2. 1 #3
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 breathed.
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 breathed, 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.