5. 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 breathed 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.