2. 1 #2
“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.