3. 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 breathed 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.”