10. 9
Mabel’s fingertips grazed the spines of worn leather and faded parchment, tracing the lineage of forgotten stories. Late morning sunlight streamed through the towering windows, scattering golden ribbons across the endless rows of books.
Theodore hadn’t appeared at her door that morning. No warm smile. No flirtatious greeting. And though slightly disappointed, the morning was hers alone—and she welcomed the silence.
It gave Ada a chance to take her time—twisting all of Mabel’s copper curls into an elegant, braided crown. It was a ritual between them, tender and familiar.
Even if Theodore hadn’t graced her with his presence, she still felt lovely, and more than that, she cherished the care Ada poured into her. She knew Ada relished the chance to dress her up, not for anyone else, but just for the joy of it.
Mabel couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t come twice in a row now. Probably drinking. A flicker of disappointment had stirred within her, one she might’ve confessed if pressed. Still, she refused to let it settle too deeply.
She hadn’t had the luxury of exploring much of the castle before now. So, she’d wandered, letting instinct guide her footsteps through long corridors until she stumbled upon a hidden treasure—the library.
It stole her breath.
Shelves stretched to the ceiling, ancient and commanding, forming winding aisles that begged to be explored. Tall candelabras stood between them. At the far end, beneath a trio of ornately carved windows, sunlight bathed a plush lounge scattered with pillows and throws.
It felt untouched. Undisturbed. As if it had been waiting for her.
Mabel let her fingers drift along the rows of spines, each book whispering centuries of forgotten knowledge.
She scanned the faded titles absently until one sent a jolt up her arm.
She recoiled instinctively, not out of pain, but surprise.
The sensation lingered, like a memory pressing against her skin.
With slow intent, she reached back, fingertips gliding across the leather-bound edges until she found it again. Her hand curled around the book and pulled it free.
Goosebumps bloomed across her arms. Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears.
Gold sigils shimmered across the cover, etched in a winding script that seemed to shift in the light. She ran her thumb over them, tracing the curves of the markings.
Fire.
The word exhaled behind her, a whisper so close she felt the breath. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. That voice had become almost familiar. Curiosity tugged at her. She clutched the book close and crossed the room, sinking into the cushions of the lounge as sunlight kissed her shoulders.
The weight of the book settled into her lap, letting it ground her like a forgotten truth. She cracked it open with care; the binding creaking softly in protest while dust drifted into the air.
Her eyes swept over the first page, dense script in a language she didn’t recognize, though parts of it seemed to shimmer faintly, shifting just beneath the surface.
A diagram spread across the next leaf, inked in gold and crimson. It looked like a constellation, or perhaps a map. As her fingers brushed it, the paper thrummed under her skin as though it recognized her.
She drew in a breath.
The air grew heavier around her; the sunlight dulled. From somewhere inside the walls of the library, a soft creaking echoed. It wasn’t the wind.
She turned another page.
At the top, a single line flared to life in brilliant glowing script: To conjure flame, one must first remember the spark.
Mabel’s heart skipped.
There was something inside this book—alive, perhaps ancient. It wasn’t just a collection of knowledge. It was waiting to be read. And it had chosen her.
She sank deeper into the text, eyes sweeping over tangled lines of script and translated fragments. Words clung to her thoughts like embers.
Fire conjures more than heat—it brings memory, instinct, emotion.
Her gaze caught on an illustration. A single flame rendered in luminous gold, etched so finely it seemed almost alive. Something shifted inside her, a pull she couldn’t name.
She began to hum the words beneath it before realizing she was doing so aloud.
Elda upp, lysa nótt—
Logi af hjarta, brenndu tótt.
Af úr djúpum, kalla ég tig—
Eldur vakni, bundinn vie mig.
But nothing happened.
Mabel’s brow furrowed. She whispered the words again, slower this time, willing heat to rise from her chest, her fingertips, anywhere.
Silence.
She stared at the page, lips parted, waiting for something—anything—to flicker. Her breath trembled as she tried once more.
Still nothing.
A voice slipped through the quiet. “That’s not going to work.”
She stiffened. Her pulse kicked hard as she turned.
Lance.
He lounged against the bookshelf behind the velvet lounge, half-shadowed, his expression far too pleased.
Her eyes narrowed. Of course. Of course he was watching.
But her breath caught as she looked at him fully. Lance’s face was marred—slashes of red against dark skin, a purple bruise blooming beneath his eye. Her heart skipped. Theodore. Was this where he’d gone that morning? To leave these marks?
“Wha—” the word broke off, unfinished, uncertain. She stood, turning to face him fully to take in the damage done to his infuriatingly pretty face.
Lance let out a laugh, brittle and sharp. “Your betrothed has a temper.”
She said nothing. Her eyes lingered on the jagged lines across his cheekbone, the mess of it. Bruises told stories. These screamed.
Something stirred in her chest—a ripple of unease, hard to name. Could Theodore really be so brutal?
“I … I didn’t mean for him to hurt you. I only—”
“Don’t bother.” Lance’s voice was cold, dismissive. “At this point, it’s practically self-inflicted.” He rolled his eyes and stepped away from the shelf, each movement steady as he prowled closer.
“You can read Old Velmirian?” he asked through the quiet as he gestured toward the book, still dormant on the table.
Mabel’s cheeks flushed. Her eyes flicked to the sigil-covered pages. “No,” she admitted. “But I can … hear it, I think? Does that sound crazy?”
Lance’s gaze lingered on her; something shadowed behind it, a glimmer she couldn’t name. “No,” he said at last. “But it’s dangerous if you don’t understand what you’re playing with. And you clearly don’t.”
Mabel glanced down at the pages, jaw tight. “Clearly,” she muttered, casting him a sideways look. “Gods forbid a girl pick up a hobby.”
His laugh broke the hush like a snapped thread. It startled her—not the sound itself, but the warmth in it. She blinked, caught off guard by the flicker of charm in his voice.
“Funny,” he said, a smile ghosting across his lips before fading. Without a word, he lifted his hand. A flame bloomed in his palm.
“Your little spellbook tricks are endearing,” he hummed. “But you’ve no idea the magic you’re messing with.”
Before she could recoil, he stepped in close and clasped her wrist in a swift, practiced movement. His skin was hot—too hot. Her breath hitched.
Then, with eerie grace, he unfurled her fingers and rolled his flame into her palm. It didn’t burn.
Mabel drew in a trembling breath, willing her pulse to slow. Her focus gathered into the heat blooming in her palm, steady but rising, fed by the thrum of her heartbeat.
It moved with her now. Listened.
Lance’s hand stayed wrapped around her wrist, his eyes fixed on the flame. But she could feel the tension beneath his skin, something cautious, maybe even impressed.
And Mabel, for the first time, didn’t pull away.
Her heart skipped, sharp and sudden. The flame swelled in response, mirroring her pulse as if it knew her secrets. It danced in her palm at her expense, revealing too much, too fast.
Lance’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, his gaze catching hers. “Nervous, Miss Ravenov?”
Mabel jerked her hand back. The flame blinked out instantly, swallowed into silence as if ashamed to linger.
She turned away, her skin still tingling with the heat. “I don’t need your help,” she retorted.
Lance’s smile curved, amused. “I didn’t offer it.”
She didn’t respond. The silence felt thick between them.
He tilted his head slightly, the flame gone from his hand but not from his eyes. “Besides,” he added, tone featherlight but laced with something darker, “you clearly don’t need help … just supervision.”
Lance took a slow step closer, just inside her space, not enough to touch, but enough to be felt.
Mabel’s jaw tightened.
He circled her, deliberately slow, like a predator circling their prey. “I mean, you’re clearly powerful. Gifted. Emotional,” he added with a sly glance. “But power untempered? It’s just chaos waiting to embarrass itself.”
“I’m not here to impress you,” she said.
“No, you’re here to prove something,” he replied. “Which is … adorable.”
Her hands twitched at her sides.
Lance smirked as if he’d touched something raw. “Don’t worry. I’m sure your charming fiancé would pat your head and call you special.”
Mabel’s voice was low when it came, “Keep testing me and you’ll see just how special I am.”
“You can’t even summon a spellbook flame, and you think you can touch me?” Lance cooed, head cocked with mockery. “Do you even understand the power you’re toying with? What it’s capable of? What you could be if you stopped playing at magic and truly tested yourself?”
Mabel’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need you to explain my magic to me,” she snapped, voice cutting clean through the air. “And I don’t need you to twist it into something ugly.”
“Not ugly.” Lance stepped into her space. His locs spilled forward as he dipped his head, close enough that their breath mingled. “Powerful.”
She swallowed hard. Heat crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks as his presence pressed close. Her heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears. Too loud.
“What did the book say?” he asked, voice a low hum. His gaze traced the line of her jaw, then lingered—unapologetically—on her lips.