8. 7
“Good morning,” Lance said, standing a few paces from the door.
Ada blinked at him, tilting her head. “Good morning,” she offered, uncertain. Her gaze flicked back to Mabel, who was fumbling with her heels, fingers trembling slightly as she tried to fasten the strap.
“Can I help you with something?” Ada asked, voice guarded.
“Yes, I’m here for Mabel,” he said, head tilting with a trace of condescension.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Ada’s brows drew together.
Mabel appeared beside her, smoothing her skirt with nervous fingers. “Good morning, Theo—” She froze as she saw Lance, her breath catching. “Oh. It’s … you.” Her brow furrowed. “Why are you here?”
Lance rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Well, good morning to you too, Miss Ravenov,” he said. “My mother has instructed that I teach you magic today, since your charming prince is unavailable.”
“He’s not coming?” Mabel’s voice was barely above a whisper. Her eyes dropped to the dress she’d chosen so carefully, then flicked back to Lance, uncertain.
“Afraid not.” He shook his head. He watched the way her hands slipped together, very subtly picking at the skin.
“I’m not supposed to be speaking with you,” she muttered, stepping back.
He gave a short huff. “Really? Says who?”
Mabel looked away. “Theodore.”
“Well, the Queen has asked this of both of us, it’d sure be a shame to deny her.”
Mabel lingered in the doorway, glancing at Ada with desperation. Ada shrugged, offering no help.
“Come along, then,” he said, turning slightly. “Before I change my mind.”
“Where … where are we going?” Mabel asked, voice small.
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
Mabel flinched, eyes dropping. “My apologies, Prince.”
He studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “No need to apologize. Just decide. Are you coming or not?”
Mabel nodded quickly, hesitantly stepping forward. She gave Ada a soft, uncertain glance before following him out.
“Um … May I ask something else?” Mabel’s voice was soft as she fell into step beside him, eyes flicking up only briefly before dropping again. She fought the flush in her cheeks at the reminder of her non-stop dreams.
Soft skin, hot against hers. And that mouth—
She cleared her throat, closing her eyes tight before staring strictly ahead.
“You just did,” Lance said, glancing sideways. “But I’ll allow one more.”
She nodded, hands fidgeting together, fingers worrying at the edge of her sleeve. “I … I thought you didn’t like me,” she muttered, barely audible.
“Not a question,” he replied, dry as dust.
“No—I mean …” Her voice faltered. “Why would you help me?”
Lance gave a short laugh, more breath than sound. “Help is a strong word. I didn’t volunteer if that’s what you’re thinking.” He rolled his eyes. “My mother has a way of making things … nonnegotiable.”
Mabel’s gaze dropped to the floor, her steps slowing. Did she even want to learn from someone who clearly didn’t want to teach her? Was this Frey’s idea of diplomacy between them? And what would Theodore say? He’d warned her about Lance. He’d made his feelings very clear only days ago.
Lance glanced at her again, and for a moment, the sharpness in his expression dulled just slightly.
“Look”—he sighed, words softening—“I don’t hate you.
I’m just … not the easiest to get along with.
It’s intentional.” He paused, eyes skimming the stone walls ahead of them.
“Spend enough time in this place and you’ll learn to keep your edges sharp. ”
Mabel blinked, startled by the admission. She looked up, but he was already facing forward again, pace steady.
“What does that mean?” she asked, voice tentative as she matched his pace again.
“You’ve reached your limit of questions, I’m afraid,” Lance said, shaking his head. “And that answer’s one you’ll have to learn on your own.”
Mabel fell quiet, her brows knitting as she glanced sideways at him, but he didn’t look back. The silence between them stretched, thick and unspoken, echoing off the stone walls as they walked.
At last, they reached a set of double doors—tall, weathered, and carved with faded sigils. Lance stepped forward, pressing one open with a creak that groaned through the corridor.
“After you,” he said, almost amused.
Mabel hesitated, then stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the uneven stone.
The room was vast. One wall shimmered with roughened mirrors, their surfaces fractured and fogged with age.
The opposite side held arched windows, their frames etched with curling runes.
The floor was wild, curved stone and patches of soft grass, as if the terrain had been coaxed into submission but never fully tamed.
Large boulders and wooden barricades were scattered throughout.
“This is where my mother taught magic,” Lance said, stepping in behind her. “Combat magic, specifically.”
“Combat?” Mabel turned to him, frowning. “Women are allowed to fight in Aurevyn?”
He laughed, not unkindly. “Allowed? They’re encouraged. Honestly, they’re better at it. Magic responds to instinct, and women have sharper ones.”
Mabel blinked, her gaze sweeping the room again. “I’ve never been allowed to practice magic—let alone fight. I-I don’t think I’d do very good,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t know how.”
Lance tilted his head, watching her. “You can. You just haven’t been provoked yet.”
“What?” She turned toward him, startled, just as his hands sparked to life, light crackling across his fingertips in warning.
“Wait—what are you doing?” Mabel’s voice cracked as she backed away, eyes locked on the flicker gathering in his palm.
“You’ve practiced protection spells, haven’t you?” Lance asked, tone deceptively casual.
“I-I’ve only learned a few—”
“Use them.”
A wicked smile curled across his lips, and Mabel’s breath caught. She scrambled to recall the incantation Frey had taught her, whispering it under her breath. Her skin tingled as faint sigils shimmered to life across her arms, glowing beneath the surface.
“Lance, I don’t know how to fight,” she said, voice trembling. Her heart thudded against her ribs, panic rising.
“Figure it out,” he snapped.
The flicker in his hand surged into a gleaming orb, its edges pulsing with heat. With a sharp motion, he hurled it toward her.
Mabel gasped, stumbling sideways as the spell whistled past her shoulder.
Her heels skidded against the stone, arms flailing for balance.
She caught herself just before her knees hit the stone.
Breath ragged, she darted behind the nearest wooden barricade, fingers clawing at the clasps of her heels.
“Come on, come on.” She fumbled as another flicker of light sparked in the distance.
“You won’t learn anything hiding,” Lance’s voice rang out, sharp and amused.
With a grunt, she yanked the heels free and peeked over the edge, then hurled them at him with surprising force. “I’m not learning anything at all!”
He dodged easily, laughing as one clattered harmlessly to the floor.
Mabel ducked back down, heart pounding. Her mind scrambled through the spells Frey had taught her—protection, grounding, illusion. Not enough. Not for this.
A sudden thud slammed into the barricade, rattling the wood and sending splinters flying. She yelped, shielding her face.
“Stand up and fight!” Lance shouted from across the room, voice echoing like a challenge.
She drew in a shaky breath, trying to quiet the panic clawing at her chest. Focus. Just focus.
It was only light. She could manage light.
Mabel shut her eyes tight, picturing the orb resting in her palms, warm and real. A faint buzz stirred beneath her skin, and when she opened her eyes, the glow was there. Flickering, imperfect, but hers.
She peeked over the edge of the barricade. Lance stood poised, his own orb pulsing like a heartbeat in his hand.
Mabel ducked again, crawling to the far end of the barricade. Her fingers trembled as she pushed herself upright. Then, with a breathless cry, she hurled her spell toward him.
But he was faster.
The moment she rose, his orb shot forward, merciless. It struck her square in the chest.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs. She staggered backward, legs giving way as she hit the stone floor with a jarring thud. Her eyes flew open, stunned, the glow of her own spell already fading from her fingertips.
Lance approached, that familiar smirk playing on his lips. He crouched beside her, eyes scanning her face with amusement. Two fingers lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his.
“No one said it was easy,” he said quietly, slowly rising to his feet. His gaze lingered on her. “Get up.”
Mabel glared at him, cheeks flushed. She pushed herself upright, brushing dust from her skirt with stiff hands.
“You could try taking it easy on me,” she griped. “I’m new to this, you know. No need to be a show-off.”
“Oh, I can tell,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“But believe it or not, this is me being gentle. Now, let’s fix this.
” He stepped in close. His hands found her wrists, grabbing her with a grip that bordered on rough.
His boot nudged her feet apart, correcting her stance without ceremony.
“The soul guides magic,” he explained. “But your body is the vessel. If you’re unstable—physically or mentally—your magic will be too. That makes you vulnerable.”
His fingers traced the curve of her arms down to her palms. He lifted one hand, bending two fingers into place with practiced ease.
“It’s not like I’ll be fighting anyone,” she said under her breath, watching him carefully as his hands slid back up to her shoulders.
A shiver ran through her at the contact, and she fought to keep her expression neutral. But she saw it—the flicker of amusement he tried to hide, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“You don’t know that,” he replied, gaze locking onto hers. “You’re a future queen. You should know how to defend yourself.” He paused, then added, “And you’re fighting me right now, so stop complaining and stand up straight.”