2. 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.