16. 15
Firelight danced across the stone walls of Mabel’s room, casting warm shadows as she sat curled in her chair, legs crossed, a book balanced in her lap. The hearth crackled softly, its glow brushing the edges of her dress and the worn leather books scattered across the room.
Whisper prowled through the space with curious grace, wings fluttering as he inspected every corner—her desk, her vanity, the windowsill dusted with ash from burnt incense. Occasionally, Mabel glanced up from her reading to watch him peck at a quill or tilt his head at a candle flame.
Frey had lent her a stack of beginner texts—levitation, summoning, minor sigils. Nothing she couldn’t master with time.
Her fingers turned another page, tracing the inked diagrams and runes. Her gaze flicked to the bookshelf across the room, eyes narrowing on a spine worn smooth with age. She extended her palm slowly, breath steady, and whispered the incantation, “Svifa, koma til mín.”
The book trembled, then jolted free from the shelf, sailing across the room. It landed in her hand with a heavy thud, the force nudging her deeper into the chair as its edge scraped against the stone floor.
Whisper let out a sharp caw and fluttered to the top of her bedpost; feathers ruffled in surprise.
Mabel glanced over her shoulder, cheeks flushed. “Sorry,” she said softly.
He cocked his head, eyes gleaming, watching her like he knew something she didn’t. The silence was soft, almost sacred, just the crackle of the hearth and the rustle of Whisper’s wings.
Then came the tap. Light. Sharp. Repeated.
Mabel blinked, looking up from her book.
Another tap. Then another.
She rose, crossing the room to the window. The chill bit at her skin as she unlatched it, the night air rushing in. Below, in the courtyard, Lance stood with a handful of pebbles and a crooked grin. “Come down,” he called, his voice barely louder than the wind.
She hesitated, fingers gripping the windowsill. “It’s late.”
He shrugged, beckoning her with a tilt of his head. “So?”
The fire behind her crackled. Whisper cawed once from the bedpost, as if disapproving. But Mabel was already reaching for her cloak.
She didn’t know why she was going. Only that she wanted to.
“Keep watch for me?” Mabel whispered to Whisper, who clicked his beak in reply, hopping to the windowsill.
She slipped out quietly, the drop just a story below, but still enough to make her breath hitch. Fingers curled around the sill, she closed her eyes, inhaled the night air, and let go.
A laugh escaped her lips mid-fall.
Lance caught her with a grunt, arms steady as he eased her onto the garden path. The stone was cool beneath her boots, the air sharp against her skin. She straightened her skirts out of habit, eyes flicking up to meet his.
He was cloaked in black from head to toe, a fur-lined hood shadowing his face, the heavy fabric draping over his tall frame like night itself.
She almost asked where they were going, but he took her hand before the words could form, tugging her gently forward. Her heart pounded, fierce and fast. Fear clung to her. What if someone saw? What if this were reckless?
But the thrill drowned it out. Lance was gravity. And she was already falling.
“I thought you could use a taste of freedom after today,” Lance said, his voice gentle as he led her past moonlit hedges and silent fountains. The garden stretched wide around them, shadows pooling at their feet.
“I think I’m already feeling it,” she said gingerly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
Ahead, the iron gates stood tall, ancient, stained with rust.
Without warning, Lance pulled her close. Her hands pressed to his chest. “Hold tight, baby,” he cooed. It made her chest flutter. There was a flash, a sharp sting of heat, and then they were through.
Mabel gasped, stumbling slightly as the world reformed around her. He caught her, hands steady at her waist.
“It’s not any better with a warning,” she groaned, heart racing.
Lance laughed, intertwining their fingers once more.
Together under the hush of night, they ventured to the forest’s edge, where the trees rose into the night.
She paused beneath their towering forms, her breath catching.
There was something almost watchful about the way they loomed, but instead of turning back, she stepped forward.
The fear that stirred in her chest wasn’t unwelcome.
As they crossed into the woods, the dark swallowed them. The air shifted. Chirping insects stitched threads of sound through the trees, and an owl called once, solemn and distant. She listened with a kind of gratitude, as if the forest had remembered her.
“Don’t worry,” Lance whispered, leaning close, his breath warm against her ear. “There’s no beasts in these woods.”
“I’m not scared,” she hummed, eyes drifting through the greenery. “It’s peaceful out here.”
Lance stepped beside her, eyes lingering over her cheeks, reddened by the cold.
“The Mirewilde isn’t far from Moorthwyn. I could see the treeline from my bedroom window,” she whispered. “It seems so far from the castle here.”
“Where it should stay.” He laughed softly.
Mabel’s eyes drifted through the branches. “I survived it for a few minutes. It can’t be that bad.”
“Maybe you’re just braver than all the warriors who fled it.” Lance smirked down at her.
She felt the warmth in her cheeks, not just from the cold. She let it settle into her chest. “I’m not brave. If I were, I’d have the courage to say no to this wedding.”
Lance studied her face as the distant look washed over her. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her to his side as they walked. Her hand slipped underneath his cloak into the warmth he offered.
“Being brave doesn’t mean you can’t have fears,” he said softly. “It’s acting in spite of those fears. You’re doing it now.”
Mabel looked down at the half-melted snow lingering on the forest floor.
“I’m not saying call off the wedding.” Lance sighed. “But keep your fire. Don’t let it—or him—diminish you.” His hand squeezed her waist.
They walked deeper into the woods, feet tracing a path worn by memory. Lance moved as if he’d walked it a hundred times, each step sure, each turn familiar.
The trees thinned, and the lake revealed itself—broad, still, silvered by moonlight. Gentle waves lapped at the shore, a rhythm so soft it echoed in her chest. Insects chirped, frogs croaked, and the hush of night wrapped around them.
Mabel gasped, breath catching at the sight.
But Lance didn’t stop. He tugged her forward, toward the edge of the water.
There, nestled against the shore, was a boat. A lantern swayed from the boat’s bow, casting golden ripples across the surface of the lake. Pillows and blankets were piled high inside, a haven floating in the dark.
Her steps slowed, heart thudding. “What is this?”
“A secret,” he whispered, mischief curling at the edge of his grin. “No one will see us out here.”
Mabel laughed, light and breathless. She reached for his hand and pulled him toward the boat.
Lance steadied her as she stepped in, the boat tilting just enough to send a thrill through her. She sank into the cushions, tucking her legs beneath her and pulling a blanket over her lap. The lake lapped softly at the sides, as if keeping their secret.
Lance gave the boat a firm shove, the hull gliding away from the shore with a soft scrape. He leaped in after it, landing off balance and sending the vessel into a gentle wobble.
Mabel giggled as he toppled forward and landed squarely in her lap. She looked down at him, her fingers naturally sliding into his locs, threading through the coils as if they belonged there.
“I really ought to steer,” he breathed, grinning up at her.
“But you’re so adorable from this angle,” she teased.
“I am not adorable,” he scoffed with mock offense, lifting himself upright. “I am a prince.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mabel arched a brow. “An adorable prince.”
He chuckled, reaching for the oars with a flourish. As he rowed, the boat creaked softly, rocking them further into the open lake beneath a canopy of stars. Mabel nestled into the pile of blankets, letting the quiet pull her in.
Lance glanced at her, eyes lingering. “You were incredible today.”
“You don’t mean that,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of something unspoken. Distant voices echoed faintly in her memory. “I was merely a prop in Theodore’s court.”
“Of course I mean it,” he said, tone gentle. “Are you alright?”
She hesitated. Then nodded. “I am now.”
Lance didn’t look away. There was something raw in her honesty, something familiar. Trust was a hard thing to come by, but with Mabel, he didn’t feel the need to guard himself. With her, the walls he’d built didn’t feel quite so necessary.
Mabel’s cheeks flushed under Lance’s gaze, a blush blooming before she could will it away. “You’re staring,” she murmured, glancing sideways at him.
“How could I not?” he said in earnest.
Her stomach fluttered. She stole another glance at him, at the way his arms moved with strength as he rowed, the easy confidence in his posture, the way his eyes never seemed to leave her.
He was smirking. “And now you’re staring.”
“How could I not?” she echoed, a playful lilt in her voice. They both laughed, the sound echoing gently across the water.
“For the record, I would have let you lead the court. You’re wiser than you let on.” Lance tilted his head at her.
“I am a daughter of Meryth.” She side-glanced him. “But it’s not a lady’s place to lead court,” she mocked the words and rolled her eyes. “I would simply be a hindrance.”
“Bullshit,” Lance scoffed.
“Careful. Varkeyrish is always listening,” she teased.
He flashed a crooked smile at her. “That may be how Moorthwyn rules, but my mother leads court alongside Thalen. Theodore is simply an arrogant ass.”