9. 8
“There you are,” Theodore’s voice called.
Mabel startled, clutching the book she’d been reading against her chest. She’d escaped Lance, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before Theodore found her. She slid against the stone bench, offering a space for him to sit.
The chill afternoon air nipped at her skin as a soft gust of wind blew between columns. She’d needed a moment to dull the pounding in her chest and the flush in her cheeks. She told herself it was her exertion during training. The adrenaline still in her veins. Why would it be anything else?
Her eyes raked over him, assessing. She wanted to tell him. Wanted to admit she’d seen Lance again—more than seen him.
“I’m not the one who was missing this morning,” she hummed back to him, closing her book. “What kept you from me?”
She saw the pause in his eyes, the slight hesitation, before his smile spread across his lips. “My father needed me,” he responded, sliding in next to her on the bench. “But trust me, I would have rather spent my morning with you.”
His warmth engulfed her. She found herself leaning into it, her head resting against his shoulder, heart steadying only slightly.
“I hope you haven’t been terribly bored in my absence.” He smiled down at her.
Memories of the morning replayed in her mind. She cleared her throat, lips parting to speak, but she stopped just before the words fell from her lips.
She couldn’t tell him.
“I-it was quite uneventful,” she said quickly. She raised the book in her hand as if to prove it.
“Old habits die hard, hm?” he teased, plucking the cover from her hands. His eyes traced over the sigils engrained in the leather. “Is this a spellbook?”
She beamed. “Yes, Frey—”
“I thought you couldn’t cast,” he said, brows pulling together.
Mabel’s smile dropped. “What if I could?” her voice was small as the words fell.
“Why would you want to? It’s dangerous.” His eyes traced the cover again before lifting to hers. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”
Her stomach twisted. She lifted her head from his shoulder, shifting to look at him. “I … I was only reading about it.”
Theodore set the book down beside him with an eerie calm. His fingers lifted, grazing her chin. “My mother gave this to you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
His eyes flicked across her face, searching, before a sigh fell from his lips. “Don’t let her ideas fool you. Magic only ever causes misery.”
“It’s a gift—”
“It’s a weapon, Mabel,” he scoffed. “Think. The war started because of magic. My grandfather died because of magic. I almost died because of magic.”
Her eyes fell to the pink scar curling along his neck. “I didn’t think of it like that.”
“Of course you didn’t. Now, do you wish to spend the rest of your evening reading, or would you rather spend it by my side?” He stood, turning to offer her a hand.
She stared at his palm. Hesitantly, she took it. He pulled her from the bench and into his arms. Her eyes widened as his lips pressed to hers, claiming.
The kiss she’d normally melt into suddenly had her rearing back, but Theodore held her there. She could smell the faint trace of liquor on his breath. Tasted it.
Had he lied to her? She doubted his father needed him as a drinking partner. So where had he gone?
Theodore pulled away. His forehead rested against hers, chest rising slowly. “I don’t want you toying with this idea of magic anymore.”
She blinked, brows knitting together. Something in his tone told her his words were nonnegotiable. An ache twisted deep in her chest, familiar. She slowly nodded, biting back the sorrow in her chest.
“I won’t,” she said, almost too soft for him to hear.
“Good. Now come along.” His hand drifted down her back, fingers splaying along her spine as he pulled her along with him.
She could only muster a half-broken smile.
She tried to relax, tried to melt into him, but her mind betrayed her.
It swirled with thoughts of the morning, of Lance, of Frey, of magic.
Her heart sank in her chest. She couldn’t give up her magic, she just learned she could cast. Would this be yet another thing she’d have to keep from Theodore?
He was clearly keeping things from her.
She absently wondered if it was a late night or early morning outing. It stirred the ideas Lance had planted in her mind. Had he been out all night drinking with whores?
She certainly hoped that wasn’t the case. Hoped he had enough self respect—respect for her—to not result to such debauchery.
Her gaze flicked up to him, studying his profile.
She knew better than to pry. His temper was short.
Did she even have the right to ask? She thought she did.
Their marriage contract should’ve given her the right.
Though, it should’ve also been reason enough for him not to seek out another’s bed over hers.
It’s speculation, she reminded herself. A few drinks don’t amount to infidelity. But his hesitation, his obvious lie, left her believing far worse.
As far as she was concerned, if he were hiding something, she wouldn’t feel guilty over her training with Frey. Maybe she could feel guilty about her training with Lance.
But she didn’t.
And she wouldn’t.
Lance’s shadow stretched thin along the stone walls as he slipped down the alley, each step slow, measured, calm. Snow crunched softly beneath his boots, a hush falling over the narrow passage as night cloaked the city. He dodged glances from shuttered windows and watchful corners.
The alley spilled out onto a cobbled street, lingering snow glistening faintly beneath the lantern light. Across the way, his destination loomed. A haven of noise, heat, and vice.
He didn’t come often. Only when he needed to escape the rush that threatened in his veins.
He never understood why his magic ached the way it did.
Why it sparked unannounced when threatened with emotion.
His mother had said it was his Velmirian blood, but no texts, no books, nothing spoke of the outbursts of magic that overtook him.
Not even Veyra herself had explained it, not that she’d ever spoken to him before.
His magic was violent.
More violent than he ever thought he was capable of.
Lance was ten when magic bloomed in him. It shimmered at his fingertips like sunlight, impossible to ignore.
At dinner, Frey had smiled at him, pride softening her features. She’d always seen him. Always meant it when she called him hers. Thalen said the word ‘son’ like it was a formality. Frey said it like a promise.
Theodore noticed.
And later that night, he waited.
The corridor was narrow, the torchlight dim. Stone walls swallowed sound, but the laughter of Theodore’s friends sliced through the quiet—sharp, cruel, echoing like blades drawn in the dark.
Lance turned the corner and found them waiting.
Theodore stepped forward. Four years his elder, he towered over him. His smile was cold as he cornered Lance.
The air shifted.
“Where are your spells now, Lance?” he sneered, shoving him hard.
Lance hit the ground, curled into himself, tears streaking his face, breath hitching.
Theodore crouched beside him, voice low, venomous. “It calls itself a prince,” he scoffed. “But all I see is a bastard.”
Something inside Lance snapped.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t cast.
The magic simply erupted.
A burst of light slammed into Theodore’s shoulder, sending him sprawling. Blood hit the floor, fast, dark, too much.
And Lance didn’t move. He couldn’t. He stayed curled on the floor, eyes wide, watching the blood spread across the stone.
His only saving grace was that Theodore lived, and Frey had begged Thalen to show mercy.
It was the first time Lance understood what his magic could do. That it wasn’t just light and wonder. It was dangerous. Unforgiving.
But Frey didn’t flinch. She didn’t fear it. She taught him to feel it, to hold it without drowning. To let it move through him, then let it go.
He learned to control it. Almost.
But control was never the point. His magic didn’t respond to discipline; it responded to emotion. It pulsed with whatever lived deepest in him. Rage. Grief. Joy. And in those moments, it didn’t just slip. It surged.
Just like the old spells. Just like the cursed blood that ran through his veins.
So, he played it safe.
He meditated every morning, breath steady, thoughts clean. He sharpened his words, dulled his feelings.
But the whispers never stopped.
They lived in the marrow of his magic, grieving and aching. A sadness as old as him, carried in every flicker of light, every drop of blood.
And sometimes, when he was quiet enough, he could hear them calling his name.
And tonight, they were louder than usual.
He approached the heavy door and knocked once.
Muffled music throbbed from inside, voices rising and falling in drunken cadence.
A peephole slid open—a flash of eyes, narrowed and suspicious—then widened with recognition.
Metal locks clattered back in a rush. The door swung open, unleashing a wall of sound.
Branley stood framed in the glow, mouth curled into a grin. “It seems Auren has blessed me.” He shook his head, leaning against the frame as his arms crossed. “It has been far too long since you’ve graced us with your presence.”
Lance gave a nod and stepped past him.
Branley fell in beside him, fingertips brushing Lance’s arms as if reacquainting himself with a memory. “So,” he purred, “what are you running from tonight?”
His hands slipped beneath the folds of Lance’s cloak, deftly undoing the clasp and easing it from his shoulders.
Lance didn’t answer. His jaw was set, eyes locked on the scene ahead.
The air was heavy with incense, sweet and heady, saturated with lust. The floor swelled with movement—lounges overflowing, bodies pressed together, people tangled in the desperation to forget.
Bare skin shimmered beneath the golden lamplight, laughter and moans blurring into a singular thrum of indulgence.
From below, music rose, a singer’s voice dipped in desire as strings and hand drums echoed behind him.