6. 5 #2
Her hands trembled, eyes wide, her heartbeat pounding so hard she was afraid it might burst. She knew it was too good to be true. Fate had always found a way to be cruel to her. But this time, the sting bit a little harder.
She gasped for breath as he broke away, but he didn’t relent. He trailed down her jaw, then the curve of her neck, teeth sinking in hard enough to make her flinch.
But she tensed further as his hand began gathering her skirts and lifting. Defiance—no—self-respect building just enough confidence to press a trembling hand to his chest.
“May I leave?” Her voice wavered, barely more than a breath.
Theodore froze, tearing himself away to look at her. “Mabel—”
“Please.” It slipped out soft and broken, but firm in its plea.
Theodore’s arms fell away. She didn’t hesitate.
Slipping quickly from the table, she turned sharply toward the archway and vanished into the corridor beyond.
Her steps quickened as she rounded the corner, urgency rising with each breath.
She wouldn’t let him see her like this. Not unraveling.
Tears burned down her cheeks, unstoppable.
A sob escaped, raw and sudden. She clamped a hand over her mouth, choking it back.
“Mabel?” Theodore’s voice chased after her, but she didn’t slow.
She tried one door—locked. Another—no yield. Panic flared until, finally, one gave way. She stumbled inside, barely catching herself before slamming it shut behind her.
Shaky gasps broke from her lips, tangled with tears too fierce to hold back. Her back hit the door as she slid down, knees pulled close, heart hammering with no sign of slowing.
“Hello?” The voice startled her. Her breath caught mid-sob. She looked up—and there was Frey.
Of course. Her stomach twisted. It would be his mother …
Words failed her. They sank somewhere behind the panic.
“Mabel?” Frey’s voice softened as she stepped forward, cautious and tender, as if the wrong note might shatter what remained of Mabel’s composure.
“Oh, sweetheart—what happened?” Frey kneeled slowly in front of her; concern etched in every line of her face.
“I-I’m not sure,” Mabel whispered, voice trembling. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hush now,” Frey said gently, her tone warm and steady. She extended her hand, offering comfort without pressure.
Mabel stared at it for a moment, wary, then reached out, fingers brushing Frey’s. She let herself be guided to her feet, where Frey took both her hands, grounding her.
The tears came again, silent but relentless, as Frey folded her into an embrace. Frey’s fingers combed gently through Mabel’s curls, her voice lingering with a soothing hum. “Feel it,” she whispered, “then let it go.”
Mabel clung to her, letting the sobs unravel freely, each breath hitching with emotion too heavy to carry alone.
She’d never known such maternal comfort. Her own mother never held her like this. And for once she felt … safe. The thought alone made her tears swell further.
They stayed there like that, wordless, wrapped in warmth and sorrow. Only her cries broke the stillness, until they eased into soft sniffles … and finally, finally, into the hush of steady breathing.
“Do you wish to talk about it?” Frey asked softly, no judgment in her tone.
Mabel shook her head, pulling away. She couldn’t. Not with her.
Frey nodded. “I understand. But, if you ever need it, I am an exceptionally good listener.” Her smile warmed something in Mabel. It didn’t fix the ache, but it dulled it.
“Would you mind”—she took a breath—“if I waited in here? Just for a moment.”
“I don’t mind at all, dear,” Frey said, but her brows knit together in concern. “You’re not in danger, are you?”
Mabel gave her a soft smile, shaking her head. “No, no danger.”
Frey gave her hand a gentle squeeze before slipping back toward her desk, leaving Mabel standing amid the calm.
She glanced around, finally absorbing the room.
A spacious, sun-drenched chamber humming with energy.
Shelves groaned with ancient tomes; their worn spines stamped in fading gold.
Glass cases held relics that shimmered faintly in the light.
Papers and vials were scattered across a wide desk, flanked by leafy plants climbing toward the windows, trailing from ceiling hooks, and blooming in pots tucked into corners.
A glass globe shimmered faintly near the window.
This was Frey’s study. And it felt alive. Magic lingered in its depths.
Frey noticed the way Mabel’s gaze lingered, eyeing the space with wonder. She watched her thoughtfully. That spark of magic she sensed in the girl—it hadn’t faded. No, it flickered still. How could her father have missed it? Or worse—ignored it.
“It’s a bit cluttered.” She broke the quiet with a warm smile, easing toward a worn shelf. Her fingers traced the spines until one book caught her eye. She drew it out carefully, blowing dust from the faded cover. “Come.”
Mabel stepped forward, curiosity edging past the remnants of sorrow. Frey laid the book gently on the table, opening it with care. Her finger landed on a word etched in an unfamiliar script.
“Read it.”
Mabel blinked, hesitant. “What? I don’t—”
“Read it,” Frey repeated, her voice soft with certainty.
Mabel leaned in, eyes narrowing at the markings. They weren’t letters in any script she recognized, closer to a sigil than a word. Her gaze followed each curve, each jagged stroke, until a whisper grazed her ear.
She flinched, spinning to check the empty space behind her.
Nothing.
Her breath caught as she turned back to the page. The ink shimmered faintly, like it had been waiting for her.
The whisper came again, clearer.
She listened.
“It says … ‘magic’?” Her voice carried hesitation. Mabel gasped as she felt a rush of energy fly through her. It pulsed along her skin, hair standing, skin pricking. And just as quickly as it came, it vanished.
“What was that?” she asked, eyes wide with wonder.
Frey’s lips curved slightly. “I knew it.” She beamed, as if she’d been waiting for this moment all along.
“Knew what?” Mabel’s voice was barely above a breath as she turned back to the sigil. It pulsed with something ancient. The word echoed again, a whisper curling against her ear. Magic.
She stiffened. What was that voice?
Frey’s smile softened, touched not just with warmth, but with something older—something knowing. “You are a daughter of Veyra, dear.”
Mabel’s breath caught. “What do you mean? How can you be sure?” Her voice was tight, wrapped in disbelief.
Frey tilted her head, eyes steady and kind. “When you know magic as long as I have, you can sense even the faintest trace in someone. It’s strong in you.”
Mabel blinked. “Is it?” she whispered.
“Magic lives in you, Mabel,” Frey said. “It’s in your blood, every beat of your heart.” She stepped closer, voice gentling. “I can teach you. Help you shape the wild energy that stirs inside you. Let it become something powerful … something yours.” Her hands took Mabel’s once again, squeezing them.
“I—my father,” Mabel started, but Frey shook her head.
“You are under my roof, my care. He has no power over you here.”
Mabel smiled, really smiled. “Okay.” She nodded. “When do we start?”
The hours slipped by, marked by the turning of pages.
Frey guided Mabel through the foundations of magic—its ancient roots, the natural forces it mirrored, the delicate balance it demanded, and the way it could sense the soul behind the spell.
Magic wasn’t brute force. It was intuition. Intention. Will.
“All magic,” Frey said quietly, her voice tinged with sorrow, “comes from Velmira. Which means, somewhere in your bloodline, you carry its legacy.”
Mabel’s gaze lifted, wide-eyed. “I do?”
Frey nodded. “Velmira was once the heart of arcane study. It was blessed by Veyra, the goddess of magic. The most powerful sorcery in all of Valken was born there. Not just in its scholars, but in every living thing.”
She paused, lips pressed tight. “But you know how it ended. Velmira was destroyed—by our own hands, no less.”
“Where was Veyra?” Mabel asked quietly.
Frey sighed. “I think The Old Ones turned an eye that day.”
Mabel glanced down at the book between them; its pages filled with sketches of Velmirian woods and the Lone Wolf constellation—Veyra—howling into the stars.
“Lance,” Frey said quietly, “may be the last of them.”
Mabel’s head snapped up. “Lance is Velmirian?”
Frey’s expression softened into something mournful. “Thalen found him during the siege. He couldn’t bring himself to strike. Lance was just an infant.” She shook her head, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “And thank the stars he didn’t. That boy … he saved me.”
Mabel saw it then—the shift in Frey’s eyes. Grief, yes, but also love. Fierce and unyielding.
“I had just given birth to a baby girl,” Frey whispered.
“Fiona. She died of illness right before Thalen left for war. And Thalen … He’d just lost his father.
We lost our child. We were drowning.” Her voice cracked.
“If I hadn’t been so broken, maybe I could’ve stopped him. Maybe I could’ve talked him down.”
“You were grieving,” Mabel said gently, reaching for her hand. “You couldn’t have known.”
“I know,” Frey squeezed her fingers, her smile aching.
“But that kind of pain never leaves. Losing a child … it carves something out of you.” She paused for a moment, her eyes distant before turning to Mabel.
“Then Thalen brought Lance home,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
“He needed someone. And so did I.” She blinked away tears.
“Twenty-two years later—look at him now. He’s become something extraordinary.
He’d be furious if he knew I was telling you this,” she added with a broken laugh.
“It’s your story,” Mabel said.
Frey smiled. “And his.”