she said gently.

Whisper launched from her shoulder in a sweep of dark wings, circling once before gliding ahead through the chill.

She waded through the gardens, eyes drifting over statues and snow-covered bushes. The cold bit at her cheeks, seeped through the wool of her dress, but she welcomed the sting. It reminded her that she was still alive.

As much as she wanted to never return, she missed the gardens of Moorthwyn. Dreary as they were, they breethd—wild, tangled, unapologetically alive. Vines climbed wherever they pleased. Moss claimed stone. Flowers bloomed in defiance of order.

Aurevyn's gardens were beautiful, yes. But sterile. Every hedge trimmed to symmetry, every weed plucked before it dared to grow. It was beauty without chaos. And it made her feel like she didn't belong.

She wandered without purpose, feet sticking to the snow-covered paths, eyes tracing the lines of perfection she couldn't quite stomach.

Her gaze lifted to the stars. Not a single cloud veiled them; they glittered fiercely, refusing to yield even as the first hints of sunrise bled across the horizon.

The gods have chosen you. The words replayed in her head over and over. The Prince of Magic.

She closed her eyes, drawing a long breath as she tried to steady herself. The world felt too large, too loud. She sank to her knees, fingers threading through layers of frost.

What if this is bigger than us?

She'd always known it was. But now the truth pressed down from the stars themselves, cold and merciless.

A sudden thump jolted her. Whisper landed in front of her, less than gracefully, tripping over his own feet before flaring his wings in a flustered attempt to recover. The sight tugged her back into the present, just for a heartbeat. A soft laugh escaped her, fragile but real, as she watched the young raven regain his dignity.

He huffed an indignant caw, beak lifting as if offended on principle.

“Come here,” she whispered, reaching out.

Her fingers brushed along his neck, and he melted instantly, leaning into her palm with a pleased rumble of sound.

“Taking an early morning stroll, are we?”

The voice sliced through the quiet, cold and unmistakable. A chill shot up her spine so fast it stole her breath. Her body locked. Her throat tightened. She didn't dare look over her shoulder.

“Go,” she whispered, barely shaping the word. “Don't let him see you.”

Whisper narrowed his eyes, stomping in the snow as if refusing to leave her.

“Please—”

“Mabel.”

Her name, spoken in that tone, sent another shiver crawling down her back. She gave Whisper one last desperate look—go, please—before pushing herself to her feet. Slowly. Carefully. Trying to hide the tremor in her hands.

She still didn't turn. “Father.”

His footsteps crunched through the frost, each one closer, each one stealing a little more of her breath.

“Why are you here?” she managed, the words barely holding shape.

“It seems I should never have left.” His voice curled with venom. “I didn't think you'd go so far as to whore yourself out to the bastard prince.”

A pit opened in her stomach. He knows.

“Ada sent for you?” she asked, bitterness scraping her throat.

“I don't need maids to do my bidding, child.” His hand clamped down on her shoulder, unyielding. Her heart thundered. “Even you should know that.”

Whisper flared his wings, a furious burst of black. For a heartbeat, he looked ready to take on the world. Then he launched.

Mabel's heart dropped.

A piercing caw split the air—then cut off mid-cry. Whisper froze, suspended in the cold morning light, wings outstretched, body locked in place as if the world itself had stopped around him.

“What did you do?” Mabel shrieked, trying to lunge forward. Cavric's grip tightened, yanking her back against him. Her eyes darted to Whisper's still form. “He's—he's not breathing!” she cried, struggling against his hold as tears blurred her vision.

“The longer this takes, the more likely he'll die.” His tone was ice. He meant every word.

Mabel stilled. She swallowed hard, nodding as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

“You've embarrassed this house. Tarnished your name. And for what? A prince with a no claim and no sense of consequence?” He turned her to face him, fingers seizing her chin.

Her breath hitched.

Cavric leaned in. “You will end it. Immediately.”

Mabel's lips parted, but no sound came.

“And if you don't”—he gestured toward Whisper, still frozen midair, wings trembling in stasis—“then I can't promise the bird will be the only one that dies.” The words weren't shouted. They didn't need to be. They slithered through the air, cold and final.

Mabel's knees nearly buckled. She clutched her arms around herself, eyes wide, heart screaming.

Cavric smiled, thin, cruel, and entirely satisfied. His gaze drifted to the necklace of bruises blooming along her throat. With a slow, calculated motion, he tilted her chin up and brushed his fingers against them. Mabel flinched as his thumb pressed into one of the tender marks.

“Seems the prince can handle his own problems,” he mused. “Good. Now, make yourself presentable. You'll spend every moment at his side. You will prove what a dutiful wife you can be.”

He released her at last; the absence of his grip almost as jarring as the hold itself.

Mabel stumbled back.

His eyes locked on Whisper, a scowl on his lips. “Filthy beast.” He turned away, hands clasped behind his back once more. The silence returned. But this time, it was laced with blood.

The spell broke.

Whisper dropped to the snow with a softened thud, wings limp, gasping for breath.

Mabel was there in an instant, knees digging into the frost as she scooped him into her arms. Her fingers trembled as they brushed over his feathers, trying to soothe, trying to undo what had been done.

“It's okay,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You're okay.” But she couldn't tell if the words were meant to soothe him—or herself.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, falling onto his small body as he nestled closer.

“I'm sorry,” she choked out. “I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.”

Whisper let out a broken trill, soft and strained, as if to say he understood. As if he forgave her.

She clung to him, arms wrapped tight, her body shaking with sobs that wouldn't stop.

And in that moment, it didn't matter how much magic she held.

She felt powerless.

19

Mabel paced across her bedroom, heart thundering in her chest. Dawn bled through the window, casting golden ribbons across the stone walls. It felt almost cruel.

The light was soft, beautiful, indifferent. As if the world had already decided to keep turning, even as hers threatened to come undone.

Whisper watched as Mabel moved, his wings rustling softly in the quiet. When she picked at her fingers, he let out a sharp caw of disapproval.

“Don't start with me,” she muttered, shaking out her hands anyway to stop herself. She'd already dressed herself for the day, deep maroon silk draped around her like a reminder of everything she was expected to be.

Whisper fluttered down from the bookshelf, landing on the edge of her bed frame, tilting his head at her.

“I don't think I can do it,” she paused mid-step.

Whisper offered a soft trill, a tiny thread of comfort in the quiet.

“He loves me … and I'm going to break his heart.” Her fingers tangled in her hair, tugging as if she could pull the ache out by force. “The one person who loves me—gods.” Tears threatened, and she brushed them away before they could fall.

She lifted her gaze to the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes. Shadows beneath them. Dark bruises circled her throat. She'd seen worse—she'd survived worse—but the heartache thrumming through her chest remained all the same.

Whisper fluttered to her shoulder as she stood before the mirror, her gaze weary, lips curving in a practiced smile. She studied herself for fault—too stiff, too soft, too much.

The raven nudged her chin, a gentle prod. Her hand rose to brush his feathers, fingers trailing through the inky black. “What do you think?” she whispered, voice trembling. She flashed the smile again, testing its shape.

But even with a perfect smile, she wasn't fooling anyone. The evidence of her state was laid bare for everyone to see.

He tilted his head, as if he were considering.

Then, his gaze snapped to the necklace. Sharp. Unmistakable. He pecked at it once. Then again. Persistent. His eyes remained locked on the charm, his movements slower now, less irritation, more warning.

She shook her head and waved her hand with a flourish.

Nuts and dried fruits filled a small dish on the dresser. Whisper fluttered down, distracted by the offering. She watched him peck at the bowl for a moment, savoring what little peace still clung to her.

I can't promise the bird will be the only one that dies.

Her father's words struck through her skull like a bell, each echo sharper than the last. His threats were never empty. She'd learned that before she could even name the fear he'd planted in her.

Her fingers tightened around the doorknob. A tremor ran through her hand. She drew in a breath that should've steadied her, but it only scraped against the truth—she was walking toward an ending. The end of them. The end of whatever scraps of choice she still clung to.

She pulled the heavy wooden door open and stepped into the hall, the click behind her soft, final.

She gave herself one last breath. One last moment.

Then she was moving. She took the stairs down, fingers clutching the railing as if they could slow the inevitable. Her heart threatened to break through her ribs as she turned a corner and froze.

Lance.

He stopped too. The air shifted.

He still stole her breath, but this time, it twisted in her chest, sharp and unwelcome.

His smile was easy when he saw her. Unarmored. Real.

She feared the moment it would fall.

“Good morning, Mabel.” Lance smiled, voice smooth as honey as he closed the distance between them. “You look as lovely as ever.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Heat stung her eyes, tears threatening to spill. She saw the exact moment his gaze dropped to her throat, saw the golden hue she loved darken, harden.

His hands lifted toward her.

She stepped back.

“Did he do this to you?” His voice was dark, dangerous.

Her eyes flicked to his hands, sparks flaring to life in his palms, bright and furious.

She couldn't bring herself to answer, too lost in what was to come.

“Mabel.” His tone softened. “It's all right. You're safe.”

The tears she'd been holding back finally fell. She crumbled against him, fisting his tunic between her fingers. “I'm sorry,” she choked out. “I'm so sorry.”

“What do you mean? What's wrong?” he asked, frowning. His hand lifted, fingers brushing her cheek, guiding her gaze up to his. Her pulse roared beneath his touch, thunderous, traitorous.

“I …” she started, but the words dissolved as she met his eyes. Deep golden brown. Familiar. She let her gaze fall just for a breath. Studied the curling stubble on his chin, the softness in the lines of his face.

Then she stepped back.

His smile faltered, just slightly. But it was enough to break something in her. “Mabel.” His voice was soft, deep, infectious as it wrapped around her name. “It's just me. It's okay.”

“Nothing is okay.” She turned away, hands clenched into fists at her sides, trying to keep from shaking. “I-I might love you,” she whispered, voice wavering. “If I even know what that means.”

Lance stilled in his step to her, eyes widening.

“Which is why I have to do this.” She nearly crumpled.

“Don't,” Lance said, voice edged and breaking as realization cut through him.

She didn't turn. Couldn't. Her eyes stayed fixed on the wall ahead, as if looking at him would undo her resolve. “You knew this was never going to work,” she whispered, the words barely holding together.

“Don't say that—”

“Stop,” she cut in, voice trembling. “Please. Just listen.”

The silence between them stretched, heavy and waiting.

“We … we can't do this anymore,” she said, tears slipping down her cheeks, warm and cruel. “I can't love you and stand beside him.” Her breath hitched.

Lance's hands grasped the air, magic building, surging in his palms. “At least look at me, please.”

“I can't.” She shook her head, words breaking on a sob.

She felt his presence, his warmth, pressing close behind her. His hands ghosted over her arms, daring to touch her. It was all she wanted. His skin on hers, his arms holding her tight.

“If I could love you fully—I would,” she said, voice cracking. “You need to know that. I will never feel this way for anyone else.”

Behind her, she heard him shift. A breath. A step.

But she didn't turn. Because if she did, she wouldn't leave. And she had to.

But he strolled past her, shoulders tight, chin lifted. “Don't worry about me, Princess,” he called, but his voice was strained. He paused just ahead of her. “I knew you'd choose him. I just hadn't imagined it'd be so easy for you to do it.” His steps continued down the hall. “I guess I was wrong.”

Mabel watched him leave, eyes wide, heart racing. She didn't know what hurt more—the loss, or the silence left in its wake.

He was right. Maybe she didn't love him like she thought she did. But she couldn't allow her father to hurt him. And maybe, just maybe, he'd made it easier to leave.

Lance's boots scraped across the stone, each step calm, his gaze cool—tempered—but the storm inside him was anything but.

His magic churned beneath his skin, grief coiling in his palms, begging to be released. He hadn't known it could feel like this. Not pain. Not rage. Not shame.

This was something else.

This was heartbreak.

She'd told him she loved him—and then tore it away in the same breath. And now, his magic mourned her louder than he could.

The whispers had turned to shouts.

He'd barely had her. Barely held her in his arms. And yet, it tore something through him.

He stepped into the back gardens, cold air slicing across his face. The fresh snow crunched beneath his knees as he collapsed, chest aching, breath shallow, every emotion crashing into him at once.

Then came the scream.

It ripped from his throat as his magic surged, uncontrollable. A blast erupted from his hands, hot and freezing all at once, tearing through the garden, shattering ceramic, frosting the earth in a violent bloom of ice that burned the ground beneath it.

He shoved his hands into the snow, gasping, trying to ground himself. But the next surge came faster. It knocked him back, sent a flare of magic spiraling into the sky, a streak of light against the clouded morning.

He lay there, blinking up at the gray above, breath ghosting in the air, vision blurred.

The whispers hadn't stopped. They'd become cries.

“What the fuck is wrong with me,” he whispered, voice raw, barely audible.

The snow didn't answer.

Ada slipped out of Mabel's room, the basket of linens dragging heavily against her arms as she made her way toward the washroom.

Mabel's absence hadn't surprised her. Years of arguments had taught her the girl's habits, especially the ones she used to avoid Ada. And though Ada had come hoping to speak with her, to apologize, to hear an apology in return, she'd never been one to push.

Her conversation with Lance had eased her, if only a little. Enough to trust his intentions, though not enough to believe the rumors could ever be fully silenced. Still, they'd reached an understanding of sorts. She would help keep the whispers contained, stop the staff from fanning the flames any further.

If she did her part, maybe—just maybe—Mabel could be something close to happy. It's all she wanted for her. And though she would never admit it to Lance's face, she'd never seen Mabel glow like she did that morning.

So she would keep their secret—and pray Cavric never found out.

The servant stairwell's chill wrapped around her, stone walls echoing each step. Halfway down, she froze. Someone was there. Waiting.

Lance.

He stood with the easy poise of a prince, composed, as if the narrow stone passage belonged to him. But she saw it—the strain clinging to his eyes, the stains marking his cheeks. His gaze fixed on her, expectant. “Took you long enough.”

Ada's breath caught. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, actually. Glad you asked.” Lance pushed off the cold stone wall, brushing his clothes with practiced grace. “I do need your help.”

“That is not what I asked,” Ada groaned. “Is it not enough that you've poisoned my princess? Now you must drag me into your affairs?”

“This was your idea,” he hummed, his long legs carrying him up the steps, slow, careful, almost intimidating as he neared Ada. “And seeing as we are now friends—”

“I am not your friend.”

“—you are obligated to help me.” He grinned.

Ada adjusted her grip on the heavy basket, a scoff leaving her lips. “You have deeply misguided values on friendship.”

“Forgive me for being new to friends.” He rolled his eyes, then straightened. “You said you would help. Now's your chance.”

“I said I would try to keep the rumors from spreading further, not that I would help you,” she huffed, moving to step past him. “No rumors, no need—now if you'll excuse me, I have laundry to attend.”

He caught her arm before she could take the next step, not roughly, just enough to halt her. Her glare snapped toward him, sharp as a blade, but it faltered the moment she registered the wreckage on his face.

“Please.” His voice was stripped bare, sorrow threading through every syllable. “I … I just need to talk to someone.”

“Lance …” Her tone softened. She studied him, lips pressed thin as she took in his stupid, sad, hopeless expression. Then she tipped her head back, whispering a silent prayer to whatever gods were listening, before fixing him with a resigned stare. “Fine. But you're holding this.” She shoved the basket into his arms and marched up the stairs.

At the landing, she turned—only to freeze at the sight of him standing there empty-handed. “Where—”

“Washroom. Figured that's where you were headed.” He shrugged, maddeningly casual.

Her glare sharpened. “You can teleport baskets of clothing to a washroom and yet we are the ones trudging up and down these stairs?”

“Yes. Now come along.” His smirk was infuriating as he sauntered past her and continued upward.

Ada blinked, let out a huff of breath, then hurried after him. “Where are we going?”

Lance didn't answer. Just kept walking—up the stone steps, through the arching halls, and out toward the upper balcony where the sun cast dim rays of light in the cover of snow.

And that's where they found them.

Theodore stood beneath the edge of a colonnade, hands clasped behind his back. And across from him, Mabel—light spilling off her shoulders like she carried her own small sun.

Lance stopped, and Ada nearly collided with him. They said nothing. They just watched.

The courtyard was hushed beneath a soft blanket of snow, the stone path half-covered in powdery white. Footprints marked the path Mabel and Theodore had walked moments before.

High above them, on the east-facing balcony draped in frost-veiled ivy, Lance stood with his arms resting heavily on the stone balustrade. His eyes never left them, watching as Mabel's shoulders tensed, as her breath clouded the air near Theodore's, as her laughter lit briefly and disappeared just as fast.

“She's smiling,” Ada said softly, surprise filtering through her tone.

Lance's jaw tightened. “No, she's not.”

Ada didn't argue. She merely looked down again, watching the pair below wander aimlessly, their silhouettes framed in silver light and cold breath.

“She doesn't love him,” Lance muttered.

Ada's brows knit as her gaze cut toward him. “Oh?” A short laugh slipped out, brittle. “You're only just realizing that?”

He scoffed, sharp as steel. “Hardly. She may have chosen him, but love has nothing to do with it.”

Ada's eyes drifted back to the figures strolling the garden paths. A rush of relief surged through her chest, more than she'd ever dare confess. Mabel had decided. And now, Ada wouldn't have to fend off the whispers tying her fate to Lance.

“It's better this way,” Ada said softly. “The last thing she needs is an ongoing affair with the future king's brother—no offense.” She side-glanced Lance.

“Offense taken.” His fists tightened on the icy stone. Below, Mabel and Theodore drifted deeper into polite reminiscence, and every soft laugh felt like a small fracture in Lance's resolve. “Though, you're right. An affair with the bastard prince doesn't bode well for her.”

“That's not what I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” he bit.

She watched the mask slide over his face, his eyes dull. Slowly, she settled her arms beside his on the stone railing. “I understand why you're upset. But you can't be angry with her for making her own choices,” Ada said softly.

“Her own choices?” Lance scoffed. “None of this is her choice. She's never been given one. She wouldn't be marrying him if she had.”

“You think she'd marry you?” Ada asked, genuinely curious as her gaze swept over him. “What makes you think she wants marriage at all?”

Lance's jaw flexed tight. “She doesn't. Not like this.” He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face as if he could wipe the whole situation away.

Ada's lips pressed together, her brows knitting in thought. “If I ask you something, would you answer honestly?”

“I'm not in the habit of lying,” Lance muttered. His fingers drifted to a frozen ivy leaf clinging to the stone, picking at it as though it might spare him from whatever she was about to ask.

“Why did you pursue her? You must have known it would never work out.” Ada shifted beside him, her gaze drifting to the pair wandering below. “Given the circumstances.”

“Are you asking if it was some ploy to get back at my brother?” His scowl cut toward her.

“No.” She shook her head quickly. “Though I won't pretend I didn't assume that.”

Lance exhaled, watching his breath fog the air before tipping his face toward the cloud-choked sky. “I had dreams—”

“Do not get sappy—”

“Do you want an answer or not?” His bark snapped through the cold. Ada fell quiet, folding her arms and waiting.

“I had these dreams … A girl with flaming hair calling me into the woods. I never saw her face. Only heard her voice.

I thought nothing of it at first. But they kept coming. Weeks of it. She haunted me.” His jaw tightened. “Then Mabel arrived. I met her in passing that first night, and I knew. The second she spoke, I knew it was her. The voice. The hair. And suddenly the dreams had a face. The most heartbreakingly beautiful face I'd ever seen.”

His gaze flicked to Ada, something raw slipping through. “The dreams didn't stop. They were becoming …”—his eyes dragged over her, assessing, almost shy—“… intimate.”

“Is this the part where you tell me you followed your dreams?” Ada huffed.

“I wasn't going to do anything—until I found out she had them too.” Lance's gaze cast down over Mabel deep in the garden, her copper hair standing out among the frost.

Ada stilled. “It's an act of the gods.”

“Of course it is,” Lance said. “I just wanted to know what it meant. Why we were sharing dreams. And then I … I fell in love with her. Just for them to take her away.” He sank further against the stone. “What did the gods want from us? Why push us together if it ends this way?”

Ada's eyes flicked to the sky, searching for answers she wouldn't find. “Maybe this isn't the end. Maybe it was a test. Maybe you passed.” Her eyes flickered to the copper-headed girl. “Maybe she passed.”

Lance didn't respond right away. He just stared, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Mabel like she might look back and undo everything.

Then, low, almost like the words hurt to say, he whispered, “She told me she loves me.”

Ada turned to him sharply. “When?”

“Today,” he said, shoulders drawing in. “Before she broke up with me.”

Ada blinked. “And you brought me out here why, exactly?”

“I needed someone else to see it,” he said, his voice thin. “To see if she's already gone.”

Ada didn't make a joke. She just looked at him for a long beat. Then, quietly, she rested a hand on his arm. Not for comfort, just to let him know he wasn't as invisible as he felt.

They lapsed into silence. The wind whispered through the frozen ivy as they watched Mabel and Theodore's figures grow small against the snow.

Lance's jaw set, and a dark humor flickered in his eyes. “Perhaps I will storm the chapel,” he mused. “Sweep aside guards, drag her from the altar—”

Ada threw her head back and laughed, the sound bright against the hush of snow. When she finally caught her breath, she wiped a tear of mirth from her cheek.

“Ah, yes,” she teased, “because nothing says true love like armed insurrection at dawn. You'd make quite the hero—wanted, banned, and forever etched in every royal proclamation as a traitor.”

Lance scowled, but even he couldn't suppress a reluctant grin. “I'd do it. For her.”

Ada reached up and tugged his hood down over his ears. “Then do this instead. Be her anchor until she's ready to choose her own escape. If it's truly what the gods want, she'll need you by her side.”

He looked at her, serious now. “I don't know if I can.”

“You must,” she said softly, stepping closer so her words were just for him. “However this ends—whatever it becomes—we choose her.” She met his eyes, steady and sure.

They lingered on the frost-touched balcony, Lance's expression settling into unwavering determination. Beside him, Ada wore a hint of ease, as if—for a moment—the weight had lifted.

After a long beat of silence, a tired, crooked smile broke onto Lance's face. “You're being awfully kind for someone who insists she isn't my friend.”

Heat crept up Ada's cheeks, and she refused to look at him. “I'm being decent. There's a difference.”

“Whatever you say.” He grinned, unbearably smug.

Ada opened her mouth to fire back, but her gaze caught onto the two—no, three—royals below. Her stomach plummeted. “Lance.”

“What? Just admit it—”

“Lance, look.” She grabbed his face and turned him toward the garden.

Lance's eyes widened. His hands clamped the balcony rail as he straightened his spine, all traces of humor gone. “What is he doing here?”

Out in the frost-laced garden, Cavric stood a short distance from Mabel and Theodore. He looked to be in conversation with the prince, as Mabel hovered just behind Theodore's shoulder.

“He's not meant to be here for another month,” Ada whispered. Then, quieter, “Do you think he knows?”

“Why else would he be here?” Lance's voice snapped like ice. His eyes couldn't leave Mabel. Even from the balcony, he could see her trying to hide, trying to be small.

He'd always known how this would end. He knew the leash her father kept around her throat, knew their affair would never stay hidden, knew that choosing him would cost her everything. Maybe he'd been foolish enough to believe he could fight it. That he could defy duty, blood, and expectation by sheer force of wanting her.

But above all, he knew he loved her.

And seeing her down there now, shrinking back into the girl she'd been before him, before she ever dared to imagine more for herself—

He wouldn't stand for it.

He'd already lost her once—he refused to lose the woman she'd become.

20

Weeks slipped by in a blur of morning audiences, counsel at Theodore's side, and the endless choreography of curtseys and polished smiles. Each dawn found her climbing the stone steps beside the man she'd promised to marry, her posture flawless, her voice composed, even as her heart beat a rhythm of something unspoken.

She'd been avoiding Lance. She had to. Every time her gaze met his—across crowded rooms, over dinner tables, in passing glances that lingered too long—her chest tightened. And every time, she remembered.

The words haunted her. They echoed in the quiet, in the spaces between sleep and waking. And when sleep did come, it brought dreams that felt like punishments—soft, aching visions of a life she'd never get to live.

She'd hoped the distance would dull the ache, smooth the edges of her longing. But it hadn't. It only made her crave him more. Miss him more. And it made the thought of leaving feel like tearing something vital from her chest.

But she knew she had no choice.

Aurevyn had become a gilded cage, and once Meryth spoke, she'd vanish. She'd make it look like an accident, something tragic, something final. Maybe even a death. Whatever it took to keep them from searching. From hoping. She needed to disappear so thoroughly that even memory would hesitate to call her back.

Night after night, she slipped through corridors, flitted through the library with Whisper diligently at her side. Every step was calculated. Every breath a rehearsal for escape.

She pulled maps from the library—of the North, of forgotten trading posts swallowed by the Mirewilde—and spread them across her desk. She traced routes until her eyes blurred, studied the stars until her neck ached, whispered prayers to constellations she hoped were still listening.

Whisper stayed with her through every hour, gliding between shelves with soft, practiced wings, keeping watch as Mabel gathered whatever scraps of knowledge might guide her when the time finally came.

The stars had shown her a path, but not the way forward. Not yet.

Each night, she slipped back into her room under the cover of darkness, her breath still uneven. The corridors had been quiet, but her thoughts never were. They churned with questions, with memories, with the ache of what she was preparing to leave behind.

One night, she eased beneath the covers, her heart still pounding in her chest. Whisper fluttered down from the windowsill and nestled close, tucking himself just under her chin, feathers warm against her throat.

She lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hush of the castle around her.

Then, softly, she whispered into the dark. “Will you stay with me?” Her fingers brushed his wing. “When everything changes?”

Whisper didn't answer, but he pressed closer, a quiet weight against her pulse.

And that was enough.

So, alongside her own preparations, she prepared him.

Early mornings before the castle stirred, late nights when the halls were quiet, and the hours when Theodore's presence loosened its grip, Mabel taught Whisper.

She trained him to scout, sending him ahead through corridors and gardens, watching how he moved, how he listened. She taught him to return on command, to circle back even when the wind pulled him elsewhere. She trained him with hand signals. A flick of her fingers meant return.

A palm held steady meant wait. No words passed between them, but he understood. He learned quickly. And in those lessons, beneath moonlight or candlelight, she felt less alone.

Less afraid. Because when the time came, when everything changed, he would be ready.

They both would be.

In the final nights before the wedding, Mabel wrote to Lance.

Letter after letter, her hand trembling, ink smudged by tears she didn't bother to wipe away. She told him everything—her love, her sorrow, the truth she couldn't carry into the life planned out for her.

She begged him not to follow. Not to search. Not to hope.

She lost count of how many she wrote.

She didn't stop until the tears ran dry, until her chest felt hollow and her fingers ached.

Then, in the hush of her room, she turned to the hearth. The fire crackled softly, casting gold across the stone.

Her eyes were steady now.

She gathered the letters, each folded with care, and the cloak he'd once draped over her shoulders on a drunken night. She held them for a breath longer, just long enough to feel the weight of what she was letting go.

Then she fed them to the flames. One by one. Until nothing remained but ash.

The final days crept in like fog, slow and inescapable.

Mabel was pulled in every direction. Fittings that pinched, decorations she hadn't chosen, formal appearances that drained her breath. Each moment felt rehearsed, hollow, like she were playing a role someone else had written.

All under her father's watchful gaze, cold as ever. Her mother had finally joined him, silent in his shadow, her voice swallowed by years of practiced obedience. Mabel tried to avoid them, slipping through side halls and lingering in the gardens longer than necessary.

But she felt him.

The heat of his gaze, sharp and unrelenting, every time they shared a room. It clung to her skin like frost. She shrank beneath it. Just like she had in Moorthwyn. His presence wrapped around her like a noose: tight, invisible, impossible to escape.

But every moment only reminded her of why she had to leave.

So, she played her part, the perfect bride-to-be. She smiled through dinners, nodded at the right moments, let Theodore's charm wash over her like perfume she couldn't scrub off. They all believed it. Every gesture, every word, rehearsed to perfection.

Except her father.

His gaze unsettled her. Cold, calculating, constant. He watched her as though he were waiting for something to slip—like he already knew.

Knew what she was planning.

Knew what she'd done.

She told herself it was impossible. He couldn't know. Not truly. But the feeling lingered. Like a thread pulled too tight beneath her skin.

The night before the grand wedding, the castle unfurled its splendor.

The ballroom shimmered, candlelight flickering against crystal, perfume hanging heavy in the air, and strings humming a melody too delicate to name. Gilded arches soared overhead, framing the vaulted ceiling like a cathedral of expectation.

Beneath them, nobles and dignitaries gathered in a wide crescent, their silks rustling, their eyes fixed on the marble floor. And there, in the hush that followed the music's rise, Mabel danced.

Each step was precise, graceful, haunting. She moved like someone caught between worlds, elegant, untouchable, a vision sculpted for their gaze.

Her gown was a cascade of moonlight, silver silk threaded with stardust, the fabric catching every flicker of flame and turning it into something celestial. Her hair was swept back with delicate pins shaped like raven feathers, a nod to her family—to Meryth.

Theodore held her with a kind of practiced grace, his hand firm at her waist, the other cradling hers. He wore deep maroon to honor Aurevyn. Atop his head rested a gilded crown, its antlers arching.

His gaze never wavered from hers, not when the violins soared, not when the crowd leaned in with breathless awe. It wasn't a gaze that stole breaths or charmed. It was calculating, constantly seeking ways to keep control.

Still, they moved in perfect time.

Around them, the crowd watched. They saw not just a couple poised to marry, but a story unfolding. A union that would shape kingdoms.

And yet, beneath the music and the gilded splendor, something restless stirred. A hush beneath her ribs, like the breath before a storm. No one else seemed to feel it.

But Mabel did.

Tomorrow, the world would shift. Whether it would tilt toward light or shadow … she couldn't yet say.

The music swelled, strings and flutes weaving a final, aching crescendo. Her gown whispered across the marble, his steps sure and silent beside hers. They turned once more beneath the chandelier's glow, the world narrowing to the space between their joined hands.

For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath.

Then—the final note. A lingering chord that shimmered in the air like a held promise.

The ballroom erupted in applause.

Mabel blinked, as if waking from a spell. Theodore's hand tightened gently around hers, and before the moment could slip away, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her lips—brief, cold, but seen by all. A seal on the spectacle. A symbol of unity.

The crowd cheered louder.

With practiced poise, they stepped back from the center of the floor. The guests surged forward, laughter and silk and polished boots spilling into the space they'd left behind. The music resumed, lighter now, festive, and the ballroom came alive with motion once more.

Mabel let Theodore guide her toward the edge of the crowd, her fingers still curled around his, but her gaze lingered on the dancers, on the blur of color and joy. She smiled. But somewhere deep inside, the hush remained.

Theodore turned to her, his expression stripped bare now, none of the polished charm he wore for the court. “You were radiant,” he said. “For a moment, it almost looked like you could tolerate me.”

Her smile was small, brittle at the edges. “I tolerate you just fine.”

His hand lifted toward her cheek. She flinched before she could stop herself. His fingers shifted course, brushing a strand of hair from her face instead. His eyes locked onto hers, sharp, searching.

Silence settled, tight, suffocating, stilled with everything they refused to name, everything they were both too proud or too afraid to admit.

Then Theodore leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I'll get us something to drink,” he muttered. “Don't disappear on me.”

“I won't,” she said, though her voice was quieter now. Not yet.

He gave her hand one last squeeze before slipping back into the crowd, his figure quickly swallowed by the throng of nobles.

Mabel stayed by the window, her reflection faint in the glass. She watched it flicker, half in shadow, half in light. And waited.

The music behind her swelled again, laughter rising from the crowd. Mabel stayed by the window, her fingers brushing the cool stone of the sill, her thoughts drifting somewhere far from the ballroom.

Then—a soft clearing of a throat.

She turned. And froze.

Lance stood a few paces away, dressed in formal robes of deep red and black, a silver clasp shaped like a stag's head fastened his cloak at the shoulder. His locs were braided back, and he looked every inch the nobleman he wasn't born to be. But it was his eyes that caught her, steady, unreadable, and far too familiar.

“Lance,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You're here.”

“I guess I am,” he said, his voice calm, guarded.

Mabel's eyes flicked toward the crowd, toward the place where Theodore had disappeared.

“I thought parties weren't your thing,” she hummed, trying for lightness, though her fingers curled slightly against the window ledge.

“They still aren't.” He laughed softly, the sound low and familiar. “But … I came for you.”

She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. “Lance—”

“No, not like that …” he cut in gently, shaking his head. “Just here to show my support.”

His smile wavered, and for a heartbeat, the mask slipped. Mabel saw it then, the ache in his eyes, the fracture beneath the words. His longing unspoken. The hurt barely hidden.

And still, he stood there.

For her.

“Care to dance?” Lance asked, extending a hand toward her, his voice gentle but steady.

Mabel's gaze dropped to his outstretched palm. She didn't take it. Not yet. Hesitation crept across her face, not fear, but something quieter. More complicated.

“I … have to ask Theo …” she muttered, her voice barely audible. The nickname slipped out naturally, but she saw the way something flickered in Lance's eyes at the sound of it—a brief, involuntary wince, quickly masked.

“Ask me what?” came Theodore's voice, warm and easy as he returned, two crystal glasses in hand.

Mabel turned, accepting the wine with a grateful nod. “Lance has asked to dance,” she said softly, lifting the glass to her lips and letting the sip shield her expression.

Theodore paused, just for a beat. A scowl tugged at the edge of his mouth before he smoothed it away. His gaze shifted to Lance—not cold, but watchful.

The moment stretched, taut and delicate.

Theodore held Lance's gaze for a moment longer, the smile on his lips never quite reaching his eyes. “Of course,” he said at last, his tone smooth, too smooth. “One dance won't hurt anything.”

But beneath the civility, there was something else. An edge. A warning.

Mabel felt it. So did Lance.

She downed the rest of her wine in a single gulp, the bitter taste burning slightly at the back of her throat. It wasn't enough to still the rhythm pounding in her chest, but it dulled the edges. Just enough.

She turned to Lance, her hand halfway to his—

But Theodore moved first.

He stepped in, cupping her cheek with a practiced tenderness that felt suddenly too deliberate. And then he kissed her. It was a kiss meant to be seen. Possessive. Final.

The crowd didn't notice. But Lance did.

When Theodore pulled away, his thumb lingered at the corner of her mouth, brushing away a trace of wine. “Enjoy your dance,” he said, but she could feel the warning in his tone.

Mabel blinked, breath caught somewhere between her ribs. Then, slowly, she turned to Lance and placed her hand in his. She ignored the warmth that filled her as their skin touched.

The band shifted seamlessly into a new melody, slower, more intimate. Around them, couples drifted into motion, the ballroom once again alive with candlelight.

Lance guided her onto the floor with grace, his hand settling at her waist, the other gently enclosing hers. His touch was careful, as if he were holding something fragile. Or trying not to hold on too tightly.

They moved in silence at first, the space between them filled only by the music and the echo of Theodore's kiss still burning on her lips.

Then Mabel spoke, her voice soft but steady. “You look charming tonight. I've never seen you so dressed up.”

Lance's mouth twitched into a faint smile. “I clean up when it matters.” His eyes met hers, not with the boldness of before, but with something quieter. Sadder. “I didn't think you'd notice.”

“I notice everything about you,” she said, and for a moment, the truth of it hung between them like a thread pulled taut. She dropped his gaze the second she heard the words leave her lips. She felt Lance's hand shift on her back, hesitant. But he stayed quiet, and they danced on, the world spinning gently around them, but neither of them truly moved.

The silence between them stretched, full of words unsaid, of glances that lingered too long, of footsteps echoing in time with a past neither of them had quite outrun.

Mabel's gaze drifted over Lance's shoulder, toward the edge of the ballroom. Theodore stood there, still holding his half-finished drink, his expression unreadable. But his eyes, they hadn't left her once.

Lance's brow lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “He's watching us,” he hummed, the words edged with something bitter. “Of course he is.”

“You know why he's watching us,” Mabel said with a scoff, a playful lilt in her voice.

Lance's grip tightened just slightly on her waist. “Because he doesn't trust me.”

“Because he knows me,” she corrected, her smile faint, almost wistful. “And he knows what we were.”

They moved in another slow circle, the world blurring around them.

Mabel cleared her throat. “How—how have you been?” she asked, fingers flexing along his shoulder. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she caught a glimpse of the pain in his eyes before he cooled it with indifference.

“I've been better,” he admitted. “Watching the person I love avoid me hasn't been the easiest.”

“It's … it's not easy for me either, Lance,” she breethd out, brows furrowing.

Then Lance spoke, his voice barely above the music, but sharp enough to cut through it. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “Why are you going through with the wedding?”

Mabel's breath caught, but she didn't let it settle. “Is this why you came?” she snapped.

“No,” he said, letting out a soft groan. “I came to say congratulations.”

Her tone softened as she looked into his deep, golden-brown eyes. “Then say it.”

Silence passed between them for a beat as they danced. Lance lifted his arm to spin her, and when she landed back in his arms, he dipped her down slow, gentle. Her cheeks flushed.

“Congratulations,” he whispered, lingering for a moment longer before he pulled her back into him in a rush.

“Thank you,” she said, voice barely above a breath.

The music swelled around them. The other dancers spun past in a blur of color and laughter, unaware that something fragile had cracked open in the middle of the floor.

“You didn't answer me. Why?” he pressed.

She didn't meet his eyes. “You know why.”

“Was it Theodore or your father who convinced you to throw us away?” he bit.

She stumbled over her feet, but Lance steadied her, his hand tightening on her waist.

“Why does it matter?” she whispered.

“It matters.”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for only a moment before flicking her gaze to meet his. “My father,” she admitted. “I spoke with Theodore after he … found out. But I wasn't ready to give you up. I don't think I ever could be.” A quiet, broken laugh escaped despite herself. “Then … my father arrived early that morning. He knew. He—” Her voice trembled, her eyes widening.

Lance spun them around, making sure she wasn't in Theodore's line of sight. Then, hesitantly, he pressed a kiss to her temple. She could have melted against him. Could have burst into tears over his simple act.

“It's alright,” he said, though it came out pained. A sick, twisted part of him found relief in her answer, but it still made his stomach twist with dread. Dread for her, for the future she was being forced into.

She didn't leave him for Theodore. She left him in fear for her own life.

The music drifted to a close, the final notes dissolving into the golden hush of the ballroom. Lance's hand lingered at Mabel's waist, his touch hesitant, as if letting go meant surrendering something he hadn't yet named.

For a breath, he held on.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he released her.

He stepped back and bowed, precise and formal.

Mabel dipped into a curtsy, her movements graceful but distant, her eyes fixed somewhere just past his shoulder.

No words passed between them.

They parted without ceremony—Lance slipping into the crowd like a shadow swallowed by candlelight, while Mabel turned and made her way back to Theodore's side. His hand found hers the moment she reached him, grounding her once more in the role she was meant to play.

But her pulse continued to beat to the rhythm of a different dance.

21

The gardens waited in silence, silvered with frost, the air sharp against Mabel's skin. Her steps were measured, her breath steady, but her thoughts churned.

It hadn't snowed for weeks. But tonight, the wind had teeth, and the clouds had kept their promise. On the eve of her wedding, the kingdom lay beneath a fresh veil of snow, soft and unbroken, eerily perfect.

She needed the quiet. The cold. The truth that only existed beneath moonlight and sky.

Her eyes flickered toward the stars she'd come to know like the back of her hand. Just a little longer, she reminded herself.

Snow crunched faintly beneath her boots as she walked, the cold nipping at her cheeks but never quite biting through. Here, away from whispered expectations and watchful eyes, the frost-laced air steadied her. The silence of the garden cut through the noise in her mind like a clean breath.

She wandered without aim, letting the skeletal trees and frozen fountains guide her steps, shedding the roles she'd worn with each turn of the path.

Mabel had just rounded a bend in the path, breath curling in the cold, when she saw him.

Lance stood a few paces ahead, half-obscured by a tall juniper, head bowed as he studied the brittle remains of a snow-dusted rose vine. His cloak was dusted white, locs decorated from flurries that had started and stopped without warning.

He looked up at the sound of her approach.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then a small smile flickered across Mabel's face, quiet and real. “I was beginning to think the garden belonged to me alone,” she said softly.

Lance's shoulders eased, and he took a step toward her. “If it does, I'll count myself lucky to trespass.”

She laughed gently, the sound rising with her breath against the winter air. “You always did have a dramatic sense of timing.”

“And you always looked best under gray skies,” he said, not teasing, just honest.

They stood there for a moment, the hush of snow wrapping around them, as if the world was holding its breath to listen.

“I'm glad it's you,” Mabel said at last, voice barely above a whisper.

He tilted his head. “Me?”

“Here. Now. I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts.” Her gaze met his. “They've started to turn on me.”

Lance stepped forward again, close enough now that she could see the trace of worry in his brow. “Then let's walk,” he offered. “And remind them they're not the only ones in your head.”

She linked her arm through his without hesitation. And together, they moved through the garden, the snow softly falling around them.

Lance's eyes lingered on her, quiet and solemn. The pink of her nose from the cold, the way the winter air rouged her cheeks, the curve of her mouth when she smiled at something remembered. He watched her like someone afraid the snow might carry her away.

“I know I hurt you,” Mabel said quietly, barely above a whisper. “I'm sorry.”

Lance looked down at her, a closed smile on his lips. He missed her. Not just her presence, but the closeness that used to feel inevitable. And now, standing beside her again, he felt the ache of it settle in his chest like a stone. Lance's voice broke the quiet, low and unguarded. “You don't have to apologize. I understand.”

Mabel's hand brushed his, the same spark lighting her skin at his touch. “I just wanted you to know,” she muttered. “You didn't deserve it.”

“I didn't deserve you,” he answered, just as softly.

Mabel stopped in her tracks. She looked up at Lance. Her eyes traced the delicate snowfall clinging to his hair, the pained look in his eyes, down to his lips.

“Lance,” she whispered. Her fingers laced with his, more instinct than anything. “You know that's not true—”

“I've missed you.”

For a heartbeat, she searched his face. Then, quietly, honestly, she said, “I've missed you too.”

They stood still, eyes locked, silence stretched taut between them. For a moment, neither dared to move until they did, all at once.

Their bodies found each other in a rush, arms wrapping tight, as if the world might pull them apart again. Lips met in a tangle of need, hands rising instinctively, threading through hair, grasping at cloaks, drawing each other closer as if touch alone could undo the ache of distance.

They broke apart just enough to breathe, their foreheads still nearly touching, breath mingling in the cold hush. For a heartbeat, the world held still.

“Choose me,” Lance whispered, pressing his forehead gently to hers. “Please … pick me.”

Mabel's eyes searched his. Then she pulled back slightly, the space between them colder for it. “I can't,” she breethd, the words catching on a sigh. “Not now. I must see this through.”

Lance closed his eyes, absorbing the weight of it. Silence crept in again, long and aching.

When he finally spoke, it was soft, fragile beneath the ache. “Then let me have tonight. Just one more night to hold you.”

Mabel lifted her gaze to his, breath trembling as it caught in her throat. His closeness, the softness in his eyes, it cracked something open inside her. Her heart fluttered, and she hated how much she still wanted him.

Maybe she did need this. Maybe the only way to let go was to hold him one last time.

She gave a nod, and in an instant, he was there, closing the space between them and capturing her lips with his own. His kiss was fierce, frantic.

Without breaking contact, he swept one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, lifting her in a single, fluid motion. She gasped, startled by the sudden weightlessness, then melted against him as her arms looped around his shoulders.

Cradled to his chest, she felt the steady thrum of his heart beneath the fabric, the air between them thick with urgency and something far deeper.

Their lips met again, unrestrained, and then they were moving—quick steps through narrow passages, pressing close behind pillars whenever footsteps neared. Lance would draw her against him with a grin, and Mabel, breathless with laughter, would bury her smile in his shoulder until the danger passed.

They slipped through corridors and winding staircases, trading kisses and glances sharp with stolen joy, until at last they reached his door.

Mabel paused as he opened it, curiosity sparking through her haze of adrenaline. She'd never seen his rooms before.

Inside, the stone walls were draped with deep navy fabrics, lined with shelves sagging under the weight of well-loved books. A small sitting area was arranged near the hearth, two armchairs surrounded by chaotic piles of novels and folded pages. A modest chandelier hung above, catching flickers of firelight. In one corner stood a grand piano, its keys dusty but the bench well-worn.

Beyond the sitting room, an arch framed the entryway to his sleeping quarters.

Mabel stepped in slowly, taking it all in. It was him, completely. Quiet intellect, buried warmth, and a touch of unruly romance. She felt, for the first time that night, not like a secret being hidden, but a guest being welcomed home.

The door clicked shut behind them, Lance's hand still lingering on the lock. In the next breath, he was with her again, his lips finding hers with a hunger sharpened by weeks of restraint. They moved as one, drawn by a gravity that neither understood nor questioned.

He guided her gently back toward the bed; the world shrinking until it was only the sound of their breath and the whisper of skin against skin. Cloaks slid to the floor in surrender. Fingers fumbled over fastenings.

Mabel sank onto the edge of the bed, her skin prickling in the cool air. Lance hovered over her, his lips tracing slow paths up her legs until her breath hitched and their eyes met again. “Let me taste you.” He caught her by the waist, pulling her closer until a soft laugh escaped her.

“Easy,” she giggled, though her voice trembled with want.

Lance stilled for a heartbeat, his gaze devouring her. “I'm trying,” he said softly. He pressed a kiss to her knee, his gaze searching hers as if trying to memorize every flicker of her face. He moved slowly, his lips tracing along her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Lance,” she breethd, his name falling from her lips in a plea. Her eyes met his, wide, unguarded, and desperate.

He drank her in as though this moment could last forever if he just looked hard enough. “You will not rush me,” he rasped. His lips lingered on her thighs, trembling slightly despite their familiarity. His teeth scraped along her skin, slow and steady.

Mabel shivered, biting her lips to stop her pleas. But she couldn't control her hips from rocking up, or the way her nails dug into his shoulders.

“So needy.” He smirked. He continued with his trail, slowly, savoring every inch of her skin. He delicately traced a finger over her slit, pressing just enough to feel, but not enough to quench.

A gasp tore from her at the flicker of contact. He latched onto the crease of her inner thigh, teeth grazing over her skin. And as much as it thrilled her, she pushed his shoulder. “N-no marks, Lance.”

He swatted her hands away before catching both of her wrists in a single grasp. He pinned them on her stomach. “Mine,” he growled, burying himself against her skin.

Her head fell back with a cry, every inch of her on fire from his achingly slow care.

He pulled back only to examine the mark he'd made. His thumb traced over the reddened, welting skin, sending a jolt through her. His eyes met hers.

And slowly, painfully slow, he spread her legs wider and licked a stripe between her. His eyes watched closely for her reaction.

Mabel threw her head back, moaning at the contact. He pressed his tongue against her warmth again, lingering, teasing. His tongue dove in and slipped through her with a pace that felt worshipful.

Mabel could barely make a noise, save for the pleas leaving her lips as Lance took his time with her. Her legs moved to wrap around his neck, but his hands gripped her thighs firmly, holding her in place and spreading her open. “Be a good girl and sit still for me,” he said before pressing his tongue inside her.

She relished the pleasure that consumed her body and how much she missed this—missed him. It was as if he devoted himself to her pleasure, every inch of her warmth. Every pass of his tongue left her gasping and begging. Every tease at her entrance left her wanting more.

He paused over her clit, sucking gently, before pressing two long fingers inside her. Her cries only fueled his slow torment. And he savored every second of it. Every breath. Every tremor that ghosted through her.

She moaned, hips bucking, unable to stop herself.

He simply groaned and rocked his fingers just slightly faster. His tongue swapped between flicks and long drags, but he never hurried. Never rushed.

She could feel the ache building inside her. The one he loved to draw out over and over. It rose and flared with every pass of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers.

“Lance!” Mabel cried, her body tensing as her release crashed through her.

He curled his fingers inside her, pressing up and rubbing along the walls of her warmth. A shock jolted through her. “Good fucking girl,” he groaned. “Keep going, don't stop.”

She cried out, waves of pleasure coursing through her. Her entire body was on fire. Every second felt like an eternity as he kept her suspended in a state of euphoria.

He stayed devotedly connected to her until the tremors in her body settled into something quieter. Even then, he didn't pull away. He pulled his fingers from her warmth, just to replace them with his tongue, tasting, savoring.

He moaned against her, eyes finding hers. He examined every breath that left her lips, the perfect, pure blush in her cheeks, the way her eyes screamed for him—only him.

He pulled away, towering over her smaller frame. He looked over her flushed skin, how she blinked up at him, breathless, spent. How her body trembled with the aftershock of her release.

She stared up at him, want and longing and need all colliding. Everything between them, everything that kept them apart, no longer mattered. It was just them.

He pressed her legs up, hooking them over his shoulders as he bent over her. His lips found hers. He parted his lips, mouth hardly forming three words against hers. Silent. He couldn't risk saying it aloud. He couldn't risk breaking the already fragile ground they stood on.

“I'd paint a portrait of this,” he whispered, his fingers trailing lightly along her body, taking a handful of her breast, kneading the soft skin. He dipped down, pulling the nipple into his mouth, teeth scraping the sensitive bud.

Mabel shivered out a moan as he sucked, hips bucking, silently begging to be taken.

He caught her waist and guided her closer to the edge of the bed. She let out a soft laugh, but her breath hitched sharp as he pressed his hot length against her core, barely teasing against her entrance.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, searching.

He leaned in, the grip on her thigh firm. Her legs curled over his shoulders, hips tilted and ready for him. He pressed inside, just enough to make her gasp. “Tell me you want me.”

“Lance—please, I want you, only you,” she pleaded. “Fuck me, ruin me, gods, anything.”

His mouth consumed hers, and he shifted, pulling out before he rocked deep inside her, sheathing his full length in one rough thrust. Her body trembled, lips parted, as she adjusted to the size of him. His name fell from her mouth like a litany.

His forehead pressed to hers as he kept himself pressed inside her, memorizing the way it felt, memorizing the look in her eyes.

The closeness was dizzying, his breath against her cheek. Every inch between them seemed to hum with a need neither of them could name without breaking. They fit perfectly together.

Lance remained still, enjoying the way she clenched around him. He stared at her parted lips and pressed his thumb to the already swollen skin. She eagerly wrapped her lips around him, tongue tracing around the digit.

He watched, his length pulsing inside her before slowly, achingly pulling out of her warmth just to slip between her tight walls with a force that rocked the bed.

Her lips parted in a cry, but he pushed his thumb deeper into her mouth. “Shh,” he purred, gently rocking his hips against her, the tease burning. Each brush of movement overwhelmed her with pleasure. They moved in sync.

Mabel was a mess beneath him, face flushed, lips bitten, trembling under his touch. She felt her stomach tighten in need as the pleasure consumed her body.

“Gods, Mabel,” he moaned. “I've missed you. I've missed this.” He leaned over her to lick a stripe between her breasts. “So fucking beautiful.”

He pulled his thumb from her lips to press it against her clit. He relished the way her hips jumped to meet his touch. Each wave of pleasure only made her clench harder around his length.

“You've missed it too, baby. I can feel how badly you've missed this.” He kissed her again, tongue pressing past her lips to dive into her mouth.

She whimpered against him, hips rising to meet his, hands lifting to hold him closer, and nails scraping along his back.

He pulled back only slightly. His warm breath ghosted along her cheeks. “You're so fucking desperate. So desperate to have my cock inside you.

Claim you.” He snapped his hips hard against her. “I'm just as desperate, baby.” His thrusts were relentless, each drive of his hips filling her completely. She craved the burn of his cock and the hum of magic in his fingertips.

“Do you still dream of us?” he asked, thumb still working delicate arcs over her clit.

“Yes,” she cried, her whole body trembling beneath him. “Every night.”

“Good. I'm the only one allowed in your dreams, only one who can fuck you like this.” As if to prove it, he jerked his hips forward, rough, unrestrained, savoring every inch of her warmth.

“Lance,” she cried, coming undone all over again. Lance dipped down and pressed his lips hard against hers, still thrusting into her until he reached his own release. His hands wrapped around her hips in a bruising grip, magic pulsing through his palms that left Mabel a mess beneath him.

Her eyes widened when she felt his hot seed spill inside her. She couldn't find it in her to care, rolling her hips against him.

“You're mine.” His voice came out in a low growl. “You'll always be mine.” He buried his face against her neck, teeth scraping over skin. He rocked into her, eyes trailing down to where their bodies connected. Her thighs trembled between them and his grip tightened. “Do you like being filled by me?” he purred out, tongue dragging along the shell of her ear.

“Yes—fuck,” she whimpered, hips bucking as he teased her once more.

He reluctantly dragged his length out, savoring the sight of his seed dripping from her. “Good,” he said with a devious smile before collapsing beside her.

They lay entwined, breathless and quiet, their gazes locked in a silent exchange that said more than words ever could.

Mabel's hand rested lightly on his chest, attuned to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. Lance reached up, gently tucking a strand of her sweat-dampened hair behind her ear, his touch lingering with reverence.

“I wish it had been you,” Mabel whispered, her voice trembling as unshed tears shimmered in her eyes. “You have no idea how much I wanted it to be you.”

Lance said nothing at first, just drew her into his arms, holding her like he could shield her from the weight of it all. He pressed a tender kiss to her temple, his voice barely audible. “I know,” he said gently. “I wanted that too … more than anything.”

They stayed wrapped in each other's arms a little longer, clinging to the illusion that time might pause for them. That the world outside might wait.

But morning would come, and with it, the weight of reality. Mabel would be expected, duty pulling her away, as it always did. And they both knew what that meant.

Still, they had this night.

One last breath of borrowed time.

One final chance to say goodbye.

22

Morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, turning the silken canopy above Mabel's bed a soft gold.

The air still held the hush of dawn, a quiet too delicate to disturb—until Ada burst through the door like a trumpet blast. “Mabel!” she chirped, her voice high with excitement. “Rise and shine, future queen!”

Mabel stirred, the linen sheets rustling around her as she blinked against the light. Her body was heavy with the ache of too little sleep and too many thoughts. The memory of the previous night still lingered on her skin.

But Ada was already flitting about the room like a songbird, pulling back curtains, then leaning against the vanity with a theatrical flourish. “The staff is waiting, the petals are ready for the procession, and the seamstress is practically vibrating in the hall—Mabel, this is it!”

Mabel sat up slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Morning,” she said, her voice still tangled in sleep and something softer.

Ada turned, hands clasped beneath her chin. “You're glowing,” she said with a grin. “I mean it—you look as radiant as ever.”

Mabel gave a faint smile, one hand resting over her heart as it beat a rhythm she wasn't ready to name. “It's going to be a long day,” she sighed.

Ada beamed. “Then let's make it the kind people never forget.”

Mabel stirred, the weight of the Friday morning pressing gently against her as she pushed herself upright. Ada, ever impatient, was already tugging back the covers with a grin far too bright for the hour. “No time for dreamy sighs, my lady,” she sang. “The kingdom awaits its bride!”

Mabel steadied her feet on the ground as she took a deep breath.

Ada took notice of her hesitation. “Hey.” She reached for her hand. “You can do this.”

And for the first time, Mabel believed she actually could.

Moments later, the door creaked open, and the castle staff entered with practiced grace, wheeling in a silver cart piled high with steaming bread, sugared fruit, and delicate crystal carafes of tea. The scent of honey and spice filled the room, warm and comforting.

Before Mabel could so much as reach for a cup, the door opened again.

Frey swept in with her usual softness, hands clasped in delight.

Behind her, Auor followed, eyes sharp, lips pursed in appraisal. “We have much to do,” Auor announced, her tone more decree than greeting.

Frey clasped Mabel's hands. “You'll be the loveliest bride to ever walk these halls.” She beamed.

And with that, the room shifted—fabrics unfolded, mirrors wheeled into place, and the hum of preparations took over.

The day had begun.

The hours passed in a flurry of motion—soft footsteps, hushed voices, the rustle of silks. Castle staff drifted in and out like clockwork, each carrying ribbons, linens, or steaming bowls of scented water.

Attendants had already prepared the washroom—steam curling from bronze basins, fragrant oils warming by the fire—before stepping back to let the moment unfold.

Frey and Auor entered together, their expressions soft with memory and purpose. It was tradition, after all, for married women of the family to prepare the bride, a passing of wisdom, of strength wrapped in ceremony.

They guided Mabel to the bronze tub, her silk robe slipping from her shoulders. Frey kneeled to pour water over her arms, while Auor, reserved yet precise, combed scented oil into her hair, working it through the long strands with care. They said little, letting the hush speak for them.

Soap and hands moved gently, scrubbing away the traces of girlhood with patient devotion.

The room smelled of crushed chamomile and bergamot, steam curling like breath from the basin as warm water was poured over Mabel's shoulders. Her bare skin prickled at the touch, but she said nothing. She was used to silence with her mother.

Auor sat beside her, hands steady, her motions practiced. For a long while, there was only the soft splashing of water, the distant clink of buckets against bronze, the flicker of lamplight across carved stone walls.

Frey kneeled on the opposite side of the basin, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, curls dampened by steam. She glanced between mother and daughter; the silence stretched so taut it threatened to snap. She didn't want to be the one to speak. But someone had to.

“When I married Thalen,” she began gently, her tone threaded with wry affection, “I, too, was nervous. I didn't know how our lives would combine. Where I would fit in his life.”

Auor's hands paused, water beading on Mabel's shoulders.

Frey smiled faintly, dipping a cloth into the basin. “He was older. Quiet. Always seemed to be thinking about something far away. I thought—I'll never reach him. I'll be a name in his house and nothing more.” She wrung out the cloth, her eyes distant now. “But then one evening, he came into the kitchen and peeled oranges with his bare hands, just to make the room smell like summer because I had mentioned how much I enjoyed it. And I thought … Maybe I didn't know everything after all.”

Mabel blinked, her gaze flicking toward Frey, just for a moment.

“We grew toward each other, not from love, but from trying,” Frey said, her voice softening. “Trying to make something worth waking up to. Something that mattered.”

Something in Auor shifted, barely, but Mabel felt it. The silence that followed was no longer hostile. It was listening.

Then, almost too softly to catch, Auor spoke, “I remember when my mother bathed me before my wedding.” She paused, her fingers stilling on Mabel's arm. “She braided rosemary into my hair. Told me it was for remembrance. I didn't realize until much later what she wanted me to remember.”

Mabel turned slightly. “What was it?”

Auor smiled, but it was tired, aching, fragile. “That even the sharpest beginnings are rooted in love, once. Even when everything else feels like duty.”

For a moment, the water ceased to matter. The years between them—the walls built from choice and regret—seemed thinner.

“I always imagined you looked radiant,” Mabel said, her voice lower than before. “I wish I'd seen you that day.”

“You would've laughed. I cried so hard my veil stuck to my face.” Auor let out a soft chuckle, and the sound cracked something open between them. The laughter faded, as soft as dust settling. Auor's smile thinned, her gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the warm stone walls and flickering lamplight. “I didn't want to marry him either,” she said at last, the words barely louder than the trickle of water. “I begged my mother. I thought if I could just be defiant enough, just loud enough, they'd see how wrong it was.” Her fingers paused on the comb, still tangled in a strand of Mabel's damp hair.

Mabel stilled.

“I didn't get to choose,” Auor continued. “But I learned how to survive it. How to carve small freedoms into a life already chosen for me. And eventually … I found strength in the stillness. In knowing who I was, even if no one else cared to ask.” She placed the comb aside, resting her hand lightly on Mabel's shoulder. “I see that same strength in you. You've had it all along, though I fear I tried to bury it beneath obedience.”

Mabel blinked, her throat tight. The heat of the bath had nothing to do with the warmth rising behind her eyes. For the first time, she saw her mother not as a shadow cast by duty, but as a woman—a girl, once—with her own ache and rebellion.

“I didn't know that about you,” Mabel whispered.

“There's much we don't know about each other,” Auor said, voice gentle.

Mabel drew her knees closer, letting the water lap gently against her skin. Auor's words hung in the air, heavy with memories not hers, but suddenly not so foreign.

She kept her gaze fixed forward on the carved lily motif etched into the basin's rim. She couldn't look at her mother—not yet. But her voice came quieter than before, no longer braced with barbs. “I used to think you chose all of this,” Mabel said. “The rules. The silences. Him.” The last word trembled with something unspoken.

Auor didn't interrupt.

“I thought you stayed because it was easier. Because you believed in it all.” Mabel drew a slow breath. “But maybe you were just surviving, too.”

It wasn't forgiveness. Not quite empathy. But something older than both—recognition. She turned then, only slightly, enough to catch her mother's profile lit by the gold sheen of the lantern.

“I don't know what that makes us,” she added. “But I think I needed to know you were human.”

Auor's breath caught, but she didn't speak. Instead, she reached across the basin, laying a fresh cloth beside Mabel's hands without touching her. A gesture that simply said: I hear you.

And for once, Mabel didn't pull away.

The final rinse poured in a slow, steady stream, gliding over Mabel's shoulders. The water no longer felt intrusive. It was warm, familiar. Cleansing in more ways than one.

Auor didn't speak again. She moved with purpose, wringing out the cloth, brushing Mabel's hair back from her face as if afraid to disturb the moment too much. Her touch, once rigid with expectation, now held something gentler, tentative, but real.

Mabel watched the steam rise and curl around them, softening the edges of the world. And in the hush between their motions, a silence bloomed, no longer heavy, no longer strained. Just … shared. When Auor reached for the linen robe and held it out, Mabel took it without hesitation. Their hands brushed, and neither pulled away.

No declarations. No apologies.

Before they left the washroom, Auor smoothed a salve over Mabel's face, cool and thick, fragrant with crushed florals and the hushed promise of bridal radiance.

The women filed out in silence, robes rustling. Mabel clutched hers tightly around her, the chill of the corridor brushing her collarbones as they made their way toward her room.

To where the dress waited.

But just before they reached the door, Auor paused. She offered no explanation, just a nod, and slipped down the hall, her footsteps fading into shadow.

Mabel stepped inside, her robe curling at her heels. Her damp hair hung in loose waves down her back, the scent of rose oil clinging to each strand.

Then, her eyes found it.

The dress stood waiting on its mannequin, bathed in the morning light that streamed through the high windows. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. Its bodice was understated in shape, allowing the intricate gold embellishments along the neckline to shine. The sleeves swelled gracefully at the shoulders before tapering into long, cascading panels that would flow past her wrists, their hems kissed with fine gold thread in swirling, ornate patterns.

The skirt skimmed elegantly along the frame, subtle in volume but endlessly regal in its bearing. Behind trailed a sweeping train, each inch of its edge embroidered with the same golden handiwork—Auren's constellation painted in thread.

A flutter rose in Mabel's chest as she stepped fully into the room, her gaze drawn once more to the gown. Anticipation curled tightly in her ribs, heavy with meaning, threaded with memory.

Behind her, Frey emerged, her steps slowing as her eyes fell upon the dress. Frey let out a soft gasp, one hand lifting instinctively to her chest.

“Oh, Mabel,” she breethd, crossing to her side and taking her hand with a gentle squeeze. “It's breathtaking—and you're going to be even more so wearing it.”

Mabel stood quietly, her eyes still caught on the gown where it waited, suspended in sunlight. The hush in the room was heavy with anticipation, fragrant with lilac water and the whisper of polished silk.

Whisper glided down from the top of the bookshelf, landing on Mabel's shoulder with effortless grace. She drew in a slow breath, her fingers instinctively reaching to smooth the soft curve of his feathers.

Behind her, the attendants moved like shadows, their rustling barely audible as they resumed their tasks.

Across the room, Frey watched with a smile, arms folded loosely, her gaze tinged with something between pride and nostalgia.

“He's done well with you,” she said, warm and sweet as she stepped closer.

Mabel's smile softened. “He's just as clever as you promised.”

Whisper let out a smug trill and nuzzled beneath her jaw, clearly pleased with himself.

Frey chuckled. “He knows it too.”

From across the room, the door opened again. Auor swept in like a gust of winter wind, her presence instantly commanding—authority woven into every seam, a complete shift from how her composure had been only moments before.

Her gaze landed on Mabel, then flicked to the raven perched on her shoulder. “Mabel,” she said crisply, brows drawing together. “Put that filthy beast down. Now.”

The word sliced sharper than it should have, heavy with unspoken weight. The attendants froze. Even Frey turned away slightly, lips pressed into a tight line.

Mabel felt a shiver run down her spine, but she didn't flinch. She didn't argue, either. She simply turned her head, lowered her voice. “I'm sorry,” she muttered softly to Whisper. “You're not filthy. You're brilliant.”

She carried him gently to the dresser, letting him step down onto the polished wood surface. He blinked up at her once, then preened a feather, utterly unbothered by royal disapproval.

And Mabel, standing tall despite the sudden chill in her mother's tone, stepped back into the center of the room, not diminished, but quietly defiant.

Attendants gently guided her into the chair, positioning her beneath the soft morning light so her makeup could begin.

Brushes swept gently across Mabel's cheeks, each touch light as a whisper. The attendants worked with hushed focus, dabbing soft rose hues onto her skin and tracing gold along the curve of her lids. Every stroke was meant to highlight, not alter. Composed and heartbreakingly human.

Additional hands joined the flurry of movement around her, tending to her hair with practiced ease. Slender fingers wove fine braids into her copper curls, each one intricate and intentional. The braids were drawn back and pinned into a delicate bun at the back of her head. The rest of her hair was left loose, cascading in soft waves down her shoulders and spine, catching the morning light like strands of spun flame.

Ada's voice rang out like a bell, bright and breathless. “Dress time!” she called, nearly bouncing with excitement.

The room shifted.

Mabel felt it in her bones—the tightening in her stomach, the quickening pulse beneath her skin. The moment she'd been inching toward all morning had arrived, sudden and immense.

She drew in a breath, small and steady, as hands reached for the gown.

Silk whispered against skin. Gold caught the light like fire.

And the weight of what came next settled over her shoulders, quiet and inescapable.

Gentle hands moved with reverence, unfastening her robe and easing it from her shoulders. The fabric slid away, leaving her bare to the cool air and the hush of the moment.

Attendants stepped in with graceful efficiency, layering the soft underdressings against her skin, silk and linen, cool and delicate, drawn tight with practiced ease. Others approached the mannequin, lifting the gown as though handling something sacred.

Mabel took a careful step toward the gown, the air around her suddenly thick with silence. She paused a short distance from it, eyeing it as if it might swallow her whole.

Frey reached for her hand, giving it a gentle, grounding squeeze. “You're doing beautifully,” she said, her voice gentle and full of warmth, meant only for Mabel's ears. “I'm so proud of you.”

Mabel nodded, her breath catching as her heart thudded beneath her ribs. She didn't trust her voice, not yet, but Frey's words anchored her. In the storm of ritual and expectation, that small kindness was a lifeline she hadn't realized she needed.

The gown was lifted like a relic, its weight distributed carefully between gloved hands as attendants guided it toward her. Mabel raised her arms, steady despite the tremor she could feel pulsing through her fingertips.

The fabric settled over her like a second skin, cool silk sliding down her shoulders, gold accents catching the light with every breath. Hands worked swiftly and silently, fastening hidden clasps, smoothing embroidered hems, adjusting the chain at her waist. The gown molded to her form with reverence, as though it had been waiting just for her.

Then came the crown.

Ada approached last, holding the circlet aloft. It was wrought of polished gold, its antlers curving upward in graceful arcs. The metal shimmered with etched runes and subtle embellishments, ancient and regal.

As the crown was placed gently on her head, the room fell into a hush that felt holy.

Mabel stood motionless before the mirror, her breath shallow.

Auor stepped behind her, the rustle of silk barely audible, and fastened the necklace around Mabel's throat—a sparkling blue jewel, cold against her skin.

The one her father had given her.

The one Whisper pecked at like it were dangerous.

Auor whispered something under her breath, too soft to catch. Mabel's fingers twitched toward the pendant, but she didn't move.

She just stared at her reflection, the weight of the jewel pressing like a hand against her throat.

She didn't look like herself.

She looked like something more.

The woman in the glass was every inch a bride, yes—but also a flame, a reckoning. And though her heart still beat too fast, her chin lifted a little higher.

This was who she had become.

And there was no turning back.

23

The city stirred like a living heart, each beat timed with the sound of drums rolling through its stone streets. Banners in burgundy and gold fluttered from every balcony and archway, caught in the breeze that whispered of celebration. The scent of the ocean, fresh petals, and spiced bread hung in the air.

The arches of the temple filtered the golden-hour light into soft pools across the mosaic floor. Tall arched windows lined the walls, each one catching the sea's reflection and scattering it across the interior in trembling bands of gold and blue. Soft murmurs of conversation echoed gently beneath the dome, laced with the scent of sage and myrrh.

Carved pews filled the temple on either side, welcoming the honored guests of the royal wedding. Each one stood out; their ceremonial silk robes brightly dyed in a show of wealth. Above the growing throng of nobles, the domed ceiling rose impossibly high, painted with The Old Ones drifting across a twilight sky, clouds of rose and indigo surrounding them. Varkeyrish centered the dome, the two-headed bull commanding the room as he does all the gods.

Columns of pale stone veined with gold circled the hall, each wrapped with carved vines and flowering branches. Between them torches hung, adding a warm, flickering glow that mingled with the daylight with a shimmer.

Already gathered near one of the carved pillars, Thalen and Cavric stood deep in conversation, framed by the window overlooking the vast sea. Thalen, broad-shouldered and solemn, held himself like a mountain carved by time. Beside him, Cavric was all warmth, eyes bright, laughter creasing the corners of his mouth as he offered a delicate crystal glass filled with spiced mead.

“To old wars and new unions,” Cavric said, the words carrying a hint of reverence and mischief alike.

Thalen eyed the glass, then Cavric, and a reluctant smile cracked the stoic line of his mouth. “And to our stubborn children.”

Their glasses clinked.

The temple bells rang, not loud, but clear and shimmering. Outside, the streets of Aurevyn bloomed with laughter and song, citizens pressing close to the procession route with petals in their palms and prayers whispered among them.

The procession had begun.

Mabel stood atop a low dais just inside the palace gates, robed in her full bridal regalia. Her crown caught the morning sun, casting curved shadows of antlers across her brow. Citizens gathered in throngs behind woven rope barriers, their cheers rising each time they caught a glimpse of her.

She rode in an open, petal-strewn carriage, her hands folded in her lap, her expression perfectly serene. The gown trailed in the wind behind her, its golden embroidery gleaming in every flicker of light. Women threw flower garlands onto the path; children danced ahead of the guard escort with hand-painted flags in tow.

Ahead, Theodore rode at the front of the procession, dressed in deep maroon and charcoal, a sword fastened at his side. He looked over his shoulder once, finding her eyes. And in that brief meeting of gazes, Mabel felt the weight of what was to come next press in.

The temple bells rang out in the distance. The altar waited.

The cheers blurred into background noise as the carriage rolled onward, petals scattering beneath the wheels.

She looked out at the sea of faces—some familiar, most not—and let her gaze soften.

She hadn't always imagined her life would be forged in fire or rebellion, but here she was, cloaked in white, her strength not worn in armor, but in silence, precision, and the art of becoming what they expected.

She had turned the wedding into her rebellion. Every smile, every nod, every carefully chosen word had drawn them deeper into the illusion. She'd been told, more times than she could count, that she wasn't built for deception.

But she had played her part flawlessly.

The procession curved toward the temple gates. She lifted her chin.

The temple rose before them, carved from pale stone veined with gold—ancient and watching. Its great doors stood open, revealing the long aisle flanked by towering sconces and rows of honored guests cloaked in finery. At the far end, the altar gleamed beneath a canopy of hanging lanterns, each flame a trembling echo of the crowd's silent anticipation.

Mabel stepped from the carriage, her gown trailing behind her like starlight. The golden-antlered crown sat regally atop her braids, catching the light of a thousand watchful eyes. Trumpets sounded—a low, haunting note that rolled through the air.

The walk began. Each footstep rang louder in her chest than in the marble hall. The weight of lineage pressed against her spine.

The choices she'd made whispered at her heels. And the life she'd known—wild, aching, hers—folded itself into the one she was walking toward.

One step at a time.

Toward him. Toward the vow. Toward the end of pretending.

As Mabel stepped into the grand temple, the world surged around her—candlelight, color, and the rustle of whispered expectation. A thousand sights pressed in at once, but beneath it all, something tugged at the edge of her awareness.

She scanned the left row. Then the right.

No Lance.

Her heart twisted, quiet and sharp. He'd said he would come. Just to see her one last time. Just to watch her vanish.

But the space where he should've been was empty. And the silence of it echoed louder than the music. She swallowed, lifting her chin as the aisle stretched before her. She walked on.

Already waiting at the altar stood Theodore, the ancestral sword belted proudly at his side, his gaze unwavering. He didn't smile, but something in his eyes reached for her. The kind of look that didn't promise ease.

They met at the center.

The priestess stepped forward, robes trailing down her arms, her voice a gentle resonance that filled the vast dome above. “Today,” she began, “we witness not the end of two stories, but the beginning of one. Woven not from sameness, but from difference—from flame and stone, wind and root. You stand here not as halves seeking completion, but as whole selves, choosing to walk forward together.” She lifted a silk cord from the altar, gossamer-thin, glinting with threads of gold and garnet. “This is the binding. Not of obedience, nor of ownership. This is the promise to remain when the map grows unclear. To hold to truth when it is easier to be silent. To share strength when one falters.”

The cord wrapped once around their joined hands. The air thickened with incense and unspoken memories. She continued, eyes sweeping the gathered guests, “Let it be known—a union such as this is not forged in comfort. It is tempered through fire—rebellion, grief, hard-won trust. And so it shall endure because it has been tested.”

A second loop encircled their hands.

“Mabel, Theodore, do you offer yourselves freely, without coercion, without concealment, bound not by what you have been told to be, but by who you are?”

“I do,” Theodore said, voice low, steady.

Mabel nodded, her voice a breath. “I do.”

The final length of silk closed around their hands with a soft whisper. The priestess opened her mouth to speak the final prayer.

“Wait!” The voice rang through the hall like shattering glass.

Gasps rippled down the rows as every head turned toward the temple entrance. There, framed by the light of the open doors, stood Lance. His chest heaved with the force of his sprint, eyes locked on Mabel with a desperation that silenced even the priestess.

Her breath caught.

The silk stilled between her and Theodore.

A heavy silence fell over the temple as Lance stepped forward, every eye drawn to him. His clothes were disheveled from the run, his locs out of place, but his eyes—they were unwavering. Set on only her.

“I love you, Mabel,” he said, his voice clear and full, carrying up to the high arches of the temple. “I know I should've stayed silent. I know this isn't the time. But I can't—I can't just watch you walk down this path and say nothing.”

The crowd rippled with shocked murmurs. Somewhere, a noble gasped.

Theodore turned toward him, jaw tight. “That's enough,” he said, his voice controlled, edged with warning.

But Lance stepped closer, refusing to yield. “No. Not until I've said what I came to say.” His voice rose. “You deserve to make this choice freely—not out of duty, or politics, or anyone's idea of who you should be. If you choose him, I'll walk away. I will. But you have to know—I love you. I've always loved you. And I won't stand by while you give yourself to someone else without hearing it.”

The priestess lowered her hands, the cord still resting across Mabel and Theodore's joined wrists.

The hall was breathless.

All eyes turned to her. The bride in gold. The queen-to-be. The one who had been silent—until now.

For a heartbeat, the temple stilled around her.

Mabel's jaw clenched, and for a moment her composure cracked—anger flared, sudden and searing, rising like a tide she couldn't hold back.

How dare he. The thought cut through her, jagged and hot.

Her breath came in uneven bursts, each one a battle for control. Fury surged beneath her skin—hot, wild, unrelenting. He had stormed in without warning, without care, and shattered everything she'd built with such precision. One reckless choice, and now the scaffolding of her escape lay in ruins.

But even as rage bloomed behind her ribs, memory reached for it, softening the edges.

No crowns. No titles. Just warmth. Ease. The quiet kind of freedom she hadn't touched in years.

The way he had seen her—truly seen her—when no one else had even tried.

Her breath caught, sharp and silent.

Somewhere beside her, Theodore shifted. He cleared his throat once, low and threatening. His hand still held hers, but the grip had changed—cooler now. Measured. His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “Mabel. I need your answer.”

Three lives pressed against her skin—past, present, and the one just out of reach. Only one could walk forward from here.

Time fractured. The silk cord looped around their wrists hung suspended like a promise waiting to break.

Mabel didn't look at Lance. Didn't look at Theodore. She stared at the space between them—the open doors, sunlight spilling in like an invitation.

“Run.” The voice echoed through her mind, loud and clear.

Her fingers twitched. Magic surged, unbidden, blooming in her palms with a hiss of flame. It caught the cord between her and Theodore in an instant, fire racing along the silk like it had been waiting.

Theodore recoiled.

The cord dropped, burning as it fell—turning vows into ash.

Gasps rippled through the temple.

Theodore's eyes locked onto hers—wide, stunned, searching for something she couldn't give. His hand shot out, fingers closing around her wrist.

“Let me go,” she whispered, voice splintering as she turned toward him. “Please.”

His grip tightened. Jaw set. Brow drawn. For a heartbeat he held her there, caught between fury and fear, not even sure what impulse had taken him. Then something in him faltered.

His hand slackened. Fell away.

And then, she ran.

Down the altar steps, the gold-threaded train snapping at her heels like lightning. Lance straightened, hope flaring in his eyes as she neared—but she didn't slow. She ran right past him.

“Stop her!” Cavric roared, rising from his seat like thunder.

The guards surged toward the exit, boots pounding in unison.

But Mabel lifted her hand.

Flames erupted—two walls of fire roaring to life, halting the guards mid-stride, heat licking the mosaic floor, daring anyone to follow.

She tore through the temple doors, into the light, into the unknown. And didn't look back.

Behind her, gasps split the temple like a crack in glass—shock, fear, and awe blooming in its wake.

Theodore didn't hesitate. His hand flew to the hilt at his side. In one fluid motion, the ancestral sword was drawn, its steel catching the gold of lantern light with a hiss that cut sharper than the blade itself.

“You bastard,” Theodore growled, voice cold and thunderous.

Then, he moved. Gasps turned into startled screams. Guests surged to their feet. Nobles clutched at their companions as Theodore stepped down from the altar and charged.

Lance barely had time to brace. He held up a hand, half in instinct, half in protest, but Theodore was already bearing down on him—blade raised, crown askew, grief and fury burning behind his eyes.

The priestess shouted for peace. Guards sprang forward, unsure whom to protect. Fabrics rustled as the crowd scattered toward the temple's stone pillars, skirts and capes whipping in the sudden storm of motion.

The ceremony was gone. The sanctuary undone. And at its center—sword, love, and betrayal collided in a heartbeat poised to break.

Theodore's blade arced through the air with force born of fury—and cut through nothing but smoke.

In the space of a breath, Lance vanished. A shimmer pulsed around him, and he reappeared several feet away, the air crackling faintly where he'd stood. Fingers splayed, palms humming with magic.

Theodore stumbled forward, momentum unchecked, boots skidding across the polished stone. He caught himself, barely, and wheeled around with eyes blazing. “Coward!” he spat.

But Lance was already moving again, weaving spells with graceful, practiced precision. A gust of wind swept through the temple, toppling flower urns and extinguishing two sconces. Magic thrummed in the bones of the building.

“I don't want to hurt you,” Lance shouted over the rising din, “but I won't be struck down for loving her!”

Theodore's sword gleamed, answering him with steel instead of words. He lunged.

Lance's fingers flared—arcane sigils spun into existence midair, forming a shield just in time. Metal clashed with magic, sparks bursting where blade met barrier.

Steel versus sorcery. Tradition clashing with the untamed. And at the center of it—two men, neither willing to yield.

Theodore lunged again, fury propelling him forward like a storm barely contained. His blade met Lance's shield with a sharp crack, the rune-light fracturing under the pressure. But Lance shifted left too slow this time—Theodore's sword grazed his ribs, slicing through fabric and drawing a vivid streak of red.

Lance staggered, hissed through clenched teeth, and retaliated. A pulse of raw energy burst from his palm, throwing Theodore backward across the mosaic floor. The groom crashed into the base of the altar, crumpling to one knee, blood dripping from a gash along his brow where he'd struck the stone. His sword clattered across the floor, spinning wildly before stopping at Frey's feet.

The temple was no longer sacred. It was a battlefield. Most of the guests had already fled, their cries echoing beyond the temple doors. Only the family remained now—Cavric and Auor, cold and still as stone; Ada pressed against a column, breath held; Thalen, utterly confused at the sequence of events; and Frey, standing tall between them all, lips moving swiftly around ancient syllables.

The air snapped taut. With a final word, Frey raised one steady hand and cast.

Silence. Stillness.

A shimmering wave of magic rushed outward, washing over both men. Theodore froze mid-rise, muscles locked, breath caught in his throat. Lance's next spell evaporated between his fingers. The room stilled—save for the echo of flames dancing in their sconces, and the twin threads of blood running from pride and desperation alike.

Frey stepped forward slowly, voice even but laced with steel. “Enough,” she said, her gaze sweeping over both of them. “If love cannot be given freely, then do not let war be its surrogate.”

In the silence that followed, all that remained was the ruin of what had been a wedding. And what might now become a reckoning.

The spell broke.

Theodore and Lance both staggered as control returned to their limbs. Theodore's shoulder slammed into a pew as he caught himself, teeth clenched in pain. Lance dropped to one knee, steadying himself with a palm against the floor, sweat beading at his temple from the strain of his magic.

For a split second, the room held its breath again.

Then, Theodore lunged.

But before his blade could be reclaimed, Frey's gaze snapped to him—sharp as a drawn arrow. She didn't speak, not at first. She didn't have to. Her eyes, usually a harbor of warmth, now burned with unspoken fire. The look froze him in place, his hand hovering inches from the hilt. “Don't,” she said, voice cutting and dangerous. “You will not spill anymore blood in this temple.”

Theodore faltered. The rage in his eyes didn't fade, but it bent to something deeper—humiliation, grief, something too tangled for words. He stepped back.

Frey turned, her voice softening just enough to be heard. “Behave. Both of you. Or I swear by The Old Ones, I will make you.”

Cavric stepped forward, each boot striking the floor with an eerie finality, louder than the fading chaos clinging to the rafters. He moved between Lance and Theodore without a glance, his face carved in stillness—not calm, but something colder.

At the threshold of the temple doors, sunlight spilled around him, casting long shadows behind the wreckage of vows and fire.

He raised a hand. The flames Mabel had left behind vanished in an instant, swallowed by silence.

“I'll find her.”

Not a vow.

Not a hope.

A threat.

It curled through the silence like dread, chilling and final. There was no outrage in him, no fire or raised voice. Only the terrifying precision of a man who had survived wars, buried kings, and would burn down the very world if it meant reclaiming what he considered his.

The echo of Frey's voice still lingered in the temple's arches, sharp from where she'd intervened between sons, grief, and fury.

Thalen remained near the front, one hand clenched around the edge of the pew. He hadn't spoken since the shouting ceased.

Then came the cough. It was quiet at first, a stifled rasp swallowed by the temple's vaulted hush. But it came again—harsher. His shoulders hunched forward, and the glass in his hand slipped, shattering on stone.

Thalen choked on the next breath, gripping his chest. He gasped—eyes wide, unfocused—as he staggered sideways, knocking into a column. The priestess moved instinctively, breaking from the altar, but too late to catch him as he fell.

A thud, heavy and wrong.

“Thalen!” Frey's voice cracked through the stillness, heels skimming across scattered petals as she dropped to her knees. The priestess was already beside her, fingers at his throat, then jaw, then chest.

“He's not breathing—he's not—” she began, before being cut off by the sharp clamor of footsteps behind her.

Theodore moved, but Frey raised a hand—a queen's command, not a mother's plea. “Stay back.” Her voice trembled with held panic.

Thalen lay still.

And somewhere in the rafters above, the bells tolled—not in rhythm, but once, late, as if they, too, had forgotten how to grieve properly.

The King of Aurevyn was dead.

24

The city gates loomed in the distance, but Mabel didn't look back.

Her heels slapped against cobblestone. The wedding gown—a cascade of silk and lace—streamed behind her, collecting dirt and gasps in equal measure.

What have I done?

She tore past the market square, the scent of honey bread and roasted meat thick in the air. Vendors dropped what they were doing. A child pointed, slack-jawed. A baker gasped, “Is that the princess?”

Mabel didn't stop.

The gold cuffs at her wrists rang out with every step, the last remnants of ceremony clashing with the sound of her escape. Somewhere behind her, bells tolled their warning—but she didn't know if they were for her or because of her.

A guardsman made to step forward, then froze, recognition blooming on his face. “Princess—?”

She ducked into a side alley before he could move, breath ripping through her chest. The edge of her train snagged on a nail jutting from a wooden door, but she didn't stop to free it. The dress tore with a hiss, clean and cruel, ripping the train free.

She burst into the lower farmland, where the outer wall fell away into overgrowth. Past the cattle and gawking farmers was the treeline—shadowed, waiting, familiar.

And as her feet hit soft earth at last, as the city began to shrink behind her, she let out a cry—raw, wordless, not sorrow or joy but some jagged freedom in-between.

The forest swallowed her whole.

Mabel stood alone in a sheltered grove tucked along the river's bend, well beyond the reach of the city's eyes. Patches of snow still clung stubbornly to the shaded ground—half-melted, muddied at the edges, as though winter had not yet given its full permission to leave. The willows bowed low over the water, their branches trailing into the current. Somewhere above, birds chirped softly, unaware of the crooked crown tilting gently atop her tangled hair.

A shadow passed overhead.

She looked up, startled, as a raven swept low across the treetops. Its wings cut the pale light, silent but deliberate. It circled once, then glided on, vanishing behind a stand of pines.

She sank to her knees in a patch of thaw-soft earth, breath stuttering in shallow gusts. Her gown fanned around her in ruined elegance—golden thread catching in damp reeds, fabric stained by melting snow and flight. Crushed petals clung to the hem, relics of a ceremony she had walked away from without looking back.

Her fingers drifted to her wrist, to the place where the silk cord had once been knotted. Nothing remained of it now—only a phantom pressure and the memory of vows spoken. Her heart beat heavy and loud beneath skin that no longer felt regal—just real, and trembling, and hers.

“I left them all,” she whispered, though no one answered. Not Lance. Not Theodore. Not her mother or father. Just the soft rush of the river, gentle and indifferent.

She hadn't imagined her wedding day would come to this.

All the effort—maps inked in secrecy, drawings folded and hidden, supplies tucked away for the moment she'd flee. Whisper.

None of it was with her.

Only the silk wedding gown, heavy now with damp, dragging through the thawing forest.

And beneath the chaos—beneath the ache in her chest and the echo of what she'd left behind—was something quieter.

Relief, small but undeniable.

A hush swept the grove, broken only by the soft shuffle of wings overhead. Mabel glanced up—and there it was again. A shadow of feathers, gliding just above the trees, rustling through frostbitten branches.

It wasn't close. But it was there. Watching. Following.

Then the cold began to settle.

Not the sharp bite she knew from frosted mornings, but the slow kind—the kind that seeped into the joints, curled around the bones, and stayed. Her arms folded tight across her chest, fingers rubbing at soaked sleeves, the fabric heavy with snowmelt and flecked with brittle leaves.

The adrenaline was fading.

In its place—ache. And questions.

Where am I going?

The thought landed hard—what am I going to do? Her head snapped up, eyes scanning the grove—the winding trail, the tangled canopy, the dark smear of forest bleeding across the hill's edge. Every path looked the same. Unfamiliar. Unbothered by her presence.

She drew in a breath, steadying herself.

She wasn't in the Mirewilde yet.

But she felt it—pressing in from the trunks, whispering through the branches. And deeper still, beyond the reach of light, it waited.

The wind picked up from the river's edge—lifting her tattered skirts, sending ice slicing against her cheeks. Far behind, the city bells rang again, muffled by distance and trees.

At her throat, the pendant shifted.

A rustle caused her to spin to her feet, hand flying up before she could think. Fire bloomed at her fingertips—alive, burning pale blue at the edges with the heat of her panic.

From the tree line, Lance stepped through.

She said nothing at first. Just stared. Then, “Of course,” she scoffed. “It would be you.”

His brows were knit with worry, his breath uneven from a run. “Mabel,” he said softly, hands raised in a placating gesture. “I-I had to find you.” His eyes lingered on the fire at her fingertips, an unreadable look crossing his features.

The flame didn't fade.

“Everything was perfect, I was perfect, and you couldn't just wait,” she spat at him. “No—you had to storm in with your precious timing and your damned sense of loyalty,” she hissed, voice lethal and brittle.

Her chest rose and fell with the tension of the moment, the silence between them long and taut.

She had fled everything.

But somehow, he had followed.

The fire didn't vanish. It hovered, flickering cold and pale at her fingertips as she eyed him. She took a step back, crushing the grass beneath her heels.

“I did what I had to,” he said quietly, though the words rang hollow between them.

“You did what you wanted to do,” she shot back. “You knew what that wedding meant. What I was trying to—” She broke off, chest heaving, eyes glossed with something too bright to be rage alone. “You shouldn't have followed me,” she said, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “You think after everything—after what you did—you get to chase me down the moment I choose myself?”

Lance hesitated. “Mabel, I didn't come to change your mind. I just … I couldn't let you be alone.”

Her jaw clenched. The flames flared again as she stared at him with a raging intensity. The bird above them called out once, wings shifting in the leaves.

Lance took another cautious step. “I love you. That hasn't changed.”

Mabel took a deep breath. The flames dimmed—not extinguished, but softened. Because the truth was, even if she didn't trust the timing, even if she didn't trust him … he was her best shot at making it out of this alive.

The fire faded from her hands.

“You can follow me,” she said, voice hoarse, “but don't think for a moment that I'll ever forgive you for what you've done today.”

Lance stepped closer cautiously. “It didn't take long for me to find you—I knew you'd come out here,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “The forest has always been your place, hasn't it?”

Mabel didn't answer right away. She watched him through narrowed eyes, the wind pressing stray wisps of hair against her temples. Her gown was soaked at the hem, the crown somehow still clinging to her braid.

And yet, when he said her name again—“Mabel”—softer this time, something in her chest gave. Just a little.

“I didn't want to be found,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he replied, hands still loosely at his sides. “And I'm not here to ask you to undo what you did. I just … I needed to see you. To know you were all right.”

She let out a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I was always going to run,” she said, the truth cracking through her voice. “I thought I'd play the part, say the vows, and then disappear—maybe even fake my own death.” She rolled her eyes, turning away from him, fists curled at her sides. “Maybe if I'd made it to the end, they wouldn't have noticed me vanish. Maybe they'd have let me go if I did it quietly.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp now. “I just didn't want it to be like this,” she snapped. “Not in front of everyone. Not with a crown still on my head and vows spoken. Not with you bursting in like some hero ten steps too late.”

Lance exhaled sharply, like her words struck deeper than he'd braced for. He moved a step closer, not enough to crowd her, but just enough that she'd hear the truth in his voice, whether she wanted to or not.

“I know the timing was awful,” he said, hands open at his sides. “And if you think I planned to humiliate you, to make it harder—I didn't. Gods, Mabel, I just couldn't watch you marry him.” His jaw flexed, eyes fierce now. “I wasn't ready to let go. That's the truth. And maybe I was selfish, but I couldn't stand there while you vanished into someone else's future. Not without saying it. Not without trying.” He paused, breath catching. “You think I wanted to make a scene? I wanted to be the one in the wings, hurting, again?

No. But I'd rather you hate me than wonder later if you ever had a choice.” His voice broke a little on that last word. Just enough to betray what was underneath.

“I knew my choice,” Mabel said, tone sharp.

“I'm sorry, Mabel.” Lance shook his head. He reached toward her—slowly, hesitantly—as if drawn by something unspoken. His hand extended, fingers just inches from hers, from her cheek, from the truth he still couldn't touch.

And then—

A sudden rush of wings.

The bird dove, silent until the last second, then let loose a piercing shriek as it raked down from the branches overhead. Lance flinched, stumbling backward as talons scraped past his shoulder.

“What the hell!” he shouted, swiping wildly at the bird as it circled, relentless.

“Stop!” Mabel cried, instinct snapping into her voice. “Whisper—come!”

The raven obeyed immediately, banking sharply and landing atop the curve of her outstretched arm with eerie precision. His wings flared once for balance, then folded neatly as he gave a low croak of greeting.

She held him close, her heart still racing—but not entirely from fear.

Tucked between talons was a slender scroll wrapped in red thread, parchment curled tight. Her breath caught as she slipped it free, fingers nimble, gaze flicking briefly to Lance—who was too busy brushing feathers from his coat to notice.

She palmed the note, holding it behind her back as the raven settled.

Whisper had found her. So had someone else.

Whisper nestled calmly on her arm, unbothered by the confrontation moments before. Mabel's heart was still racing—not just from the dive, or from Lance's startled reaction, but from the message now hidden against her palm.

She turned slightly, shielding the note beneath a fold of her gown, fingers curling protectively around it. Then she looked at Whisper, voice lowered just above the hush of the river. “How did you find me?” she asked.

Whisper blinked, head tilting as if considering the question. He let out a faint chirr, low and gravelly, and sidestepped closer along her arm, feathers catching the fading sun.

Mabel smiled faintly despite herself. Behind her, Lance was still brushing himself off, muttering something under his breath, unaware of the shift in the air around her.

She didn't open the message. Not yet. Some truths, like flames, needed to wait for darkness.

Lance shifted slightly. His arms folded, but the gesture looked half defensive, half uncertain. “So,” he said, voice quieter now, as though afraid to disturb the moment too much, “What happens next, Mabel? You ran from a wedding, from—well, everything. Are you just going to disappear into the forest and hope they forget?”

His eyes flicked—again—to the raven perched neatly on her arm.

Whisper's beady gaze never wavered, unblinking and dark as obsidian. Watching him. Measuring.

Lance cleared his throat. “I mean … Do you have a plan?” he asked, trying for casual, failing at it. “You've always had one. Even if you didn't tell me.”

Mabel didn't answer right away. She stroked a finger absently along Whisper's back, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath her touch. Her mind was already spinning with the weight of the hidden message.

Her plan had been to escape. But now, escape had turned into something else—thicker, stranger. A silence full of knowing.

“I don't know yet,” she eased the lie through her teeth. “But I know I'm not going back.”

Not to the altar. Not to the path laid out for her like a gilded snare.

Lance nodded slowly, but his gaze ticked to the raven once more. He didn't hide it now.

Whisper clicked his beak once, a warning.

Mabel arched a brow, her arm still steady beneath the raven's talons. Whisper blinked slowly, unbothered by the attention. She turned her eyes back to the river, letting the quiet settle again.

Lance watched her, the wind tugging at his sleeves as evening began to settle its weight across the riverbank. The light had shifted—slanting gold turning to ash; the trees casting longer shadows with every breath.

“We should find shelter,” he said at last, glancing toward the thickening woods. “Night's coming on fast, and you're still in a dress meant for ceremony, not cold.”

Mabel looked down at the fine silk soaked at her torn hem, felt the weight of the crown still tangled in her hair like a question left unanswered. Part of her wanted to argue, to remind him she had managed plenty without him. But another part—the weary part—knew he was right.

She said nothing, only gave a curt nod and adjusted Whisper on her arm. The raven ruffled his feathers once but remained still.

The snow cracked gently beneath their feet, ice-glazed twigs snapping as they passed. Lance's cloak swayed with his stride, steady and sure, the way he always moved when he wasn't trying to command attention.

Mabel kept a careful distance behind him, the silence between them brittle and quiet.

“Maybe I should've told you,” Mabel said quietly, eyes fixed on the icy path beneath them, “why I was shutting you out.”

Her heels crunched softly through the frostbitten leaves. She didn't glance at him—just folded her arms tighter around herself. Half for warmth. Half to keep the pieces from falling apart.

“I wanted to,” she continued. “But I couldn't risk it. Not with what I was planning. If anyone had known …”

Lance's voice came gently, cutting through the hush. “You could've trusted me.”

She flicked her gaze toward him, then dropped it again. “Can I?”

He slowed; something caught in his throat. “What does that mean?”

Mabel's breath came out in a plume of fog. “It was never just about you or him, Lance. It was about me. Choosing myself for the first time. Not a kingdom. Not an alliance. Not even love.”

She finally looked at him. “If I had told you … you'd have asked me to stay. And I don't know if I would've had the strength to say no.”

The silence that followed was weighty but not bitter—just a moment suspended between truth and grace.

“Well,” Lance said, a trace of a smile softening his voice, “I'm not here to drag you back to Aurevyn. Or trick you into marrying me instead.”

He nudged her shoulder gently, watching the snow crunch between their feet.

She smiled in return, the expression slow, tired—maybe real.

And yet … something in him felt off. Subtler than deception, quieter than guilt. A difference she couldn't name.

The trees thinned slightly as they climbed a gentle ridge; the snow crunching beneath their steps like brittle parchment. A hush hung between them—not uncomfortable but layered. Mabel walked a pace behind Lance now. Her eyes narrowed slightly, trained on the line of his shoulders, the way his hands kept fidgeting—twitching. Still, she said nothing.

Instead, she tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear and asked, “How did you find me?”

Lance didn't miss a beat. “I followed the guards' confusion. Then the petals. It wasn't hard to find you.”

“I wasn't exactly trying to be discreet,” she scoffed.

“No,” he said after a pause. “But if you ever plan to flee mid-ceremony again … maybe don't leave a trail of chaos behind you.”

Mabel frowned, brushing a low branch aside. The silence pressed for a breath too long before Lance added, with a strange bitterness, “I've always known you'd do something reckless eventually.”

That stopped her.

She looked at him—really looked. The words weren't laced with admiration. Not quite disappointment, either. But something in the way he said it … it was eerily familiar.

Her voice was slow, edged. “Is that how you see me? Reckless?”

His gaze lingered on the horizon. “No,” he said. “But that doesn't mean you aren't.”

She didn't respond. Just pulled her arms tighter around herself, the warmth between them thinning.

Still, she walked on. But now there was a wedge of distance—not physical but felt. A thread she couldn't yet name tugged at her ribs. Like she'd missed something. Or something had changed, and only the forest had noticed.

The snow deepened as they moved further into the forest, muffling the world into softness. Their footsteps fell in a slow, uneven rhythm—Lance keeping to the lead, Mabel trailing just behind, her breath visible in pale ribbons.

Neither of them spoke. Only the hush of the forest accompanied them now, and the occasional snap of brittle twigs underfoot.

Whisper circled overhead once, then disappeared beyond the trees.

Mabel continued to follow Lance deeper into the forest. But even as she did, her fingers brushed the edge of the scroll hidden in her gown, and something in her chest tightened.

She wasn't running anymore.

But she wasn't safe yet, either.

25

The trees thinned just as the last breath of sunlight slipped below the horizon, casting everything in that soft, in-between glow where gold faded to blue and the world held its breath.

The hunter's lodge emerged from the brush, weathered, half-swallowed by vines and snow, the wood darkened with age. One of the shutters hung crooked, creaking faintly as the wind pressed against it. Ice blanketed the roof.

Mabel stood still for a moment, taking it in.

The chill had crept beneath her gown hours ago, fingers numb, damp silk clinging to her ankles. She adjusted Whisper on her arm, and the raven gave a soft rustle of wings, sensing her hesitation. Her entire body was trembling in the cold.

Lance stepped ahead, testing the door with a shove. It gave with a reluctant groan, revealing a single, dusty room inside. Shadows stretched long across the wooden floorboards, and the scent of old smoke lingered in the air—beneath it, something fainter. Pine. Ash. Time.

“It's not much,” Lance said, stepping inside. “But it's dry. And no one will look for you here.”

Mabel followed slowly, her eyes sweeping the space as if trying to read what was left behind. A hearth sat cold against the far wall, a half-broken chair near it. Shelves lined with glass jars—some still sealed. Steep, time-worn stairs hugged the wall beside the hearth, their wood bowed with age. At the top, closed doors waited in silence—lodgings long abandoned, untouched by light or memory.

A place once meant for retreat. For silence. For hiding. Now likely abandoned as it sat so close to the Mirewilde.

She crossed to the hearth and crouched beside it, trembling fingers brushing the edge of the stone.

Outside, the last band of sunlight flared once across the sky—then was gone. The forest exhaled into night.

Lance crossed the room and seized the splintered chair by its backrest, no ceremony, no pause. The wood groaned, then snapped with a sharp crack—the legs crumbling like dry kindling in his grip. He hauled the remains to the hearth and tossed them aside with a grunt.

Without a word, he began clearing the hearth, sweeping away old ash and fragments of charred wood—ghosts of a fire long gone. Mabel joined him quietly, kneeling beside him to arrange the kindling. She didn't look at him, not directly.

Her eyes lingered on her hands, steady and sharp, even as the dark crept in around them. She did her best to start a fire. Her frozen fingers trembled as she tried to conjure a flame.

Finally, she managed one and sparked it on the wood. It burned—small, stubborn. It licked at the bark, then took, a small fire blooming between them. The orange light threw long shadows up the walls, softening the edges of the worn cabin, warming the cold gloom one breath at a time.

Mabel leaned back slowly, eyes fixed on the growing flame. She edged as close as she dared, knees drawn tight, hands extended toward the warmth. Fingers splayed, she let the heat lick at her palms—aching, welcome, real.

Whisper fluttered down from the rafters where he'd perched and landed near the hearth, giving a low click of approval. But he didn't settle. He stayed vigilant, watching.

Mabel pulled the crown from her head and set it beside her, the gold catching the firelight but no longer gleaming the way it had beneath the temple chandeliers.

Everything was quieter now. Cracked open. Waiting.

Mabel stayed near the hearth, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, watching the flame breathe. The heat seeped slowly into her bones, chasing away the ache of running and the cold of what came after.

Her gaze flickered to Lance, the subtle mask of indifference lining his features, then up at Whisper. “I wonder if any hunters left clothes behind. I need to get out of this dress.”

The fire's warmth clung to her as Mabel rose from the hearth, brushing soot from her fingers.

She moved toward the narrow staircase at the far end, the steps steep and worn with use long past. Whisper fluttered down from the hearth to meet her, landing lightly on the top of the railing. He tilted his head, blinking slowly, then gave a single click as she approached.

Mabel smiled, lifting a hand. He hopped onto her shoulder without hesitation; claws gentle against the thin fabric of her gown. She paused for a moment, her fingers stroking his feathers absently, the heat of his small body grounding her.

“Still with me,” she whispered.

Then she climbed the stairs.

The upper floor was colder, the windows streaked with old rain and frost. She crossed into a small room—likely once a bunk for the occasional traveler. A dresser sat opposite an old, stained mattress.

Dust lay heavy on the wood, untouched for years. But as she pulled the drawers open, they were empty.

“I don't doubt this place was looted,” she muttered to Whisper. “Guess I'll perish of frostbite.” She tried for a joke, but it fell flat.

He offered a low chirr in response.

Mabel eased the door shut, the soft click echoing louder than it should have. For a moment, she simply stood there, the scent of ash and aged wood wrapping around her like a second skin. The gown clung to her, sodden and heavy, its silk now tattered—ghost-white and useless.

Her breath trembled as she reached behind her, fingers numb and fumbling as she slipped into the folds of her gown and drew out the scroll. She unrolled it slowly, careful not to tear the thin parchment.

Only three words stared back: Trust no one.

Her breath caught.

The handwriting was unmistakable—an elegant, slanted script marked with the same little flick at the tail of every letter. Frey's hand. No signature. No embellishment. Just the warning.

Mabel swallowed, staring at it as though it might change if she blinked. Trust no one. Not even Lance? Not even—

Her eyes lifted to Whisper, perched again on the rafters, watching her without a sound.

“You brought this to me,” she whispered, fingers tightening around the edge of the note. “Frey sent you … She must've known.”

Known what, though? That someone would follow her? That there was danger behind a familiar face?

Before she could sit with the weight of it, the door creaked. She startled and shoved the note into her bodice, crumpling it instinctively as Lance stepped into the room.

He paused in the doorway, eyes flicking over her tattered dress. “No luck?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

Mabel shook her head and forced a tight smile, her hands still clenched behind her back.

Whisper made a low click from the shadows above.

The silence lingered a beat longer than it should have, but Mabel didn't press. Whatever questions burned beneath her ribs, she folded them away—for now.

Lance offered a half-tilted smile, softer than before. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the stairs. “Let's try to get you warm.”

She followed without protest.

Whisper leaped from his perch and glided down after them, wings wide and noiseless. He landed on the mantel just above the hearth, feathers ruffling as he resumed his vigil.

The fire had burned low but steady, casting a soft glow. Lance pulled an old blanket from the back of a chair and spread it around Mabel's shoulders as she eased down beside the flames.

She let herself lean into the warmth. She needed it.

Lance carefully sank down beside her, the space between them narrowing to a breath. Their knees touched—barely. Just enough for warmth to pass between them.

“Fire always finds you,” he said after a moment, gaze fixed on the flames. “Or maybe you find it. Vice. Weapon. Refuge. It's all the same for you, isn't it?”

She didn't look at him. Mabel closed her eyes slowly; the fire's glow etched in her lashes. She didn't answer. But something in her—something coiled and quiet—unfurled just a little.

Whisper blinked once. Still watching.

Mabel sat still, shoulders wrapped in the blanket, eyes half-lost to the glow—but she felt him shift beside her.

Lance leaned in, just a little at first. His fingers grazed hers where they rested in her lap, testing the quiet. She recoiled slightly, eyeing him with an unease clinging to her chest.

“You don't have to be alone in this,” he said softly.

Above them, on the railing near the fire's edge, Whisper gave a sharp click, feathers rustling. Then another, more insistent caw, low and displeased.

Mabel stilled, lips parting, but her gaze flicked toward him—his eyes locked on Lance, body tense, wings slightly flared in warning.

Lance blinked, brows tugging together slightly, leaning back—but only just.

And that's when it caught her eye.

The fire snapped, casting a fresh rush of gold across his face—and in the shifting light, something didn't sit right. The lines of his jaw didn't quite match the shadows. The curve of his mouth—something about it held too still. Too constructed. Not him, not quite.

Her heart gave a violent kick.

But she didn't move. Didn't speak.

She offered a soft smile instead, lowering her head just enough to hide the flicker of realization behind lowered lashes. Mabel's mind spun quietly. Trust no one, Frey had written.

And now, with her pulse tight and her breathing measured, she began to understand why.

“I-I need some air,” she said, the tremor in her voice betraying the composure she tried to wear.

“I'll come with you,” Lance offered as she rose.

She turned sharply. “No. I'm fine,” she said, plastering her best practiced smile on her lips. “I just need a minute—alone.”

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click.

The cold hit her like truth.

She exhaled hard, breath curling in the night air, and gripped the porch railing for support. Her wide eyes scanned the trees ahead—but they didn't see the dark. They searched for answers.

How did I not see it?

The timing. How he'd known exactly where to find her. Every word perfectly tuned to soothe.

Her stomach sank.

She stared at her trembling hands, chest rising in sharp breaths.

A sharp caw sliced through the night like warning bells.

Mabel's head snapped up, every nerve flaring. Inside the cabin, chaos bloomed—crashing wood, scrambling boots, the shrill cry of a raven in defense.

“You filthy beast!” Lance's voice, rough, rising in fury.

She ran.

Her heels struck the porch hard, the door rattling as she flung it open and stormed back inside. The fire still flickered low—but now it danced wildly in response to motion.

Whisper was a storm of feathers and fury, diving at Lance's head, talons raking the air with sharp precision. Lance had his arm up, shielding his face, but what chilled her more was the dagger in his other hand—drawn, glinting, raised.

He wasn't defending. He'd been advancing.

“Whisper!” she cried out.

The raven wheeled once, skimming low across the cabin before landing on the rafters above her, wings half-fanned in defiance. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, feathers bristled and fierce.

Lance turned, eyes wild, the blade still tight in his grasp. “He came at me,” he spat. “Clawed my face like he'd lost his mind!”

She took in everything. The way the flame cast too-sharp light on his figure—the flicker in his eyes as if the light passed through them, the way his shadow lagged half a second behind his movements.

She stepped inside fully, shoulders squaring. “Why do you have a dagger?”

He hesitated. And in that breath, Mabel knew.

Lance didn't answer. He just moved.

No flicker of warning, no pause for breath—he lunged, dagger gleaming in the firelight as his face twisted, all tenderness vanished in an instant.

Mabel reacted on instinct.

Her palm snapped outward. Heat surged up her arm like lightning through bone.

Flames erupted.

Not a wild blaze—but a barrier, hot and sharp, rising between them in a wall of searing blue and gold. The fire didn't burn the air—it cut through it, alive, coiled, and controlled.

The illusion reeled back, face lit grotesquely in the fire's glow. For a blink, his features warped—too smooth, then too sharp. Not Lance. Not even close.

“Stay back!” Mabel shouted, every nerve alive, her other hand rising now, energy building fast and ready.

But the illusion only hissed, voice distorted, crawling with a magic not its own. “He knew you'd run.”

Whisper shrieked from above, launching into a fresh dive.

Mabel stood her ground, flames circling her palms.

The illusion lunged again, faster this time—less human, more a collection of rage and command wrapped in familiar skin. The dagger arced toward her with terrifying precision, firelight glinting from the steel.

Mabel threw up both hands. Flame erupted, not clean this time, but ragged—born of fear. It blasted outward in a flash of blue and gold, driving the figure back several paces. The walls trembled with the force of it, dust shaking from the rafters, Whisper shrieking overhead as he circled.

But the illusion didn't falter for long. It charged through the smoke, eyes gleaming wrong. Mabel backpedaled, casting another bout of flame toward the floor—forcing the creature to stumble, but not fall.

Her breathing was ragged now, arms aching. The fire surged, wild and biting, but he was relentless. He feinted to the side, and she barely turned in time, raising a wall of searing air that hissed against the dagger's edge—too late.

The blade sliced across her ribs, deep, a searing flash of pain stealing her breath. She staggered, blood hot against her skin, but the fire did not falter.

Too fast. Too strong. Her magic flared again, but it was slipping—threads fraying with every cast.

She thrust her palm forward as the other clutched at her side. Fire licked across his chest, and this time, it struck true—burning through the illusion for a single, splintered second.

His face twitched, not in pain, but like paper tearing. Her father's magic was unraveling. But still, it pressed forward.

The cabin groaned around them, the heat mounting. And Mabel knew—she couldn't hold him off for much longer.

He surged forward again, faster this time—more force than form, driven by something savage beneath his stolen face. The dagger flashed in the firelight, raised high as he closed the distance. It came down in a vicious arc, swift and brutal.

Mabel's fingers trembled as the blade flared to life in her hand—a conjured weapon of magic and will, its edge still forming as it met his with a thunderous clang. Sparks scattered across the cabin floor as the illusion pressed in, merciless, relentless.

She gritted her teeth and held him at bay; their blades locked near her shoulder. The heat from the fire behind her licked at her back; the pressure of his advance pushed her to the edge of balance.

He growled—low, unnatural. His eyes flickered, warped, swimming with magic too old for the face it wore.

Mabel faltered. And in that breath, he broke through.

His blade knocked hers aside with brutal strength, sending her stumbling. Her heels scraped across the wooden floor as she fell with a loud thud. Pain shot through her side like fire igniting. Her hand clutched at her side, breath sharp as she felt the sodden fabric of her dress.

The illusion stalked through the rising flames, cloak charred, skin blistering and reforming, eyes fixed on her like a beast finally loose from the leash.

“Why won't you stop?” she cried, her voice cracking over the roar of the flames.

He didn't answer. Because he wasn't meant to answer—he was only created to return her.

She backed away, throwing another jet of searing flame, then another—each one brighter, hotter. The walls of the cabin crackled around them, heat warping the wood.

But the thing in Lance's skin kept coming.

And her strength was slipping.

He towered over her, shadows twisting across his face as that crooked, too-wide grin spread again. Before she could scramble away, his hands shot out—fingers clamping around her ankles.

Mabel screamed, panic ripping from her throat as he yanked her across the floorboards with unnatural strength. Her nails scraped uselessly against the wood as he dragged her toward the door, boots slamming into the frame.

In a breathless blur, she was thrown onto the porch. The cold struck her like a slap. Before she could rise, he was on her again—hands seizing her wrists, forcing her upright with a brutal jerk. The dagger caught moonlight as he raised it to her throat.

She'd burned through every drop of magic she had left—her limbs ached, her fingers twitched uselessly, the heat inside her reduced to ash and embers. The illusion's grip on her wrists was crushing, dragging her across the porch, inch by inch, toward whatever fate had been carved for her.

Still, she fought. Weakly, desperately, Mabel twisted in his grasp, summoning the last flicker of warmth from deep within her chest. A spark—not fire, but fury. Enough to jolt her elbow free, enough to stagger him half a step.

But not enough to escape.

A voice cut through the trees. Cold. Commanding. “That's enough.”

The illusion froze.

From the shadows beyond the treeline, the heavy clomp of hooves, the rumble of wheels. A dark carriage stood at the forest's edge, drawn by two black steeds that barely stirred despite the tension spilling across the clearing.

And exiting it—her father.

Tall, still, his silhouette carved from winter itself. His hands were folded calmly behind his back, but there was nothing casual about the way he stood, as if the forest itself bowed in deference to his presence. “You've made quite the mess,” he said, voice smooth as frostbite. “But don't fret, child. It ends now.”

The illusion still held her. Its grip pinned her arms behind her back, the dagger's edge grazing her ribs as it held her upright on trembling legs. Every muscle in Mabel's body screamed to resist, but all she could do was lift her head.

Mabel summoned the last dregs of her strength, fire flickering to life at her fingertips—shaky, sputtering, but still burning. Every breath was a battle, every heartbeat a reminder of the pain lancing through her side. She swayed but remained standing.

Cavric's voice slithered through the air, full of venomous amusement. “Parlor tricks. Is that all you've got left? Look at you—you're bleeding, broken. Even whole, you never stood a chance.” He stepped closer, sneering. “Stop pretending this ends any way but mine.”

Cavric stood beyond the porch, flanked by shadows and stone-eyed horses. The door to his dark carriage hung open behind him like a waiting mouth.

She met his gaze, voice ragged but unshakable. “I'll never stop trying to get away from you.” She gasped for breath between the words. “You will never own me,” she shouted, the words ripping from her throat, raw and burning. Each word cost her—blood sliding down her side, magic sparking chaotically at her fingertips. “I am not yours. I will never be yours.”

Cavric laughed—a low, scraping sound that echoed through the air like rusted chains dragging across stone. “Why would you think you have a choice? Your defiance will only work against you,” he sneered, eyes glinting. He stepped closer, slowly, relishing the way she flinched but didn't back down. “But if pain is what it takes to teach you obedience, then so be it.” His voice dropped, poison lacing every word. “I'll break you if I must. Piece by piece.”

But still—her fire didn't die.

“I will not kneel,” she hissed. “Not to you. Not to anyone.” She glared at him through her lashes. “Do your worst.”

Cavric dipped just in front of her, his gaze sweeping over her like a master appraising something already won. He grabbed her side, still oozing bright red blood, fingers digging into her wound. Mabel let out a piercing cry. “You will,” he said softly, mock pity curling around his words. “But remember this moment after I've killed your fire—you did this to yourself.”

He reached up—almost tender—and brushed a gloved finger along the chain at her throat. The necklace hung scorched and dulled by soot, the charm pulsing with a faint, unnatural glow.

“You didn't even realize,” Cavric whispered, leaning in with relish. “All this time carrying it, and still … you're clueless.” He laughed softly, a sound devoid of warmth, as her brow furrowed in stunned confusion. His fingers curled slowly around the pendant. “And you never even thought to ask what it really does? Mabel, how could you be so utterly foolish? It's disappointing, really.”

The charm pressed hard against her skin, cold as iron. His words echoed through her mind, turning in maddening circles.

What is it doing to me? What has it already done?

Her pulse quickened, panic needling past pain and exhaustion. She tried to piece it together, thoughts skittering through fog.

It's been with me the whole time.

Above them, Whisper shrieked—wings carving a furious arc through the smoke-thick air.

“Let me go,” Mabel growled, jaw tight, pain sharpening every word.

Cavric stepped back, hands clasped behind his back with the serenity of a victor. His voice was soft, almost gentle.

“No,” he said. “You're coming home.” He didn't raise his hand. He didn't need to. The magic obeyed his voice alone. “Enough of this,” he said softly, with all the weight of command. “Restrain her.”

From the ground beneath Mabel, sigils flared—pale as moonlight, ancient and exact. Chains of iridescent light coiled up her arms in a blink, seizing her wrists with a chilling snap of finality. She gasped, struggling, but the enchantment held fast—neither hot nor cold, but empty, as if her magic had no voice within it.

The illusion reacted instantly. Obedient. Unfeeling.

It dragged her down the porch steps, boots scraping against the wood as she twisted in vain. She kicked once, shouted his name—but the creature didn't flinch. It guided her toward the carriage.

“Don't do this!” she cried, the chilled air stinging her throat.

Cavric watched from the clearing's edge, unmoved.

The illusion shoved her forward into the waiting carriage—hard.

She hit the carriage floor with a grunt, the chains yanking taut as she twisted to sit up. She watched as the illusion disappeared into thin air, shimmers of magic left in its wake.

Then, the carriage door slammed shut.

Inside the suffocating space, silence pressed against Mabel like a second skin. She lay where she'd landed—knees bent, wrists bound, her clothes still soaking in fresh blood and more still oozing. Her breath came fast at first, then slower. Shallower. Like her body was bracing to accept what her heart wouldn't.

She'd been captured.

The realization trickled—slow, steady, unstoppable.

Her father had won.

She shifted upright, back pressed against the wall of the carriage, legs curled beneath her. The chains around her wrists gleamed faintly in the dark, humming with Cavric's magic—steady, pulsing, final. She stared at them. Felt the weight of what they meant.

Choice, once fragile and defiant, had been stripped from her with the efficiency of a plan long laid.

But not her will. Never that.

She closed her eyes. Let the carriage rock beneath her. And in that silence, she gathered the pieces of herself still sharp enough to cut through steel. Bit by bit.

This wasn't over.

26

Moorthwyn loomed.

Gray spires rose jagged against a bruised sky, the castle's silhouette cleaving through the mist like a blade. Its stones dripped with rain and shadow. The scent of iron—distant, but unmistakable—seeped into the carriage.

Mabel stirred, barely. Her vision blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into one another. Her side throbbed beneath the sodden fabric of her wedding dress, each jolt of the horse jarring the wound deeper. Now, only the rhythm of wheels and the occasional rattle of chains tethered her to the present.

They were nearly home. Home. She tried to ignore the low throb of dread in her chest.

Cavric rode ahead, flanked by soldiers in Moorthwyn steel. From the carriage's small window, Mabel glimpsed the gates yawning open, an old stone mouth swallowing her whole. Banners bearing the raven hung limp with rain—her father's sigil, not hers. Not anymore. Maybe Meryth had truly forsaken her.

The carriage rolled to a halt.

Outside, torches sputtered to life, casting long shadows on the slick stones. A footman opened the door. Mabel tried to move, to sit upright, but her limbs were slow to obey.

“Get her out,” came Cavric's voice—flat, dismissive.

A soldier's hand gripped her elbow. As they lifted her from the carriage, the world tilted, the castle spires spinning for a moment before settling into sharp relief. The scent of damp stone, old magic, and iron filled her lungs. Her knees buckled slightly as boots struck the courtyard.

Mabel didn't cry out. She wouldn't give him that. Instead, she lifted her chin and stared past her father's shoulder, toward the keep's highest window.

There—just for a breath—something shifted. A silhouette wavered in the glow, then vanished just as quickly.

Overhead, the sky cracked open with distant thunder, and through the heavy swirl of clouds came the telltale cry. Whisper. The raven's caws cut through the gloom, sharp as flint. Mabel let her eyes drift upward through the haze and pain. He was out there, circling above the carriage—unwavering, loyal. Just watching and waiting.

The courtyard swallowed her boots with a wet slap. Slush clung to the stones—remnants of winter refusing to die. Snow, half-melted and muddied, pooled in the seams of the cobbles. Rain mixed with ice trickled from the eaves above, each drop falling with a precise, ticking rhythm.

Two guards flanked her now, hands firm beneath her arms as they guided her forward. Her legs trembled with each step, bones hollowed by blood loss and cold. But Mabel held her silence. The warmth soaked into her side wasn't comfort—it was the steady seeping of her wound, pulsing in time with the echo of her boots.

They passed beneath the archway into the shadow of the castle. The doors loomed tall, carved with ancient runes now softened by frost and moss. She remembered tracing those symbols with mittened fingers when she was small—before power twisted them into warnings.

Inside, the torches had been lit. The corridor breethd old heat and dust—iron, rust, and memory—stale but unyielding.

Rain drummed behind them as the doors groaned shut.

“Take her to the west wing,” Cavric ordered, his voice cutting through the quiet. “And tell Auor she'll want to see what's been dragged in from the snow.”

Mabel didn't flinch. She lifted her chin and looked past him, toward the great stairs, where a navy carpet trailed. Above, the spiral corridors whispered of secrets and shadows—and at the very top, she saw her mother.

At a glance, Auor's expression might've passed for fury—the set of her jaw carved from stone, her eyes sharp and cold as thunderheads. But beneath that carefully composed mask, worry thrummed like a second heartbeat—quiet, but unrelenting.

She was still in the gown she had worn at the wedding, the silk dulled and wrinkled, clinging to the memory she hadn't managed to shed. She'd arrived only moments before them, the weight of Cavric's command dragging her home in the aftermath of the ceremony's collapse.

Now, standing here, the reason was painfully clear.

The guards moved. So did Mabel. Slowly, with every step leaving wet prints behind.

The west wing corridors unfurled before her like a memory long buried—cold stone veined with frost, torches hissing against damp air. The guards kept a steady pace, but Mabel lagged by half a step, the wound at her side biting sharper now, as if it, too, recognized the path.

Snowmelt clung to her. It puddled in her footprints, muddying the navy runner that lined the hall. Her shoulder brushed the wall for balance once—the stone was slick, as if the castle itself had begun to weep.

A guard cleared his throat. She ignored him. The ache in her body had dulled to something more spectral, almost weightless.

She knew what stood at the end of this corridor—her old chamber. Cavric hadn't changed it, of course. Not out of kindness—but because it was a cage perfectly fitted to the girl he thought he'd broken. The door loomed ahead, carved with curling ivy and a brass handle dulled by the years.

One of the guards stepped forward to open it. The hinges groaned.

Inside, firelight flickered against pale tapestries. The bed had been made. A shawl draped across the chair.

A basin of water steamed gently by the hearth. Someone had prepared it. But her once lively decorations of holly and pine were now wilting away along with her.

Mabel crossed the threshold. Whisper cawed overhead, muffled now through the window's frost-streaked panes.

The guards didn't speak. With a curt nod and a rough shove, they deposited her inside the chamber like a sack of grain, letting the door swing shut behind them without so much as a glance.

And just like that, the magic shackles disappeared. They dissolved with a whisper, a rush of warmth flooding Mabel's wrists as the spell lifted. She flexed her fingers slowly, skin turned raw beneath the ridged steel.

She didn't move.

For a long moment, the only sound was the hearth crackling and the soft hiss of snow melting on the windowpanes. Her body ached in waves, but it was the stillness that pressed hardest.

She could feel the shape of the room—every shift in light, every echo of memory embedded in the stone. This was the room where she had learned lullabies. Where she'd wept into feather pillows after dreams of running. Where she'd once escaped to when her father's rage became too loud.

The door opened.

Auor stepped through, robes trailing across the threshold. Her face was pale and drawn, regal still, but stripped of warmth. Her mouth a line. Her spine like iron.

But her eyes—

They betrayed her.

Cold as her expression was, they shimmered faintly in the firelight, glassy with pain.

She didn't rush forward. Didn't let her voice crack. Instead, she stood tall and said, low and level, “You look like death.” Her hands trembled at her sides.

The door clicked shut behind Auor, but neither woman moved. Silence pressed in, thick as the snow on the castle roof, ancient as the stone beneath their feet. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting shifting gold across the floor between them.

Mabel stood motionless, one hand braced on the chair back, breath shallow. Her eyes found her mother's—searching but guarded.

Auor took one cautious step forward.

Then another.

Still, Mabel didn't speak. The pain in her side had sharpened, red-hot beneath the surface, but she refused to show it. Not yet. Not even to her.

Auor reached for her gently—tentative, barely touching—and Mabel faltered. Her knees buckled under her, and a gasp broke from her lips as lightning laced through her ribs.

The sound shattered them both.

“Mabel—” Auor caught her daughter under the arms, steadying her, her composure cracking like ice. The chill in her voice faltered, and something warmer, more fragile, surfaced beneath.

Mabel sagged into her grip, eyelids fluttering.

For a moment, they remained there—mother and daughter—no words, only breath, shared pain, and the ache of all that had not been said.

Auor slipped one arm around Mabel's waist and began guiding her toward the adjoining washroom. Her touch was steady but gentle, her pace matched to Mabel's faltering steps.

The chamber was lit by low golden lamplight, and the air was thick with steam. A shallow copper basin sat in the center, water warmed and waiting. Lavender hung faint in the mist—an echo of the past.

Auor's voice was quiet. “Sit.”

Mabel obeyed, limbs trembling as she sank onto the wooden stool beside the basin. Her dress clung to her skin, heavy with blood and melted snow. Her fingers curled into the fabric, unsure where to start.

But Auor moved slowly, delicately, as if undoing threadbare magic. She unfastened the clasps at Mabel's shoulder, peeled the ruined silk back layer by layer, revealing bruised ribs, scraped collarbones, and the deep gash that still oozed beneath her arm. She didn't flinch.

She didn't scold. She only said, “I'll be careful.”

Mabel nodded once, jaw tight. Her skin was mottled from the cold, a ghostly blue traced with blotches of red and patches of soot.

As Auor helped her to her feet and supported her into the basin, the steam enveloped her in a rush. The moment the water touched her skin, Mabel sucked in a sharp breath, muscles seizing. Heat licked at her frozen limbs, coaxing blood back to the surface, and fire met fire where the water touched her wound. She cried out—not loudly, but with a crack in her voice that hadn't been there before.

Auor froze. Her hands hovered at Mabel's back, her composure slipping. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Mabel shook her head through gritted teeth. “It's fine. Just—don't stop.”

So Auor didn't. She reached for the cloth, dipped it into the water, and began to work, slow and steady, as if tending a holy relic.

“I didn't know he'd go this far,” Auor whispered, voice thin as parchment. Her hands trembled as she dabbed at the blood tracing Mabel's side, the cloth darkening with each pass. “Mabel, I-I'm so sorry.”

Mabel didn't answer. She couldn't. Her limbs were heavy with exhaustion, and the heat of the bath was making her woozy. But more than that—she couldn't trust her voice not to break.

Auor hesitated, cloth paused mid-motion. “If he hadn't known about that damn raven—” The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her gaze snapped to the necklace lying like a chain of ice against Mabel's collarbone.

“What do you mean?” Mabel's head jerked up, eyes narrowing. The pain stitched through her side, sharp and punishing, but she didn't care. “Whisper? What does he have to do with this?”

“I … I can't—” Auor's voice faltered to a breath. “The necklace, Mabel. It's—he's watching us.”

Mabel froze. The steam no longer felt warm. It wrapped around her like fog, suffocating. She looked down slowly, dread pooling like lead in her stomach.

The pendant glinted innocently in the firelight. But now, it felt colder.

“Wait. What do you mean, watching? Does this mean—” She stopped herself, her face going pale.

Her gaze dropped to the necklace resting against her chest. And for the first time, she noticed it—subtle movement within the gem, colors swirling, glinting with a magic.

She remembered Whisper's constant irritation with the necklace. And now she understood why. And she should have listened.

A chill threaded down her spine. She'd worn it since the beginning—since that quiet farewell in Aurevyn. Since the day they left her.

Had he been watching her ever since?

Every tear. Every act of defiance. Every secret.

The thought curdled something inside her.

She reached for the clasp.

“Mabel, no—”

The moment her fingers touched the chain, pain flared across her skin. She cried out, biting it back, clutching her hand to her chest. Angry glowing sigils shimmered briefly on her fingers, then faded.

A pit opened in her stomach. She'd always been able to take it off, how—

She remembered the morning of the wedding. Auor's fingers brushing her collarbone, the clasp of the necklace clicking into place. Her mother's lips had moved, shaping words too soft to hear, barely more than breath. A whisper.

But … Auor didn't know magic.

Did she?

Or had that morning—she—been just another illusion?

“How—why—” Mabel's chest tightened. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts, each one failing to reach the bottom of her lungs. “Why can't I take it off?”

Auor moved toward her, hands raised in offering.

“Don't touch me!” Mabel recoiled, the words piercing the warm air like shrapnel. She raced to stand but quickly stumbled, pain flaring so sharply through her side that she choked on a sob. Her vision blurred with tears.

“Mabel—”

“Are you even real?” she hissed, voice trembling with exhaustion and something closer to terror. “Or are you just another trick? Another mask he made to hurt me with?”

Auor froze, stricken. “No. No, I'm real,” she said, voice cracking. “This morning, in the washroom—that was me, I swear it. I held you. I cleaned you. I—” She reached forward again.

But Mabel shoved her hand away, eyes wild.

Auor's voice dropped to a whisper, almost broken now. “Mabel, my sweet girl … I swear to you—it's me.”

Mabel let out a bitter laugh, the sound scraping from her throat like glass. “No, you're not,” she spat. “My mother would never call me that—my sweet girl.” Her voice twisted cruelly around the words. “She was never sweet. Never kind. She was cold. Cruel. And I was a fool to forget.”

Auor flinched at the words, swallowing the sting of truth in her daughter's voice. How deeply it struck. How much of it she'd earned.

Mabel pushed herself upright once more, staggering to stand—but her legs gave way at once. Pain screamed through her ribs, and she collapsed with a cry that echoed against the stone.

“Mabel, stop!” Auor pleaded, catching her before she could fall again. Her arms closed around her. “You're making it worse—please, just look at me. Look at me.”

Mabel thrashed weakly in her grip. “Let go!”

“It's me,” Auor gasped, voice catching. “I swear to you—it's me. I'm not an illusion, not some trick—”

Mabel's eyes finally met hers.

And in that stillness, she saw. The face was the same—older, hollowed by time and sorrow—but it was hers. The woman who had once braided her hair with raven feathers. The mother who had once taught her to sew, to dance.

But recognition settled like dust.

“You put the necklace on me,” Mabel whispered. “You knew. You let him—” Her words stalled as horror widened her gaze. “How did you do it? How could you?”

Auor inhaled shakily, her grip loosening just slightly. And then she spoke, quiet and steady, as if the truth itself might crumble in her hands. “I …” Auor's voice barely broke the hush of the room. “I didn't …” Her hands were still gripping the edge of the basin, knuckles white. “It wasn't me. It was your father,” she said, the words tasting like rust. “He disguised himself; he locked the necklace around you.”

She dared a glance at Mabel, then quickly looked away. Her gaze caught on the necklace, the delicate chain glinting like a snare. “And your stupid bird—” Her voice cracked. The rest caught in her throat.

Mabel didn't speak.

The silence between them settled like ash. She sank back against the side of the tub, pulse fluttering weakly beneath her skin. Everything inside her felt hollowed out—carved sharp and empty by her mother's words.

The betrayal moved through her like a second wound, deeper than the first.

She stared down at the necklace, at the delicate golden filigree now biting into the slope of her collarbone. It gleamed like nothing was wrong. As if it hadn't been forged to cage her.

But it was Whisper her mother wouldn't say aloud.

Her fingers twitched slightly over the pendant. “What does he have to do with it?” Mabel asked, breathless and ragged. “With this?”

Auor didn't answer at first. Instead, she reached for the cloth again and dipped it into the water. Her hand hovered a moment, then moved to press gently against the skin near Mabel's wound—wincing when she felt her daughter flinch but not pulling away.

When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than steam. “What do they call us? Our house?”

Mabel's brows drew together. “The House of the Raven.”

Auor nodded. Her gaze was distant now, caught somewhere between the present and some blood-soaked memory. “They were right to fear what runs in our line. The blood. The bond.”

She paused, fingers still pressed gently to the bruised flesh above the cut. “Your raven was never just any bird.” Auor looked at her daughter with eyes full of sorrow, the apology etched deep into every line of her face. “The moment he knew about it, he'd made his decision.” Auor's voice barely rose above a whisper, brittle with grief. “He knew you'd never strike him. Not even now.”

There were no more explanations left—only regret, heavy and helpless.

Mabel stilled. Her breath hitched as understanding crashed over her in a sickening wave. Her gaze dropped to the necklace, and her hand moved to it as if it burned.

She knew.

She knew now what would have to be done to be free of it.

She swallowed hard.

“It was never about restraint. It was about cruelty. About breaking you with mercy he knew you'd never give yourself.”

If freedom had a price, it wore feathers. And in that moment, Mabel understood it.

Her father's spell had been bound to Whisper's life.

In the chaos of morning, as the necklace clasped around her throat, the magic had settled—final, silent, cruel. His fate sealed with hers.

To break the spell, to shatter the chain that held her—

She would have to spill the blood of the only creature who had never left her.

The one who had stayed.

She would have to kill Whisper.

Her voice cracked the air like a whip. “No!” The cry ripped from her throat, raw and shattering, and suddenly, she was weeping—truly weeping. No more held breath. No more silent strength.

Sobs racked her chest, wild and aching, as she crumpled into herself. The thought alone was unbearable. Whisper—her companion, her witness, her one constant in the ever-looming storm. She couldn't even picture raising a hand to him, let alone ending his life.

He was innocent. Loyal. Young.

And this curse—this punishment—had marked him for death. For her freedom.

The weight of it broke something inside her.

Auor held her as best she could—awkward, trembling, desperate. It was the only comfort she had left to give.

So many years had been spent molding silence into obedience, discipline into distance. She had thought it was protection. She had thought it was strength. But what had it earned her?

A daughter writhing in grief, too broken to trust, too loyal to survive. The only child she had ever carried to term. The only one who lived.

And now she was breaking her.

Not with punishment. Not with war. But with love so twisted by fear that it had curdled into something cruel. Auor's chest ached with it. What have I done?

Her arms tightened around her daughter—not to restrain, but to hold together what was rapidly fracturing. “You will do what must be done,” she said softly, each word a stone laid on Mabel's chest.

Mabel shook her head, sobs still pouring from her. “No. Please, don't say that—I can't, I can't—he's mine—he's all I have—”

“Stop. Look at me.” Auor pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, her own glistening. “You will do what must be done.”

Mabel stared at her mother with wide, watery eyes, heart threatening to break from her chest.

Her mother's stern features hardened. “He will send you back to Aurevyn. Back to Theodore.” She paused. “You'll wear a crown you never chose. Sleep in a bed that doesn't want you. Birth heirs for a man you cannot love.”

Mabel shook her head. “I can't go back.”

“Listen—you will,” Auor urged. “You must do it.” Silence fell again, broken only by the hiss of firewood and the gentle drip of bathwater. “Say it.”

Mabel stared at her mother as though she were a stranger. She understood too clearly what she really meant. “I don't know if I can.”

“Say it!”

She flinched at Auor's raised voice. Her mother's hands rose quickly, pausing inches away from Mabel's cheek before her brows set and she cupped her daughter's tear-stained face. “Please, say it.”

Her touch was startling, not because it was cruel, but because it was more tender, gentle, than she'd ever been with Mabel.

“I-I will return to Aurevyn.” Mabel's eyes fixed on the hearth's flickering glow as her stomach sank. Her reflection rippled faintly in the basin—fractured, fading, unfamiliar.

She didn't speak. She just wept.

Auor said nothing.

She simply dipped the cloth again, wrung it out with trembling hands, and resumed bathing Mabel with the same care as one might tend a fading ember. Her touch was gentle, avoiding the gash at her side, and moved in slow, steady motions—as if she could smooth away sorrow with water and lavender.

Mabel's cries gradually ebbed, tapering into silence. But it wasn't peace. It was the silence of exhaustion, of grief hollowed into bone.

Her eyes stayed open, rimmed in red, unfocused as the steam curled around her. Her throat ached. Her limbs felt foreign. But she didn't resist anymore.

Auor brushed a strand of hair from her brow. She spoke softly—not like a queen, or a mother issuing commands, but like a woman who had failed and still chose to stay. “I know it feels like there's nothing left of you,” she said. “But you're still here. And right now, you need to heal.”

She rinsed the cloth again, pressed it to Mabel's shoulder. “Let me help you. Let me stay. For now.”

Mabel gave the faintest nod—barely more than a breath—but it was enough. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. The grief sat between them like a third presence, no longer raging, only watching.

Auor dipped the cloth once more, her movements slow and reverent, as if tending to a sacred thing she'd once shattered.

Outside, the wind moaned low through the stones of Moorthwyn.

And inside, the daughter endured.

And the mother stayed.

27

The days unraveled, indistinguishable from one another, stitched together by firelight and pain. Mabel couldn't tell when night ended and morning began. Time moved strangely in grief—slow and heavy.

She lay still, wrapped in silence and bandages, haunted by the knowledge of what must come next.

Her mother had said she needed to heal first. So she obeyed.

The wound had been cleaned by steady hands—Auor's and an attendant's working in rhythm. It was no small thing. Mabel had bitten down on cloth and screamed into the mattress as they stitched her flesh together, a bitter liquid she was forced to drink dulling the edge but never dulling enough. The pain was a kind of prayer. And she had offered it up willingly.

Now, she drifted between waking and sleep, her body tethered to the bed, swaddled in linens and shadow. Auor came and went, soft-footed, gentle-fingered. She changed Mabel's dressings, cooled her forehead, whispered things that no longer sounded like lies.

And slowly—painfully—strength returned. It crept back into her bones like heat into frostbitten limbs.

She would need all of it.

Because the moment was coming.

The choice. The sacrifice.

And when it did, she could no longer afford to flinch.

Auor had been doing everything in her power to delay Cavric—pleading, reasoning, fabricating fragile lies. Anything to buy Mabel time. Time to heal. Time to breathe.

She told Cavric the wound hadn't closed properly. That infection threatened to take hold. That the girl was too weak to even speak.

Anything to keep him away.

Because she knew—if he laid eyes on Mabel now, fractured and still stitched together by grief—he'd press harder. Claim more. Twist the knife he'd already buried.

And she wasn't ready to watch him do that again.

Auor lingered near the door often, sitting silently in the shadows when Mabel slept. She smoothed the sheets. She lit the fire. She answered the guards with clipped, cold precision. Each lie she told Cavric cost her a piece of herself—but she gave them freely.

She didn't ask Mabel for forgiveness. She wouldn't have known what to do with it if it came. But she stayed. Every morning. Every evening. Swapping poultices. Running her fingers through her daughter's hair once she knew she was asleep. Watching her breathe, as if the rhythm alone might anchor her to this world a little longer.

Because Mabel was still here. And though Auor had failed in all the small and quiet ways that mattered most—though she had once told herself cruelty was protection—this … this was her penance.

To guard the fragile thing she nearly destroyed. To stay, and to keep the storm outside the door.

Even in sleep, Mabel never felt alone.

Whisper remained outside the castle walls, faithful and unyielding. They could hear him from the west wing—his cries sharp against the wind, as if he refused to forget her.

He circled the towers at dusk, perched near her window at dawn. No guards could drive him off. No spell could scatter him. His loyalty anchored him to her, no matter how unreachable she had become.

And with every caw, guilt twisted deeper in Mabel's chest.

Now his voice was an elegy—and she was the reason for it.

He didn't deserve this. None of it. But not yet. She had to repeat it to herself like a prayer. A fragile thread of mercy she clung to in the dark. He gets to live. Just a little longer.

It was the only comfort she had. The only sliver of peace in a world where love had become a death sentence.

Some days, she wished her body would stay broken. That the wound would take its time, linger, keep her in this quiet, suspended space. Because healing meant movement.

And movement meant the moment would come.

The moment she'd have to do the unthinkable.

But Cavric's patience was thinning—fraying with each passing hour. He had made his intentions clear. He would return to Aurevyn, to salvage the last threads of diplomacy and ensure Mabel still wore the crown in name, if not in will. It was all theater now—peace balanced on a lie, on her obedience.

And when he came home, that would be it. No more waiting. No more pretending.

He hadn't said when. Days, perhaps. Hours, more likely. But the promise clung to the air like ash.

His return loomed on the horizon, tolling like a funeral bell—one that struck not for the dead, but for the living who had run out of time.

The door creaked open with a hush of cold air from the corridor, and Auor stepped inside, a folded cloth in hand and a fresh roll of linen pressed to her chest. The scent of crushed herbs and bitter salves trailed behind her.

Mabel didn't lift her head. She lay on her side, facing the wall, eyes fixed on a crack in the stone as if it held answers. The fire had burned low in the hearth.

Shadows stretched long across the chamber. The silence between them was its own kind of weight—thick, unyielding, full of words neither had found the courage to say.

Auor moved softly to her daughter's side, kneeling beside the bed with a exhale. “It's time,” she said, not harshly, not with command. Just gently. “We need to change them.”

Mabel didn't respond. But she didn't resist either.

Auor reached beneath the covers and began to unwrap the bandages, her fingers warm, methodical. She worked in silence for a while—removing the old wrappings, blotting fresh salve onto the tender skin where the wound still blushed with heat.

“You're healing well,” she offered eventually, almost shy in the saying. “Stronger. The bruising's faded.”

Still, Mabel said nothing. Her breathing was steady, her face turned away.

Auor glanced at her, then dropped her gaze to her work. “You always took pain quietly,” she sighed, smoothing a new strip of linen around her side. “Even as a child. You wouldn't cry out when you scraped your knees. Just stared ahead like you were somewhere else.”

A pause. A blink too long.

“I hated that about you,” she added softly. “Only because I saw myself in it.”

The final knot was tied. The fresh bandages lay clean against Mabel's skin.

Auor set the cloth aside, smoothing the sheet back over her daughter's waist. She didn't move to rise. Just sat there, hands in her lap. She lingered beside her a moment longer, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket she had just drawn over Mabel's hips. The fire popped softly in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, barely louder than the flame, “Do you think you'll be ready?”

The question hung between them—not cruel, not coaxing. Just necessary. Inevitable.

We know the sacrifices behind you … and the ones ahead. You are prepared to face them.

Meryth's words rang in her head. The cruel, haunting words. Mabel stared ahead, unfocused, her hand clutching the fabric near her ribs like it was the only thing holding her together. Her thoughts wandered—past pain, past exhaustion—until they landed on him.

Whisper.

He'd been with her for only months. Bright-eyed. Clever. Fiercely loyal. She could still picture his wings stretched wide above her, feel his tiny weight perched on her shoulder. His cry had always found her.

Always warned her. And she hadn't listened.

If she had—if she'd fled when he begged her to, listened to his warnings—would any of this be different?

No.

The necklace would have brought her back. Her father would have found her. That fate had been sealed the moment Cavric fastened the clasp with trembling hands.

Her eyes burned as tears rose again. She drew in a long, shaking breath. Held it. Let it settle like a stone inside her chest. Then, slowly, she nodded. Just once.

It was small. Fragile.

But it was enough.

Emotion swelled behind her eyes, and once again, grief threaded its fingers through her ribs, folding her in. Sobs tore through her, relentless and shaking, pain spilling from a place too deep to name.

Her mother could shield her from wounds, from illness, from the cold.

But not from this. Not from the cost of freedom. Her life.

A thud broke through her sobs.

Mabel lifted her head just in time to see Whisper alight on the stone ledge outside her window, wings folding neatly at his sides. He tilted his head, tapping once—twice—against the pane with a faint click, the sound heartbreakingly familiar.

Still loyal. Still waiting.

Her voice cracked through the silence. “Please—let him in.” Tears streamed freely now, but she didn't care. “Just—please.”

Auor didn't answer. She only rose quietly and crossed the room, her movements quiet, as if respecting the cracking peace. The window creaked open with a low scrape, cutting through the stillness like a sigh.

Whisper was waiting.

He looked up at her with those dark, glassy eyes—head tilted; feathers puffed ever so slightly in the cold air.

She extended her wrist, fingers steady. He hopped on without hesitation, light as breath.

Then he saw Mabel. A soft chirr escaped his throat as he fluttered free, landing on the bed beside her with a rustle of wings.

He nestled close without hesitation, feathers brushing the curve of her collarbone as he tucked himself against her chest. His small body was warm, steady—unbothered by her tears, unafraid of her trembling.

He felt her pain. As he always had.

Mabel broke.

The sobs returned—sharper, louder this time, pulled from the hollow beneath her ribs. She wrapped her arms around him with shaking hands, holding him tight as though her grief might seep into him and be understood.

How could she do this? How could she betray something so loyal, so innocent—so undeserving of the fate waiting for him?

Whisper chirred softly, as if to soothe her. As if he were the one offering comfort.

She pressed her face into his feathers and wept. After a long, trembling breath, Mabel lifted her gaze.

Auor stood nearby, watching with eyes heavy and rimmed with sorrow—her lips pressed into a thin line, as if holding back all the apologies the moment wouldn't allow.

Mabel's voice was barely above a whisper. “Can I … have a moment?”

She stroked Whisper's feathers with slow, steady fingers, anchoring herself in his warmth. Her breath hitched again, shaky and fragile, but there was a kind of resolve beginning to take shape beneath the grief.

Auor stood there for a moment, unmoving.

The door was only a few steps away, but she lingered, eyes tracing the fragile curve of her daughter's spine, the way Mabel curled protectively around the raven like he might shatter if she let go.

Her fingers twitched at her side. She almost spoke. Almost reached for her again. But there were no words that would make this less cruel, and no comfort that wouldn't feel like betrayal.

Instead, she stepped close and kneeled once more beside the bed.

Her hand found Mabel's—thin, cold, trembling. She gave it the gentlest squeeze. Nothing more. A mother's apology.

Then she rose without a word, crossed the room, and slipped through the doorway. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.

Silence returned.

Whisper stared up at Mabel with his beady eyes, head tilted—watchful, patient, unaware of what she now carried like a second heartbeat.

Her smile trembled at the corners, fragile as breath. Her fingers moved gently over his feathers—slow, careful, as though trying to memorize their shape.

“I'm sorry,” she breethd, voice cracking. A sniffle followed, small and helpless. “I know you don't understand.” Her throat tightened with every word. “And I can't even explain it to you. I can't tell you why.”

Her hand stilled against his wing.

“But it's awful. It's the worst thing I've ever had to do. And you—you don't deserve this.”

Whisper tilted his head, silent and still, as if listening.

Mabel closed her eyes, trying to hold herself together. “For every time you warned me … and I didn't listen”—her voice faltered, barely holding—“I'm so, so sorry.”

Whisper stared at her, unmoving. Those small, unblinking eyes held her in place—studying her, absorbing the tremble in her voice, the way her body shook beneath the weight of goodbye. The silence stretched long between them, fragile and aching.

And then, without a sound, he stepped forward. He nudged gently beneath her chin, his beak brushing her skin with featherlight care. Another soft chirr followed—warm, tender, forgiving.

As if he did understand. Not the details, not the cruelty of it. But her. The ache in her voice. The love in her touch. The impossibility of the choice.

It was enough.

He nestled close once more, pressing into the crook of her arm as if to say, Whatever comes, I am still yours.

The night was hushed around them, cloaked in a velvet stillness that hung thick over Moorthwyn's towers.

Mabel remained on her side, curled beneath the weight of time. Whisper nestled close against her ribs, asleep or simply resting, and she had spent the hours tracing the shape of his body with reverence. Every feather. Every breath. Trying to memorize what could never be kept.

She hadn't spoken in hours. She hadn't needed to.

In the east wing of the castle, Auor stood motionless before the tall window, her silhouette carved in moonlight. The chill slipped through the seams in the stone, but she didn't feel it.

Below, the cobbled paths wound through the heart of the keep—staff stationed in hushed intervals, as she had instructed. One torch each. A flicker of flame passed hand to hand.

It had been a desperate request, uttered late at night in back halls and kitchens, met with solemn nods and glances that spoke of loyalty, of rebellion.

Not for her. For Mabel.

And now, it had begun.

The first torch flared to life in the eastern bend. Then another, further down the road. One by one, they lit up the darkness.

Auor's breath caught, heart dropped into her stomach.

The signal had started.

Cavric was coming home.

She didn't wait. Gathering her skirts, she turned from the window and bolted into the corridor, her slippers skimming across stone. The hush of night shattered beneath her steps—hallways once cold and still now echoing with purpose.

A servant turned at her passing, startled, but she didn't stop. Not for anyone.

She raced through Moorthwyn's winding spine, past forgotten portraits and shuttered doors. Her breath hitched. Her chest burned.

By the time she reached the west wing, her hand was slick on the doorknob. She pushed it open hard.

Auor's breath came in short, uneven gasps as she crossed the threshold, skirts tangled around her ankles, hair half-unpinned. The torchlight from the corridor spilled in behind her, staining the floor with the color of urgency.

“Mabel,” she said, her voice sharp—more with fear than command.

Mabel jolted upright in bed, clutching Whisper instinctively against her chest. He fluttered slightly but made no sound, sensing the shift.

Auor didn't wait for permission. She moved swiftly to the bed, words tumbling out, brittle and raw. “He's coming. The signal—he's nearly here. We've no time.”

Mabel's breath caught. She clung tighter to Whisper, as if holding him could stall the world.

Auor kneeled before her, eyes wide with grief and urgency. “You have to do it now. If he walks through that gate and finds you still whole—still his—he'll never let you go. Not again.”

Mabel's lips parted, but no words came.

Only the sound of her heartbeat. And Whisper's wings rustling quietly. And the world closing in.

Auor reached for her hand—gripped it tightly, grounding them both. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. “But it's time.”

Mabel sat up slowly, her arms trembling beneath Whisper's light weight as she cradled him against her chest. Her breath hitched, tears rising fast as the ache in her chest tightened.

She looked down at him, brushing her fingers gently over the curve of his wing. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely holding. “For everything.”

Her throat caught as the next words fell, soaked in grief. “I'm so sorry …”

Her legs shifted beneath her, unsteady but driven. She rose, breath shallow, the wound at her side igniting with every inch upright—but she didn't pause.

Whisper blinked up at her, head tilted, the soft shimmer of torchlight dancing in his eyes. He let out a soft trill, low and questioning. Curious. Trusting.

It nearly broke her.

The room was silent but for the low crackle of the hearth and the distant rhythm of approaching hooves. Time had thinned to a wire.

Mabel clutched Whisper to her chest a moment longer. Then, slowly, she closed her eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. Her fingers drifted away from his feathers.

With one hand, she reached toward the air before her.

She didn't speak. She didn't need to. The spell obeyed her will, ancient and instinctive. Shadows coiled, shimmered, and then solidified—pulling together into a blade.

It was slender, curved like a raven's claw, the metal dark as spilled ink and cold as mourning. The hilt nestled into her palm like it had always belonged there.

She looked down at it, heart thudding wildly. Whisper shifted in her hand, quiet and watchful, as if sensing the shift in her.

She didn't lift the blade. Not yet. Her knees bent beneath her as she kneeled on the stone floor. The cold bled through the hem of her nightgown, grounding her.

This was not vengeance. This was not victory.

It was sacrifice. The last one she would ever make without blood on her hands.

Whisper blinked up at her. Waiting.

She stroked his feathers one last time.

Her lips trembled with the shape of another apology, but she didn't speak. There was nothing left to say that hadn't already hollowed her out. Tears spilled freely, quiet and endless.

She raised the blade.

Her hand shook—violently. The magic in the steel pulsed against her skin, sensing her hesitation. She gritted her teeth, inhaled sharply, and—

“I love you,” she whispered, voice barely audible.

—brought the dagger down.

It was swift.

Whisper didn't cry out.

He simply went still in her arms, a soft breath escaping his lungs as the blade did what it was made to do. His blood—dark, vivid—welled fast and hot between her fingers. Mabel collapsed forward with a sob that didn't sound human. It was raw. Splintered. Torn from a place even grief rarely touches.

She clutched his body to her chest, crumpling around him. “I'm sorry,” she gasped, over and over, broken and desperate. “I'm so sorry—Whisper, please—I didn't want—”

But there was only silence. Only the weight of love's aftermath in her trembling hands.

Auor stood still, eyes wide, face pale with something close to dread. She took a step forward, then another, until she reached them—mother and daughter, ruin and sacrifice.

Her gaze fell to the bloodied dagger, then the small, still raven pressed to Mabel's chest. “I'll do it,” she said softly.

Mabel didn't resist.

Auor kneeled, wordless, and reached with trembling hands for the dagger slick with blood.

She lifted the blade and tilted it carefully, letting the blood drip. A single drop hit the charm, then another, trailing down the golden curve like a tithe.

The runes flickered—dim, then flaring, sudden and wild.

The metal pulsed beneath the spell's death throes. The air quivered. Magic twisted and screamed, writhing in the necklace like it knew it was dying.

Then—

It shattered.

A burst of blue light. A crack that split through silence like lightning.

And just like that, it was gone.

The air was still.

Mabel crumpled on the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around Whisper's still form. Her body shook with grief, each sob tearing through her like it had claws. She clutched him close, as if her warmth could will him back, as if love alone might undo what had been done.

But the weight in her arms remained unchanged.

And the sound that filled the chamber wasn't a cry for help—it was mourning, raw and wordless, pouring from the hollow place he'd left behind.

The door flew open with a breathless clatter, and a maid rushed in—eyes wide, face pale, urgency carved into every line.

She froze for a heartbeat, gaze sweeping over the blood, the broken necklace, Mabel crumpled on the floor clutching a raven's body. Her voice was tight with fear when she finally spoke. “The carriage—it's passing through the gates. You have to hurry. Now.”

The words struck like thunder through the silence, setting the room and everything in it suddenly, violently, into motion.

Auor reached for her, hands trembling as she gripped Mabel's arms—but the girl recoiled with a choked sob, curling protectively around Whisper's lifeless body. “No—please,” Mabel wept, voice raw, eyes wide with agony. “I can't—I can't leave him.”

Auor's own voice cracked, urgency and heartbreak tangled in every word. “Mabel, listen to me—we have no time.” Her grip tightened, firm but not cruel. “This is your only chance. If we don't go now, everything you've endured—it'll be for nothing.”

She tugged again, and this time, Mabel's resistance wavered. Her limbs moved like broken glass as Auor pulled her to her feet, Whisper still held tight in her trembling hands.

Auor moved swiftly to the dresser, hands flying to the top drawer. She yanked it open and pulled out a weather-worn satchel—its seams reinforced, its shape slightly overstuffed. She'd packed it days ago, ready for when this moment came.

Bandages, dried rations, a flask of water. Clothes. A vial of salve she'd made herself. Anything she could think of that might help her daughter survive what lay beyond the walls of Moorthwyn.

She grabbed a pair of boots and placed them at Mabel's feet. Mabel winced, fumbling to tug them on with trembling hands, one still clutching her raven.

Auor didn't wait.

She snatched the thick, fur-lined coat from the nearby hook and wrapped it around her daughter's shoulders, fastening it with quick, practiced motions. The scent of pine and earth still clung to the fabric—home, if only for a heartbeat longer.

Then she slung the satchel across her back and turned toward the door, every muscle taut with urgency. “We have to go. Now.”

She grabbed Mabel's arm, not unkindly, but with the firm grip of a woman who knew the stakes. Mabel stumbled, her legs still unsteady, breath coming shallow as she clutched Whisper to her chest like a lifeline.

They raced through the halls—Auor leading, Mabel trailing behind like a shadow consumed by grief. The torchlight blurred past them, casting long, fleeing silhouettes against the cold stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and nightfall and something else—fear.

The castle had begun to stir.

They reached the servant's stairwell, spiraling and narrow, and Auor ushered her down first, glancing over her shoulder every few steps, like Cavric might already be behind them, just out of sight.

Outside, the wind bit through the cloister as they broke into the open courtyard. Hooves echoed somewhere beyond the outer gate—distant but drawing closer.

The stables came into view, dark and silent but for the shifting of hooves within. Mabel nearly collapsed as they reached the doors, but Auor caught her, steadying her for a breath that felt far too short.

“I have a horse ready,” she panted, pulling the stable door open. “He's fast. He knows the road.”

“Come with me—please,” Mabel turned to her mother, eyes wide, voice unraveling. “I can't do this alone.”

Auor cupped her face with both hands, steadying her. “Mabel, look at me.” Her thumbs brushed tears from her cheeks. “I will never escape him. Not truly. But you can. You still have a life to claim. You can do this—I know you can.” Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn't look away.

Mabel shook her head, breaking, but Auor was already guiding her forward.

They reached the stallion—gray, battle-bred, its coat dappled like storm light. A warhorse trained for blood and thunder, now saddled in secret, its purpose rewritten.

Auor helped her up, gripping her arm with more strength than sorrow.

“This horse was built to run through hell,” she whispered. “And he'll do just that.”

Auor reached forward, gently prying Whisper's body from Mabel's trembling arms.

“No—please—” Mabel protested, voice breaking, but her mother was quick, slipping him into the front pocket of her satchel.

“He stays with you,” Auor promised softly, though there was no time for reassurance.

Behind them, the castle's rear doors crashed open. A roar of boots on stone thundered through the courtyard—armed guards spilling out in waves, Cavric striding coldly behind them, his presence palpable and poisonous.

Auor turned to Mabel, eyes bright with everything she wouldn't get the time to say. “Go.” Her voice cracked with urgency. “I love you.”

She slapped the horse's flank.

The stallion reared slightly, then lunged forward in a burst of motion, hooves pounding against the cobblestones as it carried Mabel into the dark. She clung to its mane, one arm around the satchel, wind and tears burning her face.

Shouts rang out behind her. Guards gave chase on foot—but they were too slow.

The stallion was made for war. Tonight, it ran for freedom.

Auor turned back, planting herself between Cavric and the vanishing trail of her daughter. She lifted her chin, fury in her breath. “She's gone. You won't catch her. She is free—from your spell, from your lies, from you.”

Cavric's face darkened. No words. No theatrics.

With a flick of his hand and a muttered curse, he seized her throat in an unseen grip. She gasped, feet lifting inches off the ground as his magic curled tight around her.

Then, he hurled her like a broken thing across the courtyard.

Her body struck the stone wall with a sickening crack and crumpled beside it, unmoving.

Riding through the gate, Mabel looked back.

“Mother!” Her scream pierced the night, but the wind pulled it from her mouth as the castle disappeared behind her, and the road stretched out into the wild unknown.

The sound of hooves faded into the distance, swallowed by wind and darkness.

Behind her, the castle stood cold and looming, its towering walls no longer a prison—but a graveyard of the things she couldn't save.

The torches flickered.

The gates shrank.

And Mabel rode on, clutching the satchel to her chest like it held the last piece of her heart.

The night closed in.

And the Mirewilde waited.

Aurevyn

The air in the temple had curdled.

What should have been laughter, lingering music, and wine-soaked congratulations had soured into silence and panic. King Thalen convulsed on the floor beside the bridal altar, his crown tipped sideways into the wine pooled beneath him.

“Thalen!” Frey's voice cracked through the stillness, heels skimming across scattered petals as she dropped to her knees. The priestess was already beside her, fingers at his throat, then jaw, then chest.

“He's not breathing—he's not—” she said, voice desperate.

But his lips had gone blue. And the priestess—fumbling, frantic—could find no blockage. Just a man gasping for breath who refused to answer.

Theodore stood as if frozen in amber. His ceremonial cloak clung to him. His wedding band glinted faintly on his hand as if mocking the moment. His knuckles had gone white.

Lance didn't speak. His eyes drifted to the wine on the floor. His entrance moments earlier had been chaos—vows interrupted, a brawl between princes.

But now, he stood still, unreadable. The silence around him felt watchful.

He turned, looking past the grand temple, watched the sun gleam across the steps Cavric had marched down. His stride was steady, confident, like he knew Mabel would run—and knew what came after.

The torches guttered low, and the sound of Thalen's wheezing stilled.

Frey collapsed against Thalen, forehead pressed to his unmoving chest. She clung to him like grief could will breath back into his lungs. The cry that left her ripped through the temple.

Her hands trembled as they smoothed the folds of Thalen's robe, trying to make him presentable, regal—as if the crown still sitting crooked near his shoulder meant anything now. Her fingers lingered on his jaw, brushing gently where the color had already faded.

“You said you'd reign until your bones turned to dust,” she whispered hoarsely. “This isn't dust, Thalen.” Frey pressed her forehead to his, breath ragged. Her sobs no longer tore through the air. They whispered, softer now, bleeding into the hush like mourning that refused spectacle.

“Rest well, my husband. My king.” Her palm stilled over his cheek. “I will take care of it.” She brushed back his hair, the one lock that always defied his crown.

Behind her, no one moved. Not Theodore. Not Lance.

Because a queen broken open was a sight so rare, the kingdom itself dared not interrupt.

And still—

Thalen's lips remained frozen.

The echo of Frey's heels against the temple floor was the only sound that dared speak. She rose from Thalen's side slowly, her gown still soaked with spilled wine and grief, her hands marked where she'd gripped his collar. Her face was pale—not fragile, but forged. Every breath steadied something deeper, and every blink refused to give away more than she had already lost.

She turned.

Theodore flinched, as if expecting her gaze to find him with fire.

Lance held his ground.

But Frey didn't look at either. She walked between them, her presence cold, distant—as though her spirit had already passed through mourning and landed somewhere quieter. She didn't speak, but her steps fell quick, determined.

Two guards hurried forward, arms tense beneath their ceremonial armor. They lifted Thalen's body with reverence, struggling under the stiff weight of dignity clinging to his broken frame. Without ceremony, without music, the king was carried through the grand doors toward the waiting carriage—the one that had delivered him as a monarch and now received him as a corpse.

Theodore's fingers twitched by his side.

Lance remained frozen, jaw clenched.

They stood alone beneath the temple's vaulted archways, surrounded by the remnants of a wedding never meant to hold.

And somewhere beyond the stone walls, the kingdom held its breath.

They burned him on the cliffs. High above the fjord where his fleet once launched in conquest and celebration, a great pyre had been built—wood seasoned by storms, soaked in oil, bound by rope etched with runes. The sky had turned to mourning, a deep iron gray that pressed close to the waves. Crows circled overhead, silent.

Thalen's body was laid atop the wood in full regalia. His crown rested with him—not on his head—but in his hands, as if gifted back to Auren and Varkeyrish both. His sword lay across his chest, polished and gleaming.

Frey stood nearest the flame; her veil traded for a black fur-lined cloak. Her eyes were dry now, but distant. Like she'd already buried half of herself with him.

No priest recited passages. No bard sang a dirge.

Only the sea roared below.

And the fire answered.

The torch was lit by Theodore—his hands steady but face pale. Lingering beside him, Lance watched with unreadable stillness. He did not kneel. He did not pray.

As flame licked the wood, smoke spiraled upward—thick and sweet with resin, mingling with the scent of salt and memory. The body of the king curled and cracked, robes burning away until he was no longer man, but an offering. As the fire consumed what remained of Thalen, the mourners watched in silence.

Cavric arrived late.

The fire had settled into its final stage—embers glowing like bruised gold, flickering beneath the dark canopy of smoke that stretched toward a godless sky. Maybe they truly had abandoned Aurevyn.

His boots cut through ash and wind. He made no effort to hide the shadows beneath his eyes or the tension in his jaw. But his gait was measured, determined—as though grief fit him like armor.

He stopped beside Theodore, who hadn't spoken since the torch was lit. The younger prince's eyes remained fixed on the pyre, lips pressed into a thin line, hands tucked rigidly at his sides.

Cavric bowed his head faintly. “My deepest condolences, Your Highness,” he said, voice low but clear. “Thalen shaped a legacy few can rival.”

Theodore didn't speak. His gaze stayed locked on the flames, as if searching for the part of himself that was burning with the king—some tether, some truth, some final thread.

Cavric's voice cut through the silence again. “When Thalen lost his father, he didn't hesitate. He rose. He conquered. He let grief shape him into something the kingdom could follow,” he said, eyes reflecting the flicker of the pyre. “Grief carves men differently,” he uttered. “Sometimes it leaves a chasm. Sometimes a blade. I wonder which it will leave for you.”

Theodore turned, just slightly. His face was carved from stone and shadow.

Cavric smiled then. Crooked. Knowing. Like he'd seen this moment before in another lifetime. “When the smoke clears,” he said, “we'll all know who you've become.” His hand settled on Theodore's shoulder, brief, a gesture that might have offered comfort. Then he stepped back into the crowd, vanishing into the hush of citizens gathered to mourn their king.

Theodore didn't speak. His ceremonial cloak felt heavier now—soaked through with salt and smoke, the fabric stiff where grief had dried into it. Behind him, courtiers lingered at a respectful distance, guards stationed with unreadable faces. All had proclaimed him king.

The ritual had been swift. Necessary. But names don't change hearts.

He stared into the fire's final breath, his jaw tense, hands stiff at his sides. His father was not just ash—he was legacy. Expectation. And now, burden.

He'd been trained for rule, yes. Schooled in diplomacy, battle formations, the weight of signatures and blood. But there'd always been a buffer—Thalen's shadow, vast and commanding, absorbing the sharpest blows of ruling.

Now that shadow had vanished, and the silence left in its place settled into his ribs like frost.

The coronation would come. There would be banners. Oil. Song.

But for now, there was only mourning. And memory. And the flickering questions no proclamation could extinguish.

Was he ready? Would he rule like Thalen?

Or rule because of him?

He didn't know.

All he knew was that the embers were rising—and with them, the last thread of who he used to be.

Theodore didn't move, save for the way his jaw clenched—tight, rigid, holding back words that might cut more than cleanse. His eyes were locked on the horizon, not to escape, but to hold himself together.

Lance stepped beside him, slow and cautious. He said nothing at first, the silence between them thick with history—most of it broken, most of it bruised. The arguable title of brothers did little to soften the edges.

He parted his lips to speak, voice hesitant, “I didn't mean—”

But Theodore stepped away. The motion was quiet. Subtle.

But final.

It wasn't a rejection born of drama—it was a boundary carved by grief. By betrayal. By a lifetime of being the one who watched, and now, the one who must decide what survives the fire.

Lance said nothing more. He remained in place, eyes not on the smoldering pyre but on the trail of ash drifting into the sky. His fists were clenched at his sides, not out of anger this time, but to keep himself tethered.

Thalen had saved his life. And yet, Lance had never belonged—not truly. There was always Theodore. Groomed, revered, heir by blood and name.

Lance had shadowed him like a ghost of circumstance, trained at his side but never alongside. Thalen's praise always came secondhand.

And now?

Now, the man who had raised him was ash.

Lance drew a sharp breath, forcing his hands to unclench. He tried to summon anger—at Mabel, at the gods, at the timing of it all. But grief drowned fury in silence.

He lowered his gaze to the edge of the cliff, watching embers fall. And somewhere in that quiet, Lance understood. He hadn't just lost the closest thing he had to a father. He'd lost the only tether to whatever home had tried to hold him.

The breeze stirred Lance's cloak as he stood motionless, eyes still locked on the last embers curling skyward. The silence in his chest felt too familiar—hollow, aching, something he'd carried since childhood.

Then, the soft crunch of footsteps beside him.

Frey didn't speak. She simply looped her arm through his, the gesture so instinctively tender that Lance nearly flinched from it. But he didn't. Her presence was warm despite the chill, grounded despite the grief that clung to both of them.

She leaned gently against his shoulder, her cheek pressing softly into the embroidered hem of his cloak. For a long while, neither moved. The fire's glow flickered in their eyes, and the crackle of wood filled what words could not.

Only when the wind changed direction did Frey speak, her voice careful, “You still have a place here,” she said. “If not by Theodore's side … then mine.”

Lance's eyes didn't lift, but something in his shoulders eased. Just slightly.

Because for all the fractures in the kingdom, for all the divides shaped by blood and legacy—there was still someone who saw him.

“Why didn't you tell me you loved her?” The words hadn't meant to bite, but they stung in his chest all the same.

“I … I didn't want to disappoint you,” he admitted.

“Love is nothing to be ashamed of, my child.” Her fingers tightened around his arm.

He stared at the burning sky, a sigh breaking from his lips. “No. But she wasn't mine to love.”

“Will you go after her?”

He didn't have an answer. The ache in his chest hadn't dulled. All that was left of him was his grief and the love that refused to fade.

And for now, that was enough. The days would still pass.

The corridor stretched before them, long and dimly lit, its stone walls bearing the chill of mourning. The tapestries hadn't been changed since the funeral—still black-draped, still somber—and their footsteps echoed in a silence thick with the weight of legacy.

Cavric walked with hands folded behind his back, his tone unhurried, almost soothing. “She's being looked after,” he said, voice curling between the pillars. “And she'll be returned to you soon enough. All in proper ceremony.”

Theodore's gaze was distant, heavy. He hadn't slept. His crown had yet to be fitted—only the title clung to him, raw and recent. “I don't want her,” he breethd out, more to himself than to the man beside him. “Not if she doesn't want me.”

Cavric turned slightly, a flicker of polite restraint flashing behind his eyes. “Of course,” he replied smoothly. “I just know that if my wife had ever run from me … well.” He smiled lightly before clearing his throat. “I'd be humiliated. How could I rule if my own betrothed had fled before the crown had even cooled? What sort of signal would that send? What would the people say?”

Theodore's jaw tightened.

“But you,” Cavric continued, his voice almost admiring. “You're made of sterner things. Resilient. That sort of strength—your people will respect it. Obedience is not weakness. It's necessity. You're a king, and you should be treated—and obeyed—as one.”

They stopped near the west balcony, where smoke still curled on the horizon from Thalen's pyre. Theodore looked out over the rooftops of the city, eyes narrowed—not in scorn but thought.

The hallway had grown quiet behind him. Even with Cavric's footsteps fading into stone and shadow, Theodore remained near the window, watching the slow drift of ash fade into the sky. The horizon stretched thin, the clouds still stained with mourning, and his reflection in the glass looked hollow, sleepless and unsteady.

Cavric's words lingered. It was easy to scoff at such manipulation. Easy to label it as beneath him.

But Theodore knew better. Influence rarely announced itself with venom—it dripped in slowly, draped in courtesy and concern.

And it wasn't wrong—at least, not entirely.

The vows had been spoken. The people had witnessed the ceremony halted by chaos, by her. The woman who had once looked at him with something almost warm … before it burned to resolve and vanished from his reach.

He gripped the stone windowsill tighter, jaw taut. He'd let her go. But Mabel's escape had sent ripples through the court—talk he couldn't control, whispers he couldn't silence.

And somewhere in that darkening reflection, he saw it. Not just a man mourning his father. But a king deciding which part of himself the crown would require. He had to choose what to carry. What to shed. What to become.

The weight in his chest no longer felt like sorrow—it felt like steel. And whether forged by grief or pride, it had direction.

He turned on his heel. His cloak snapped behind him as he strode after Cavric, footsteps steady, echoing down the stone corridor. Not with agreement. Not with submission. But with decision.

And in the hush of numbing days that blurred in a rush leading to his coronation, he spent with Cavric's company, listening to his council.

The cathedral bell tolled deep and resonant, shaking the breath from every chest in the chamber. Theodore stood beneath the arch of carved stone, draped in crimson and gold, the cloak he wore stitched with the emblem of his father's reign—the stag crowned in flame. His face was solemn, pale beneath the ceremonial circlet that had yet to become a crown, shoulders squared as the kingdom watched.

The gathered nobles lined the hall in silence. Behind them, the common folk crowded the outer courtyard, peering through the archways, hearts split between loyalty and lingering rumor.

Frey stood to his left, garbed in mourning blue. Her gaze never wavered from her son, but her hand was clenched tight around Lance's arm. He had come in simple attire, not from defiance—but restraint. His presence was loyal, quiet, tense.

And on Theodore's right, Cavric lingered like a shadow.

He didn't speak aloud, but his promise of Mabel's return still echoed, spoken to advisers, whispered to Theodore. She will be by your side. This absence is temporary. This inconvenience will be mended.

But the absence was palpable. Where the queen-to-be should have stood was only air.

The priest approached, carrying the relics of coronation—the sword of sovereign judgment, the circlet of flame-forged gold, and a goblet for the sacred oath. He spoke the words with slow precision, drawing symbols of protection and lineage across Theodore's brow.

Theodore responded without faltering. He drank. He kneeled. He rose.

And when the crown touched his head, the cathedral thundered with applause. But his eyes didn't brighten. Because the cheers could not drown the hollowness inside him.

Not even Cavric's approving smile. Not even Frey's pride. Not even the weight of every eye upon him.

There was still no Mabel.

And what is a king … when the queen has chosen absence?

When the ceremony ended, the courtiers parted. Horns sounded from the palace gates. But the bells continued their mournful toll.

By sunset, the great hall glowed with celebration. Long tables had been laid with velvet runners and gold plates. The scent of roasted meat and mulled wine soaked into the stone, and musicians played a reverent tune—just lively enough to feel festive, just soft enough not to disturb the grief that hung in the air.

Theodore entered to a standing ovation.

Torches flickered against tapestries woven with royal scenes—hunts, weddings, coronations past. Goblets clinked in every corner, laughter roared, and nobles leaned across platters with mouths full of praise and prophecy.

Theodore sat at the head of it all. His newly polished crown caught the light with every subtle tilt of his head, but his eyes rarely met the room. Courtiers from allied kingdoms offered congratulations like offerings, each sentence gilded with diplomacy, their smiles well-practiced. Every toast came paired with a condolence. Every cheer lined with curiosity.

Where was his bride?

He answered when spoken to. Politely. Minimally. A nod here. A murmured “thank you” there. The occasional hollow smile that dimmed the moment it touched his lips.

When one noble mentioned Thalen's legacy, Theodore raised a goblet. When another praised his rule, he feigned agreement. But the warmth did not stick.

Because celebration only magnified absence.

Theodore felt resentment humming like a second heartbeat. Not just toward Mabel. But toward the whole spectacle.

The feast wasn't for him. It was for a crown. And tonight, that crown felt heavier than ever.

The hum of conversation dipped for just a moment. A noble from the small northern kingdom of Feymere—a man swathed in sapphire velvet and crowned in silver rings—leaned across the feast table toward Theodore with a glass still half-raised. His voice was pleasant, casually inquisitive, but it cut through the haze around the new king.

“I'd heard,” the noble said, “that you'd been wed not long ago. Strange, I don't see your bride tonight. Was she called away?”

Theodore's goblet stilled midair. No one had asked directly before. Not his court. Not the advisers. Not even Frey.

His grip on the goblet tightened. The metal edge dug into his palm. Behind his composed expression, something cracked—a fault line long quiet, now shivering under pressure.

He gave a brief smile. Polished. Empty. “She's unwell,” he replied smoothly, voice cool. “Travel has wearied her. I believed it best she remain in seclusion until she's recovered. The people will meet her in time.”

The noble hesitated—just long enough to register the flicker in Theodore's eyes. Not sorrow, not concern … but a barely concealed fire. “Of course.” The noble nodded quickly. “A wise decision, no doubt. Forgive the question.”

Theodore inclined his head with civility, but the motion was clipped. And without another word, he rose from the table, excused himself, and strode from the hall.

The corridor swallowed him whole. His footsteps echoed as he reached the far wall, the sound reverberating like a threat. He paused only long enough to pull in a breath—but it didn't soothe.

He slammed his fist against the cold stone. Not enough to shatter. Just enough to feel.

Behind him, the soft rustle of fabric whispered down the corridor. Frey's presence arrived without announcement, but her steps had never needed heralding—not with him. She said nothing at first, simply stood beside her son, the distance between them already familiar.

“Leaving your own coronation?” she asked gently.

Theodore didn't respond. His shoulders were drawn tight, his jaw still locked.

She didn't press. Instead, she placed a hand lightly on his arm—not to comfort. To anchor.

Theodore's breath came slow and shallow, fogging faintly in the cold corridor air. His knuckles throbbed where they'd struck the stone, but he didn't look at them. He stared ahead into nothing, as if the wall might offer answers the crown could not.

Frey stood beside him, silent, steady.

And then, without turning, he spoke—his voice raw, like something torn loose from deep within. “I didn't want it to be like this.”

Frey said nothing. She didn't need to.

“I was supposed to be king with her,” he continued, the words spilling now, unfiltered. “Not … not alone. Not with whispers in the hall and empty chairs at my side. I was supposed to look out at that crowd and feel like I had something to hold onto. Something that was mine.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “But she ran.

And now they look at me like I'm half a man. Like I've already failed before I've begun.” He turned to face his mother then, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness and something deeper—something like shame. “I don't know if I'm angry at her … or at myself. For letting her go. For not chasing her. For wanting her to come back and hating her all at once.”

Frey's gaze softened, but she didn't interrupt.

“I stood there today,” he whispered, “with a crown on my head and a kingdom at my feet—and I've never felt more hollow.”

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was sacred.

Frey reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his brow like she had when he was a boy. “Then fill it,” she said gently. “Not with what others expect. Not with what Cavric whispers. But with what you know is right.”

Theodore closed his eyes. “I wish I could,” he snapped, voice rising. “I wish I could fill it with duty, with honor, with all the things Father said would make me whole.” He turned his gaze back to the stone wall, as if afraid to meet Frey's eyes. “But I can't shake this emptiness inside me. It's like a wound that won't close. And I”—his voice caught, raw and unguarded—“I need her back by my side.”

The words hung in the corridor like a confession to the gods.

Then came the sound of footsteps—measured, but not hesitant.

Lance stepped into view, brows furrowed, arms crossed over his chest. He had heard enough to know the shape of the moment, if not the whole. “I hate to interrupt.” He cleared his throat. “But I must speak with you both.”

Theodore turned and glared at him. “Now? During my coronation?”

“I've been trying to speak with you since the wedding—you won't stop and listen to me,” Lance bit. “This can't wait any longer.”

“I don't want to hear what you have to say,” Theodore spat. “This is all your fucking fault. If you hadn't barged in on my wedding, tried to stake claim on my wife, she'd still be here.” His hands clenched into fists at his side, knuckles white.

“Boys—” Frey started, but Lance was quick.

“You still want her?” he asked, voice edged with disbelief. “After everything? After she ran from the altar, from you, from this kingdom? It's pathetic. You're chasing ghosts while the kingdom watches you unravel,” he scoffed.

Theodore tilted his head. “What was that?” he asked, tone deadly. But he'd heard it.

He didn't wait for an answer.

In a flash, he surged forward, rage uncoiling like a whip. His fist collided with Lance's jaw, the crack echoing down the stone hall. Lance stumbled back, caught off guard, but before he could recover, Theodore shoved him hard to the ground.

Then he was on him.

Straddling his chest, fists flying—one, two, three—each blow fueled by grief, by shame, by the unbearable echo of Mabel's absence. Lance tried to block the hits, but Theodore's fury was relentless, unthinking. “You don't know anything!” he roared.

Frey was shouting now, her voice sharp with panic. She grabbed Theodore's shoulders, pulling, pleading. “Theodore, stop.”

He froze. Breath ragged. Hands trembling. His brother beneath him, dazed and bleeding.

And in that moment, the crown on his head felt like a noose.

Theodore stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles in slow, crimson trails. His eyes were wide—wild—not with triumph, but with the sudden, sick realization of what he'd done.

Lance lay sprawled on the stone floor, lip split, a smear of red trailing from his nose. His breath came in shallow gasps, more from shock than pain.

Frey dropped to her knees beside him without hesitation, skirts pooling around her like a storm. Her hands were gentle but swift, fingers brushing Lance's brow, tilting his chin to examine the damage. “Easy,” she whispered, voice tight with worry. “Don't move too quickly.”

Lance winced as she helped him sit upright, one hand braced against the floor, the other pressed to his face. Blood stained the collar of his tunic, and his eyes—though dazed—never left Theodore.

Theodore didn't move. He just stood there, fists still clenched, the silence around him louder than any scream. And for the first time since the crown touched his head, he looked less like a king—and more like a boy who had lost everything.

The echoes of the scuffle hadn't gone unnoticed.

From the grand doors of the feast hall, heads began to emerge—nobles in silks and furs, their laughter fading into murmurs as they caught sight of the scene. A few gasped. Others exchanged glances, whispers already forming like smoke.

Frey remained kneeling beside Lance, shielding him with her body as best she could, her expression a mask of composure stretched thin over fury and fear.

But Theodore was already walking away. His cloak dragged behind him, one side torn loose from the scuffle, his crown slightly askew. He didn't look back.

Didn't acknowledge the stares or the silence that followed him like a second shadow. He walked with purpose—to escape the weight of what had just happened before it crushed him entirely.

The corridor swallowed him again. The torchlight flickered against the blood on his knuckles. The crown on his head had never felt more fragile.

He traced familiar steps and stood before the door that had once belonged to his father.

Theodore slammed the heavy door behind him, the echo rattling the shelves of Thalen's old study. The scent of aged parchment and fire-charred oak still lingered in the room, though the hearth had long gone cold. Shadows clung to the corners, and The Great Stag's head above the mantle watched in silence.

Cavric stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, as if he'd been expecting this storm.

“You told me she'd be here by now,” Theodore snapped, voice sharp with fury. “You said she'd be returned to me. That this would all be behind us.”

Cavric turned slowly, his expression calm—too calm. “And she will be,” he said smoothly. “But these things take time. She's not a simple package to retrieve, Your Majesty. If we move too quickly, we risk losing her entirely.”

Theodore's hands curled into fists at his sides, the dried blood on his knuckles cracking.

“I don't care how delicate it is,” he growled. “I want her back. I want this kingdom to see her beside me. I want the whispers to stop.”

Cavric stepped forward, voice still measured, like a man soothing a wild horse. “And they will. But if you act from rage, you'll lose more than her. You'll lose control.

Let me handle this. Let me bring her back in a way that ensures loyalty—not just from her, but from the people.”

Theodore's jaw clenched. He turned away, pacing beneath the towering bookshelves, past the desk where his father once signed treaties and death warrants alike.

“She was supposed to be mine,” he grumbled. “She said the vows. She stood beside me. And now she's gone, and I'm the one left to answer for it.”

Cavric's eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. “And you will answer for it,” he said. “With strength. With resolve. When she returns, she will kneel beside you—not as a runaway, but as a queen who knows her place.”

Theodore stopped pacing. He didn't respond.

But the silence between them was no longer uncertain. It was agreement.

“I have a temporary solution,” Cavric smiled cruelly, voice smooth as oil. “Ada!” His call rang through the study.

Theodore hadn't even noticed her lingering on the lounge. She rose—slow, trembling. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, but her eyes, wide and glassy, betrayed her fear.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Cavric crooned, venom laced in every syllable.

She moved with hesitant steps, each one a silent plea. When his hand clapped against her back, she flinched, shoulders curling inward.

“Your queen's servant could be … useful,” he said, smiling with something that didn't reach his eyes. “She knows Mabel better than anyone. She could play the part.”

“Play the part?” Theodore scoffed. “You think the servant girl could pass as the queen? That's madness.”

Cavric didn't respond. Instead, his hand snapped around Ada's wrist. She cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound—and then her body began to shift. Skin paled. Hair lightened, thickening into copper curls. Her frame reshaped, her features reformed.

By the time Cavric threw her to the floor, she was no longer Ada. She caught herself on her hands, breath ragged. And when she looked up—she was unmistakable from the promised queen.

Theodore's gaze hardened on her, as if the sight alone of his runaway was enough to refuel the rage coiling deep within him. “How long can you hold the magic?” The question was aimed at Cavric, but his eyes continued to trace every reformed angle of Ada's—Mabel's features.

Defeat wrapped around Ada, tears welling in her eyes. “Don't do this. Please, Theodore—”

“Silence!” Cavric roared, his boot connecting with her shoulder and shoving her further against the ground. “You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not dare address your king—”

“How long can you hold the magic?” Theodore repeated, voice rising. His fists curled at his sides as Ada helplessly peered up at him.

“Do you mistake me for an apprentice?” Cavric scoffed.

Theodore leveled a glare at him.

Cavric shook his head, fingers rising to pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Indefinitely.”

Theodore nodded, kneeling in front of Ada. His hand, still bloodied, cupped her cheek. His thumb gently wiped at a fallen tear as he searched her face and her fear-ridden eyes, leaving a smear of red in its wake. She trembled under his touch.

“Please,” she whispered for just him to hear.

“The people need their queen, Mabel.”

The corridor outside Thalen's study was cloaked in shadow, the torchlight dimmed to embers along the stone walls. Lance stood just beyond the doorframe, breath shallow, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the weight of what he was hearing.

He hadn't meant to follow Theodore. Not at first.

But something in his brother's eyes after the fight—something unhinged and hollow—had pulled him down the corridor like a thread he couldn't ignore. And now, pressed against the cold stone, he listened.

Cavric's voice was calm, too calm. “When she returns, she will kneel beside you—not as a runaway, but as a queen who knows her place.”

Lance's jaw tightened. He heard the silence that followed. He heard Theodore's breath, heavy and uneven. And he heard the worst part of all—

Nothing.

No protest. No hesitation. Just quiet, complicit agreement.

Lance stepped back from the door, his pulse roaring in his ears. His face still ached from Theodore's fist, but that pain was nothing compared to the one blooming in his chest now.

Mabel didn't deserve this. As hurt and broken as he was—at her choices, at her rejection—he knew one thing with absolute clarity. She had never wanted this crown. Never wanted this cage.

And if Cavric was hunting her …

Then so would he.

But not to bring her back. To keep her free.

Lance turned on his heel, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor, the weight of his decision settling over him like armor.

He would find her first. He needed to find her first.

No matter what it cost.

You've reached the end of the book.