15. 14
Theodore sat draped in maroon and gold, the royal robes framing him like a portrait of inherited power. The throne beneath him gleamed, gilded, towering, unapologetically grand.
The room was vast. Uncut trunks lined the walls like living statues. Their surfaces were etched with glowing runes flickering under the torchlight. Shimmering maroon and gold fabric draped from their bare branches.
Above, heavy beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling.
Between each interlocking span, the gods watched from painted constellations set against a deep, star strewn sky: Meryth’s raven in mid-dive, Cava’s prowling lioness, Valkrona’s viscous bear, Veyra’s moonlit wolf, Mirewyn’s steadfast tortoise, and Varkeyrish’s two-headed bull locked in eternal charge.
Auren dominated the chamber’s center. White stones traced the full sweep of The Great Stag mid-leap, its constellation mapped across the obsidian floor as if frozen in motion.
And behind the throne, antlers branched in great spiraling racks, layer upon layer of pale bone fanning outward like a crown.
Theodore couldn’t help but feel small. He presided in his father’s absence, entrusted to offer guidance, to speak for the crown. To his right, Mabel.
Her chair was closer than it should’ve been.
She hadn’t moved it. She suspected Theodore had.
The smile he gave her when she entered—fractured, aching—nearly stole her breath.
She’d been summoned to sit beside him, an unusual request for a princess, especially in council. But she suspected it was his doing too.
Mabel took her seat beside him, offering a small smile. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. She couldn’t stop the blush flaming her cheeks as he pressed a soft kiss onto her knuckles.
“Miss me yet?” he asked, interlacing their fingers.
“I miss who I thought you were before the solstice,” she quipped, eyes narrowing on him. She leaned in closer and hesitated for only a moment before lifting a hand to cup his cheek. “Though, I suppose I have missed that smile.”
His grin only widened despite her dig, turning slightly to press a kiss to her palm. “I apologize for breaking our agreement. I couldn’t last one more day.”
“No harm done, my prince,” she said quietly.
Theodore leaned in closer, breath fanning the shell of her ear. “I’ve decided your perfect night will be made up to you. How does our wedding night sound?” His lips grazed her ear before settling on the point of her jaw.
A gasp left her lips, face burning under his tease. “My prince—”
“Say my name,” he said, voice soft.
“Theodore.” She tilted her head at him. “I-I look forward to it,” she stuttered through the lie with uneven breath, unable to meet his gaze.
The corner of his mouth twitched down, eyes searching hers carefully. “I’m sure.” He nodded, pulling away from her.
He didn’t understand how he could be so powerless with her.
With others, he commanded attention with his charm and wit.
But none of it worked on Mabel. He thought he’d once had her.
Maybe he had. But she saw through him now.
Saw the anger he kept buried. The years of refinement that hadn’t softened him.
The weight of legacy pressing down, relentless.
The fear.
What if he couldn’t live up to the name? What if he failed the crown?
The doors opened.
Lance strode in, boots echoing against polished stone.
Lance.
Always performing. Always provoking. Always making Theodore feel like he had something to prove.
The court whispered about him—an asshole, but clever, loyal, magnetic.
Their father praised his mind. Their mother saw no flaw.
Even after the blood. Even after the scars Lance left on Theodore. She never saw the darkness.
He saw it in the way his mother looked at Lance like he was something holy. He felt the shift, even as a child. The weight of favoritism. The silence where love used to be.
He’d only been four when Thalen had brought Lance home. But he remembered. He remembered the wailing. His mother’s endless sobs echoing through the halls. The way she clutched the cradle that no longer held a child. He knew he’d lost his sister, even if no one said the words.
He tried to comfort her. Crawled into her lap, offered clumsy hugs, whispered promises he didn’t understand. But she refused him. The maids ushered him out, murmuring soft explanations he couldn’t grasp. He watched from the doorway, small and confused, as grief hollowed her out.
And then Lance arrived. An infant. And suddenly, she had something to hold again.
She held him like he were salvation. She loved him like she’d never loved Theodore.
Theodore had hated him ever since.
And yes, he was cruel. He’d admit that. He wore it like armor. Maybe he would’ve felt guilty for the way he treated his ‘brother’—if Lance hadn’t nearly killed him.
He was only reminded of it every time he saw his reflection. He remembered the flash of light. His vision going black. And just for a moment he felt nothing. It was almost peaceful. Then he woke to chaos. His mother bent over him, nurses scrambling, hands pressing, voices shouting.
He could barely see, but he saw her tears.
The flush on her cheeks. The panic. And then the pain hit.
A scream tore from his throat, raw and animalistic.
Everyone froze. Then moved all at once, hands pinning him down, a bitter liquid forced past his lips, the world spinning into fire.
And somewhere in it all, he realized she was crying for him.
But she’d never looked at him like she looked at Lance.
He’d heard his father’s voice echo through the castle, thunderous and raw, “He nearly died! You could’ve killed my son—my only son!”
And for a moment, Theodore felt vindicated. But it didn’t last. Because it didn’t change anything. Frey had pleaded Lance’s case, voice trembling, eyes wet. She begged Thalen to understand, to forgive. “It was an accident. His magic defended him.”
Thalen had relented. Lance was barely punished.
And when Theodore finally healed—when the blood dried and the stitches held—it was as if nothing had happened.
And yet Lance had the audacity to stand before him, chin lifted, voice smooth, as if he hadn’t once left Theodore bleeding on the stone floor.
Theodore’s jaw tightened.
Some wounds didn’t bleed anymore. But gods, did they burn.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was summoned,” Lance said, voice smooth. “Thalen thought it wise I join the council. Something about balance.”
His confidence was unmistakable—shoulders squared, chin lifted. His eyes found Mabel’s.
He winked.
She turned away sharply, heat rushing to her cheeks.
“There are advisers for that,” Theodore snapped, arms crossing. “Your presence isn’t required.”
“If I may,” one of the older advisers interjected, voice cautious, “Prince Lance’s rapport with the people may prove useful. He’s known to mingle with the common folk.”
Even as the words offered support, Lance felt the sting beneath them.
Theodore’s glare cut toward the adviser, sharp and unyielding.
The man stepped back, bowing his head.
Lance didn’t flinch. He just smiled. “Why yes, I do speak to our people.” He nodded. “I don’t place myself so high up on a pedestal I forget how to talk to—what was it? Common folk?” he scoffed, eyes flicking toward Theodore.
“Your pedestal isn’t high enough to belong in this court,” Theodore muttered.
Lance stepped closer, hands folding behind his back. “What was that, brother?”
“You heard me,” Theodore said, lifting his chin, spine straightening.
Lance’s mouth parted, ready to retort—
But Mabel spoke first. “I think it would be good for the people to see you both.”
The room stilled. Both princes turned to her.
Theodore’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?” He leaned in, voice edged. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t flinch. “I’m suggesting you not get into a shouting match with a line of citizens waiting outside.”
Her gaze shifted to Lance, steady and unyielding. “Take your seat,” she said. “Or leave.”
Lance smirked, his strides long and prideful as he made his way to his seat. He sank into it with practiced ease.
Theodore turned to Mabel, brow furrowed. He took a steadying breath. “I need this to go well. I can’t have you—”
“You’re welcome.” She side-glanced him.
He blinked, cleared his throat, then straightened in his seat. “Open the doors,” Theodore called, voice clear.
The royal guards obeyed his command without hesitation.
One by one, citizens entered, faces worn, voices steady. They spoke of ruined harvests, vanished kin, homes swallowed by flood or flame. They asked for aid.
A farmer stepped forward, hat clutched in his hands, voice worn thin. “There was a sickness,” he said. “Took every last cow. My herd’s gone. My boys are hungry. I’m not asking for coin—I just need cattle. Enough to start again.”
The room fell quiet. Theodore leaned forward, fingers steepled. “You’ll be granted two. That should suffice for breeding.”
The farmer hesitated, lips parting in disbelief. “Two, sir?”
Lance shifted in his seat, scoffing. “Two cows won’t rebuild a herd. He needs at least eight—seven cows and a bull. Otherwise, he’ll be back here in a season, asking again.”
Theodore’s eyes narrowed. “We can’t hand out herds to every farmer. We have limited resources.”
“And yet, we gild our chairs.” Lance rolled his eyes, absently picking at a loose thread on his tunic.
Theodore sat straighter. “You think throwing livestock at every problem makes you generous?”
“I think pretending two cows solves anything makes you foolish.”
Their voices rose, sharp and clashing. Mabel exhaled slowly, irritation blooming behind her ribs.
“A bull and four cows,” Mabel said, gaze steady, subsequently ending the brothers’ bickering.
“If he keeps them healthy, he’ll have a substantial herd within six solstices. That’s sustainable. That’s realistic.”
Theodore blinked at her, his mouth tight.
Lance leaned back, lips twitching.
The farmer bowed low. “Thank you, Princess.”