12. 11
Mabel had remained tucked inside the carriage through the rest of the celebration.
Ada joined her not long after, settling quietly at her side.
She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to.
Whatever had happened left its mark on Mabel’s face—red-rimmed eyes, rumpled gown, a crown discarded beside her.
Ada simply reached for her hand and held it.
Outside, the party dissolved into murmurs of farewell and one final speech from Thalen.
Applause drifted in faintly, followed by footsteps and rustling cloaks.
Then, the carriage door opened. Thalen stepped in first, steady and composed, offering a hand to Frey.
She climbed in gracefully, eyes sweeping over the girls seated opposite with calculation, but said nothing.
Not yet. She settled into her seat with Thalen beside her.
Then Lance appeared. He entered with practiced ease, glancing once at Mabel. She met his eyes, her expression guarded, worn. After a beat, she gave him a small nod, reluctant.
His smirk was subtle, but unmistakable. Victory in it. Or a warning.
The carriage door shut with a hollow finality. Theodore hadn’t joined them. The space inside fell silent. The only sound was the steady roll of wheels beneath them, carrying them back to the castle.
After returning, Mabel and Ada slipped quietly into Mabel’s chambers. The door closed with a soft click, sealing the outside world away.
Ada took down her hair and helped her out of her formal robes, fingers brushing over muddied stains as her brow furrowed. She glanced up, concern etched across her face, but didn’t speak. Whatever had happened, she understood Mabel wasn’t ready to say it aloud.
Instead, she pressed a kiss to her temple and wrapped her arms around her in a gentle, lingering hug. Then, she was gone.
But Mabel didn’t want comfort. She wanted clarity. Control. Retribution.
She paced the length of the room in her slip, the cold stone biting at her bare feet, heart pounding like war drums in her chest. The candlelight flickered across the walls, casting restless shadows that seemed to echo her thoughts—thoughts that raced ahead of her, toward Lance, toward the secrets he held, toward the truth she was about to demand.
Could she really go through with it? She already knew the answer.
Theodore had shown his true colors. His temper, unchecked. His cruelty, no longer masked. And he’d taken it out on her.
She would make him regret it.
The anger surged again, hot and unrelenting, blooming across her chest and spilling into her fingertips. Silvery-blue flames flickered to life, dancing along her skin.
Don’t get too angry, she reminded herself, Lance’s warning echoing in her mind.
But she didn’t extinguish it. She let the flame simmer, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. It warmed her palm.
This was hers.
Her spark.
Her defiance.
Her power.
She understood now. The flame hadn’t rejected her out of cruelty. It had resisted because she’d been quiet. Controlled. Contained. But fire wasn’t meant to be caged. It was wild. Chaotic. Unruly by nature.
It responded to fury. To feeling. To the moment she stopped folding herself into what others demanded and chose, instead, to burn. And in that heat, that flickering defiance, she found stillness. For the first time in years, she felt like herself.
A knock at the door broke the silence. Soft. Measured.
The flame flickered out.
She inhaled once, sharp and shallow, then crossed the room. She opened the door.
Lance leaned lazily against the frame, moonlight skimming across his smirk. “Evening, Mabel.” He’d changed. His robes had been swapped for an all-black ensemble, the cut of his top exposing much more of his dark, bare chest than she’d prepared for. She did her best not to stare.
“Where are we going?” she asked, voice clipped.
“Entertainment.” He winked, pushing off the door with a flair.
“The theater?” Her frown deepened.
“Oh, Miss Ravenov.” He chuckled. “You have no idea.”
He stepped past her into the room without invitation, eyes sweeping across the quiet space. With a flick of his fingers, magic shimmered in his palms. A folded swatch of black fabric hovered briefly in the air before dropping into his hand.
“Put this on,” he said, tossing it to her.
She caught it reflexively and let it unfold. Her mouth parted. So much lace. “Do you realize how cold it is?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said with a wink. “You won’t mind once we get there.”
“I am a princess. I cannot be seen in something so … revealing.”
“Exactly. Do you realize how quickly word will spread that the princess is there if you’re seen in a fine gown? Wear it.” He rolled his eyes, but it lacked malice.
“Fine.” Mabel swallowed, studying the black dress. She paused, waiting for him to take his leave, narrowing her gaze on him.
Lance raised a brow, amused. “I’ll wait in the hall.”
He turned on his heel and disappeared with a snap of his cloak, leaving her with the dress.
Lace and silk shimmered faintly in the candlelight, delicate. Her fingers hovered then moved. She pulled off her slip, breath shallow, and drew the black dress over her head, letting it fall against her skin.
The plunging neckline framed her collarbones and the swell of her chest. The dark fabric clung softly to her skin.
She caught her reflection. Cheeks flushed. The dress left nothing to be desired. The thin fabric accented every curve, every dip. She could even make out the shape of her legs under the fabric.
The girl from the maze was still in there, but something else had emerged. Something sharper. Her hands, once trembling, found steadiness as she reached for a cloak. She draped it over her shoulders, fastening it at the throat.
Then she moved to the door, pausing only once.
One breath in. One resolve set.
Mabel stepped into the corridor; cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders as she followed the hush of moonlight through the halls. Lance waited just outside, leaning against the wall with practiced ease.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, brow lifting. “What, no preview?” he teased, voice dripping with mock disappointment.
She rolled her eyes, ignoring the flutter in her chest. “You’ll live.”
Without another word, they walked down the corridors and crossed the marble steps down into the courtyard. Cold air kissed her skin, a breath of winter threading through her hair.
A small carriage waited near the gates, dark and sleek, unlike the gilded ones used for royal appearances. It was quiet. Unmarked.
Mabel paused at the door, one hand hovering near the handle.
“Don’t back down now,” Lance said.
She simply nodded, climbing into the carriage.
He followed, a slow grin pulling at his lips as he settled across from her.
The driver gave a subtle nod, and the carriage pulled forward into the thick of night, away from halls and expectations, and toward the truth she wasn’t afraid to chase anymore.
The carriage was tight and hushed, filled with tension between unspoken truths. Mabel sat opposite Lance, her cloak drawn close, their eyes only meeting in stolen glances.
Her voice broke the quiet first, soft, hesitant, “Why are you helping me?”
Lance tilted his head slightly, studying her. He didn’t speak for a moment. “Do you truly think I’m evil?” he finally asked. Not defensive. Just … curious.
“No,” she said quickly, her tone firm. “Definitely rude. Condescending. Arrogant beyond measure—”
“I get it,” he muttered, cutting her off, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
“But not evil,” she said, and this time her words held. Her lips lifted in a faint smile, but it faded just as fast. “I’ve seen evil. In plenty of people.” She laughed dryly, eyes flickering away. “But not in you.”
She turned her gaze to the window, letting the blur of cobbled streets soothe the ache in her chest.
“Though, I didn’t think I saw it in Theodore either … I’m not proving to be the best judge of character at the moment.” She glanced sideways at Lance.
He didn’t speak. He just watched the road vanish behind them, one shadow at a time.
“You didn’t answer the question.” She went to nudge her shoe against his but stopped herself.
“Truthfully?” Lance said after a moment. “I’m not sure. Arrogance, probably.” His gaze slid over to her with a teasing glint. “Pride, definitely. Maybe even spite—getting back at him for everything he’s dragged me through.”
Mabel turned toward the carriage window, her breath ghosting against the glass as she leaned her forehead gently to the chill. “This might sound crazy”—her eyes met his for a moment—“but we’re not so different.”
“That we’re not,” Lance replied, studying her face in the faint moonlight.
The carriage rocked softly, wheels tracing a rhythm down cobbled roads as the night thickened around them.
When it finally came to a halt, the silence inside felt heavier than before. Lance opened the carriage door and stepped out first, the night curling around him like it had been expecting them. He extended a hand to Mabel, a smirk playing on his lips.
She ignored it, climbing out on her own, cloak drawn tight against the cold.
“This way,” he said, already striding down a narrow alley. Mabel followed, cautious footsteps echoing off stone.
She heard the music before she saw the building, low and sultry, strings pulsing like a heartbeat. The alley widened into a dimly lit street, and there it was. Tucked between two shuttered shops, pulsing with heat and sound.
Outside, couples clung to one another, breath misting in intimate exhales. Laughter drifted through the air like perfume.
Lance approached the door and knocked twice. A small hatch slid open. Sharp eyes peered out from the darkness.
“You,” the voice muttered. Metal scraped as locks unlatched from inside. The door creaked open to reveal a man with crossed arms and a frown carved deep—Branley. “You can’t be here, not tonight—” he started.
“Branley,” Lance drawled, voice curling around the name like honey. “You’d bar me entry?”