17. 16 #2
Lance leaned back, tilting his head. “I’m sure Thalen would be thrilled to hear about it.”
Theodore inhaled sharply, trying to steady the pulse hammering in his chest. With one last glare, he dropped into the seat across from Lance, his eyes boring into the back of his brother’s head.
The silence returned.
But this time, it was armed.
The carriage rumbled on, wheels carving through snow-packed roads as the forest blurred past in streaks of white and shadow. Inside, silence reigned, simmering. Lance stared out the window, unreadable. Theodore sat across from him, fists clenched, his thoughts a storm behind his eyes.
But miles away, the castle stood warm against the winter chill, its stone halls humming with life.
Inside Mabel’s chambers, the mood was entirely different.
She twirled across the room in bare feet, silk skirts fluttering around her ankles, Whisper darting after her in playful loops. The little creature chirped and flapped, landing briefly on her shoulder before leaping off again in pursuit of invisible prey.
Mabel laughed, breathless and bright, her cheeks still flushed with the memory of morning. She reached for Whisper mid-flight, catching him with a triumphant grin before cradling him to her chest.
Across the room, Ada moved quietly, folding linens, smoothing pillows, straightening the scattered remnants of Mabel’s joy. Her eyes flicked toward the princess now and then, lingering with questions she didn’t dare voice.
She’d heard the whispers. The servants’ gossip. The stolen glances. The late-night absences.
And now, watching Mabel glow like someone lit from within, Ada didn’t need confirmation.
She already knew.
But she said nothing. Just kept tidying, her silence heavy with assumptions and the weight of loyalty.
Mabel didn’t notice—or pretended not to. She was too busy spinning, laughing, alive.
Ada moved toward the bed, arms full of folded linens. She reached for the edge of the sheets, fingers brushing the fabric with intent.
Mabel froze. Her laughter faltered, Whisper fluttering from her hands as she stepped forward, too fast, too eager.
“I’ve got that,” she said quickly, voice too bright. “Really—I’ll change them myself.”
Ada paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. But she didn’t move.
Mabel reached again, fingers trembling now, but Ada had already pulled the sheet back.
The stain was there. Blood. Faint, but unmistakable.
Ada’s gaze lingered on it, then lifted slowly to meet Mabel’s.
Mabel’s breath caught, her cheeks flushing, not from shame, but from the sudden vulnerability of being seen.
Ada didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She simply folded the sheet with precision, her expression unreadable.
But her eyes held questions. Too many.
“Ada, I can explain,” Mabel blurted, panic threading through her voice like a fraying seam.
Ada froze, eyes fixed on the floor, her breath slow.
“You don’t need to explain,” she said, voice tight.
“Every servant in this gods-forsaken castle already has.” She dropped the linens with a sharp thud, stepping over them as she closed the distance between them.
“How did you think you could hide this?” Her voice cracked, fury bleeding into betrayal.
“And why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped.
I could’ve stopped it before it got this far.
I could’ve talked some sense into that foolish, reckless heart of yours. ”
Mabel stepped back, brows knitting. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. You don’t understand—”
Ada’s voice rose, raw and trembling. “No, you don’t understand.” She shook her head. “How could you be so stupid? What if your father finds out? Or Theodore—if he hasn’t already.”
“You don’t know what Theodore’s done,” Mabel snapped, voice cracking. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“Then tell me,” Ada pleaded, stepping closer, her voice softer now.
“Why should I?” Mabel scoffed. “So you can report it to my father?”
“I will if I have to.” Ada stared at her with a sharp gaze.
Mabel’s jaw tightened. “Can you just back off?”
“Back off?” Ada scoffed, folding her arms. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Stop acting like I owe you an explanation,” Mabel snapped. “My parents aren’t here—you don’t need to play watchdog.”
Ada’s voice hardened. “It’s not a game, Mabel. This could change everything. This could cost you your life.”
“Maybe this life isn’t worth living,” Mabel snapped. “Maybe I want it to change. I’m exhausted, Ada. I can’t live like this anymore.”
“How else would you live? Are you going to run again?” Ada raised her brows. “Because that worked out so well the last time.”
“Maybe I will.”
Ada stilled. “Mabel, you can’t.” Her voice was laced with desperation. “He will kill you.”
“He can’t kill me,” Mabel muttered. “He needs me alive so I can marry Theodore. He needs heirs.”
Ada’s eyes traced her features. She didn’t recognize the girl standing in front of her.
The quiet, docile creature she’d raised had vanished.
She had to bite back the swirl of pride rising in her chest. “Let’s say you run,” Ada humored her.
“He can’t kill you, but he will spend every waking moment tracking you down.
And when he finds you—because he will—what do you think will happen?
Do you think he’ll simply let you go?” She laughed in disbelief. “He will break you, Mabel.”
Mabel turned from her. Her fingers ran through her hair, pulling at the roots. She wanted to believe she could make it. Wanted to believe she’d survive. But she knew her father. She knew better than anyone what he was capable of.
“I’m only trying to look out for you,” Ada said, voice gentle. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Are you?” Mabel’s voice cracked as she looked over her shoulder at Ada. “Or are you looking out for yourself?”
Ada couldn’t meet her gaze. Both were true. And though she tried to convince herself the majority was for Mabel’s safety, she knew if Mabel ran, she’d be the one dead. Cavric would have her head for her incompetence, treason even. “Your choices affect more than just you,” she whispered.
“Go on then. Tell my father. Save yourself.” Mabel stepped to the pile of linens, gathering the ruined sheets before spinning on her heels and shoving them into Ada’s chest. “I’m sure he’ll reward you greatly.” She dropped the sheets, eyes locking on Ada’s as they crumbled to her feet. “Get out.”
“Listen to me—”
“Why should I?” Mabel’s voice cracked with fury. “Why should I keep killing pieces of myself for people who never asked what I wanted? You don’t care about me, Ada. You just don’t want to lose your place.” She took a breath, fists clenched. “You’re bitter because you have nothing else.”
Ada flinched, eyes shutting tight as if bracing for impact. She didn’t speak, just stood there, shoulders trembling under the weight of everything she couldn’t say. She kept her eyes shut, the sting of Mabel’s words echoing louder than the silence that followed.
It wasn’t the first time someone had said it—just the first time it actually hurt.
She breathed slowly, forcing air into lungs that suddenly felt too tight.
Mabel’s anger had been sharp and wild, but there’d been truth buried under the venom.
Ada was bitter. Not because she was empty, but because she’d once been full—of dreams, of conviction, of the foolish belief that love could stand up to legacy. And she’d lost.
I was you, she wanted to scream. I fought for what I wanted, too—and I’m still bleeding for it.
But instead, she opened her eyes and said nothing.
Because Mabel didn’t need more rules or warnings.
She needed space. And maybe one day, she’d understand that Ada wasn’t her warden, she was the ghost of a girl who’d made the same mistake and wanted, desperately, to stop her from falling off the same ledge.
Mabel turned away in silence, the words lodged in her throat like thorns, better unspoken, for both their sakes.
Ada blinked, her expression tightening. Her fingers curled, then released.
She kneeled without a word, gathering the tangled sheets from the floor.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said coldly, “I have to scrub the evidence of your betrayal out of the linens.” She brushed past Mabel, the door groaning open, then clicking shut behind her.
Mabel stared at the empty space she left behind.
Whisper fluttered to her shoulder, nudging his beak against her chin, soft and insistent. She lifted a hand, brushing beneath his feathers absently.
Far beyond Aurevyn’s walls, past snow-laced hills and frozen rivers, the tension was rising.
The brothers stalked toward the carriage, boots crunching against ice-packed stone. The wind bit through their cloaks, carrying the scent of pine and smoke from the village fires.
The mission was complete.
Crates of grain, fresh produce, salt, and dried venison had been delivered to the outpost at Thistleveil, a huddled ring of stone homes pressed between a frostbitten cliff and the edge of the Mirewilde.
The forest loomed behind them, vast and ancient, its trees blackened with age and laced with snow-like bone. Whispers curled from its depths, too soft to name, too steady to ignore.
The villagers bowed, yes, but not with joy.
Their eyes lingered too long, flicking between the soldiers and the treeline. Their thanks came in hushed tones, as if afraid the forest might overhear.
No one lingered outside after dusk.
The elders spoke of a time when Thistleveil thrived, when the soil was generous, the harvests abundant, and the forest behind them was merely a backdrop of green.
But that was before the war. Before Velmira was reduced to ash and ruin.
They said the Mirewilde changed after that. That the spirits of the fallen took root in its soil, twisted its trees, and claimed it as sacred ground. No army could pass through it. No priest could bless it. No traveler returned from its depths alive.
And the village, nestled too close to its edge, had suffered ever since.
It began slowly.