10. 9 #2
“I-it said something about memory,” she managed, the words catching. She hated the stammer, hated how easily he unraveled her composure.
“To conjure flame,” he said, eyes locking with hers, “one must first remember the spark.”
She blinked. “What does that mean?”
He tilted his head, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “Care to find out?” He straightened, extending his hand, not demanding, but expectant.
“Where are—”
“Stop asking questions,” he cut in, voice sharp but not cruel. “Do you want to know or not?”
She hesitated. The air between them pulsed. “Yes,” she whispered.
His fingers wrapped around her wrist, firm but careful. His eyes didn’t waver.
A jolt of energy surged through her arm, hot and electric. Her skin prickled. The edges of the library blurred, the shelves dissolving.
Then—silence.
Her senses shut off one by one until the world itself felt dissolved. No weight. No sound. No breath. Just darkness, vast and echoing. Panic flickered in her chest, but even that felt distant, dulled.
And then … light.
A lake shimmered into view, familiar and still—Moorthwyn. Her home.
The landscape spilled out like a painting drawn from memory. Trees she knew. Air she had breathed.
Footsteps shattered the quiet. Cries rang through the space.
Mabel spun toward them.
And saw herself.
Younger. Fifteen. Her copper curls wild in the wind. Her face streaked with fear as she fled the castle, her steps frantic, desperate.
It hit her hard, deep in her chest, the echo of that terror, buried but never gone.
She started to move, to follow, but the scene twisted.
Darkness again. Then trees.
Her younger self, curled beneath the knotted roots of an ancient pine, trembling. The sound of dogs barked in the distance.
And Mabel could only watch. “Run,” she whispered. “Please … run.”
But the image began to stutter. Screams shattered the stillness.
“Let me go!” her younger self sobbed, voice ragged with fear. Guards flanked her as they dragged her across familiar soil. She thrashed against their grasp, heels scraping, tears streaking her cheeks. Blood dripped from her arm where the dogs had dragged her.
“Don’t take me back!” she cried. “I won’t go back!”
Mabel stood frozen, the ache curling deep in her chest. She knew what was coming. Her body braced for it.
The vision shifted again.
This time, her father’s fist slammed into the girl’s stomach. She crumpled to the ground.
“No,” Mabel whispered, eyes stinging.
A foot followed.
“Stop!” she shouted, spinning in place. “Stop!”
The room fractured. The memory splintered.
Slowly, the world began to stitch itself back together. Her breath returned in ragged pieces. Tears streamed freely now, hot. Her vision cleared just enough to meet Lance’s gaze, still locked on hers.
Then the fury hit. Sharp. Unrelenting.
Mabel yanked her wrist free, fists curling tight. Before thought could catch up to feeling, she swung.
Lance caught her arm midair, grip firm but careful.
“Mabel,” he said softly, voice stripped of its usual edge, coaxing rather than commanding.
But she couldn’t see him—couldn’t see anything past the blur of tears flooding her eyes. Her breath hitched, and then she broke, collapsing against him as the fury gave way to something deeper.
Sobs racked her chest, her body trembling against his.
Lance stood frozen, breath caught somewhere between guilt and disbelief. Slowly, he let go of her wrist, his hand rising to gently thread through the braid atop her head, unsure if the gesture would soothe or shatter her further.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t know—”
“How cruel can you be?” she gasped against his chest, voice cracked and raw.
But she didn’t pull away.
She stayed there, pressed against him, grief pouring through her in waves—grief for the girl she’d been, and the woman she was still becoming.
She’d submitted. Let her father mold her, beat her, strip her down until she no longer recognized the shape of herself. Survival had demanded it. Protection had required it. But she’d let it go too far. Let him carve away too much.
Was there anything left of the girl who once burned bright? The one with fire in her veins and defiance in her eyes? Had she buried that version so deep she couldn’t find her anymore?
The memories clawed upward, ones she’d locked beneath years of silence. Now torn open, they surged through her like flame.
Her fingers curled into Lance’s tunic, desperate, trembling. She hated him for dragging it out of her. Hated him for seeing it. But right now, he was the only thing keeping her upright. And she clung to him like she might fall apart if she let go.
He hadn’t expected her to break. Not like this.
Lance had seen Mabel angry, defiant, guarded—but this? This was something else. Something raw. Her sobs hit him harder than any spell she could cast, and the way she clung to him—fists curled in his tunic like he was the last solid thing in a crumbling world—left him breathless.
He didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know what to do with the ache in his chest or the heat rising in his throat. Her pain was too real, too close. And he hated that he’d been the one to unlock it. But more than that, he hated the man who’d buried it in her to begin with.
The thought of him—of the bruises, the silence, the years of shaping her into something small and obedient—made Lance’s jaw clench. He wanted to find him. Wanted to make him feel what she’d felt. Wanted to burn down everything that had taught her to flinch instead of fight.
She wasn’t his to protect. He knew that. But gods, he wanted to.
Not because she was fragile. But because she wasn’t. Because she was still standing, still burning, even after everything. And that fire—he’d seen it. He’d felt it. And he’d be damned if anyone tried to snuff it out again.
“Mabel,” he whispered, letting his arms wrap around her, drawing her in with slow, patient care. “You’re safe. You’re here.” He didn’t know if the words mattered. They felt small against the enormity of what she carried.
There was no undoing it. No spell to erase the years, the bruises, the silence. He couldn’t stop the tears or reach back far enough to shield the girl she used to be.
So he didn’t try. He just held her as she broke against him.
And for once, he didn’t say anything clever. Didn’t tease or provoke or push. He simply stayed.
She almost hated him more for it.
Or maybe she hated herself for how easily she folded into his arms, for how his warmth pulled her closer like gravity. For how perfectly she fit against him, like her body had known him long before her mind ever did.
But what she hated most was the flicker of comfort that bloomed in her chest when he held her.
Because despite everything—the pain he’d dragged to the surface, the memories she’d buried so deep she’d forgotten they were hers—she knew she needed to remember.
She had to face the grief she’d swallowed for years. The grief she’d masked with poise and practiced smiles. The grief that had shaped her into something quiet, something survivable.
And now, standing in his arms, she felt it all. And she hated that it made her feel more alive than she had in years.
She stayed pressed against him, fists still curled in his top, breath hitching in uneven waves. Her tears had slowed, but the ache hadn’t. It sat heavy in her chest.
Lance didn’t move. Didn’t speak. One hand remained in her braids, thumb brushing gently along the crown of her head. The other held her close; fingers splayed along her spine.
She didn’t mean to lift her face. Didn’t mean to meet his eyes. But she did.
And he was already looking at her.
Close. Too close.
Her breath trembled between them, and his hand stilled in her hair. Neither of them moved, but the space between them seemed to vanish all the same.
It wasn’t a decision.
Her lips brushed his—barely. A whisper of contact. A question neither of them had asked aloud.
He didn’t pull away.
She didn’t either.
One second of stillness.
Then her mouth found his again, desperate and real.
Lance responded instantly, arms tightening around her, pulling her in like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than he’d ever admit. The kiss deepened, fierce and consuming, all breath and heat and the ache of everything they hadn’t said.
It wasn’t soft. It was fire.
Her fingers tangled in his collar, his hand slid to her jaw, and the world narrowed to the space between them. Grief, fury, longing—all of it poured into the kiss—messy, electric, and far too much.
And when she finally pulled away, neither spoke.
But the air between them had changed. And they both knew it.
Her eyes flew wide, hand snapping up to cover her mouth. She stumbled back, breath catching, heart pounding.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice barely holding together, fingers trembling.
Lance reached for her, but she was already moving, fast, like the kiss had set something loose inside her she couldn’t afford to face.
“Mabel,” he called, voice cracked with urgency.
She didn’t stop.
Her steps echoed through the library, uneven and frantic, breath ragged as regret surged through her like a flood.
What had she done?