18. 17
Ada moved quickly down the narrow staff hall, hands clasped behind her back as if she could hold herself together by force. Her pulse hammered, each step a reminder of how many wrong turns had led her here.
She paused at the thin door that opened toward the grand entrance. On the other side, she caught the low murmur of Theodore and Mabel, indistinct words, but his tone was enough to make her fingers curl around the handle. She squeezed hard, willing herself to stay put, to be sensible, to wait.
She needed to speak with him. She couldn’t let him unravel everything they’d fought to hold together. She couldn’t let him endanger her—or Mabel.
The footsteps outside drifted away. Ada found herself leaning against the door, breath shallow, listening for any sign of him. Then she heard it. His low, honey-warm cadence. Lance.
She eased the door open a sliver, just enough to see.
Lance stood with his back to her, deep in conversation with Frey. Ada watched them, small and silent in the crack of the doorway.
Then Frey’s gaze lifted and landed directly on her.
Ada slammed the door shut, pulse exploding, her heart clawing at her ribs as if it meant to break free.
She forced herself to breathe, to gather whatever composure she had left. When no one came barreling toward the door, she eased it open again.
Frey was already striding down the corridor.
But Lance—
Where was—
No. She’d missed her chance.
“Spying, are we?” His voice came from directly behind her.
Ada yelped, slamming the door shut as she spun around, nearly tripping over her own feet. “How did—”
“Magic,” he said, rolling his eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “What are you doing?”
She drew in a steadying breath and stepped toward him. “I need to speak with you.”
“Well, I’m here.” He flicked his hand, and soft, glowing lights rose between them, washing the cramped space in warm gold. “Go ahead.”
“You—” The word snagged in her throat. Now that she was standing in front of him, face-to-face with the prince, everything she’d rehearsed scattered.
“Me?” he hummed, head tilting, eyes narrowing with that maddening curiosity.
“Stop doing that,” she groaned.
“I’m not doing anything,” he said, frowning as if genuinely offended.
“Just—shut up,” she snapped.
His mouth curved, slow and delighted. “Bold of you to tell a prince to shut up.” He laughed.
Ada dragged her hands down her face. “Apologies, young prince. I forget myself—”
“No harm done.” His smile was easy, almost warm. “You’re Ada, right?”
Of course he knew her name. And suddenly, she understood—far too well—how Mabel could have fallen for him.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I need to speak with you about … Mabel.” Her throat tightened. “I mean no offense, my prince, but …” She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “You must leave her. You cannot toy with her any longer. I ask this for her safety.”
Lance’s brows knit together. “Pardon me?” A short, incredulous laugh escaped him, sharp with disbelief.
“Do not mistake me for a fool, sir.” Ada straightened, forcing steel into her voice. “You must end whatever lies between you and Mabel. She is not equipped to make this choice for herself. And she certainly does not deserve to be dragged into the petty, selfish games you play with your brother.”
Lance’s expression shuttered instantly; that smooth, unreadable mask sliding into place. He stepped as if to pass her. “The next time you ask for something, I’d suggest not insulting both myself and the princess in the same breath.”
“Wait.” She spun, reaching for him before she could think better of it. Her fingers barely brushed his sleeve before his hand clamped around her wrist, slamming her back against the cold stone.
“Do not test my temper today, wench,” he hissed, then released her just as quickly.
Ada staggered, catching herself against the damp wall. “You must listen to me.”
“And why would I do that?” Lance snapped, bitterness cutting through every word. “You judged me before we even spoke.” He stepped back, studying her with a cold, calculating eye. “And you vastly underestimate the princess.”
“It is not that I underestimate her,” Ada insisted. “It is the opposite. But you’ve blinded her. She believes she has a chance at being yours. At surviving her father’s wrath—”
“I would not allow him to lay a hand on her,” he growled.
Ada dragged her fingers through her hair, tugging at the strands. “You do not understand the power at hand. The king’s magic knows no limits.”
“Even gods can be slain,” Lance bit out.
He moved closer, eyes blazing. “You do not know what she is to me. This is not a game. She is not a prize to be won—though I would count myself fortunate to win her hand.” A small, unguarded smile flickered across his face, as if he could see it—just for a heartbeat.
Then the mask snapped back into place. “I will stand by her until she drives me away.”
Ada searched his face for any crack, any lie, any hesitation. Her stomach dropped when she found none. “Even if it kills her?” she whispered.
“I would sooner lay down my life for hers than allow harm to touch her,” he said, straightening. “Are we finished?”
Ada didn’t answer him. Couldn’t. Something in her chest twisted, slow and sickening, as she stared at him. The anger she’d braced for wasn’t there. No arrogance. No cruelty. No game. Just conviction. Fierce and unshakable.
And suddenly she felt the ground tilt beneath her.
“You …” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, trying again. “You meant every word.”
Lance’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I did.”
Ada’s breath hitched. She stepped back as if distance could soften the truth pressing in on her.
All this time—
All her warnings, her accusations, her certainty—
She had been wrong.
Horribly, dangerously wrong.
Because if he loved Mabel—truly loved her—then everything Ada feared was no longer hypothetical. It was inevitable. A collision she could not stop.
Her pulse hammered. “Gods,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “You’re not the danger.”
Lance’s eyes flickered, something sharp and wounded passing through them. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”
Ada pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, the realization settling like ice in her stomach. “Does she love you?” Ada asked.
Lance’s gaze flicked away. He’d practically laid his heart bare, and somehow that had been the easiest part. Mabel’s silence afterward—the fear, the disbelief—cut deeper than any insult that could be thrown at him. But he understood her pain. He knew why she couldn’t say it.
“As much as she can,” he said at last. “All things considered.” His eyes lifted then, sharp and searching, pinning Ada in place.
Ada turned from him, breath trembling. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Lance stared at her a moment longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then turned on his heel toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me,” he muttered, voice rough. “I have matters to attend.”
“Does Prince Theodore know?” Ada called after him, the words leaving her before she could think.
Lance paused. His fingers tightened around the handle. “He does.”
Ada drew a slow, steady breath. “And what are you going to do about it?”
Theodore’s grip tightened as he dragged Mabel forward, fingers clamped around her wrist like a shackle.
Mabel yanked herself free, glaring. “I can walk just fine. You don’t need to drag me like a prisoner.”
He didn’t turn. Just flexed his hand, as if he were holding back something worse. “Oh, Princess,” he said with a bitter laugh. “You’ve lost whatever upper hand you thought you had.”
Her brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
Then he turned. His gaze cut through her. “Did you really think you could hide this from me?”
“Theo, I don’t—”
“Don’t,” he snapped, voice slicing through hers. “Don’t insult us both with lies.”
She stepped back instinctively, the weight of his fury pressing her into retreat.
He followed, anger simmering in his chest. “I told you not to speak to him,” he said, malice threading through his voice. “I warned you.”
Mabel’s breath caught.
“And yet,” he continued, eyes narrowing, “you’ve been sneaking off with him behind my back.”
The air between them thickened. And Mabel realized—he knew. He knew everything.
“I-it’s not like that,” Mabel stammered. “He’s just been teaching me—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me,” Theodore roared, voice echoing off the stone.
She flinched. The tension snapped taut between them, thick enough to choke on.
“Is everything alright?” Frey’s voice cut through the silence as she stepped into the grand entrance, eyes flicking between their faces.
Theodore’s gaze lingered on Mabel, burning, before he turned to his mother. “Yes,” he bit.
Frey didn’t move. Her eyes narrowed. “Mabel?”
Mabel stepped back from Theodore, pulse pounding, throat tight. “Yes,” she said softly.
Theodore’s eyes didn’t leave hers. They narrowed, calculating. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mother,” he said, voice smooth, “Mabel and I have matters to discuss. Privately.” He turned on his heel, cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow.
Mabel hesitated, watching him disappear down the corridor. Her feet didn’t move at first. Then she glanced at Frey, offered a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and followed.
But her stomach twisted as they neared his door. She paused just behind him, breath shallow.
Theodore said nothing. He turned the knob, the door groaning open like it resented the intrusion. Then he looked back at her, waiting—expecting.
The room swallowed her as she stepped inside.
It was grand, almost theatrical in its excess. Deep maroon fabric draped the stone walls, trimmed in gold that caught the firelight. The hearth crackled beneath a carved mantle, its heat casting flickering shadows across the polished floor.
Above it hung a portrait, Theodore, regal and unsmiling, painted in oil with a gaze that followed her no matter where she stood. His cloak was the same shade as the bed linens, the same shade as the curtains, a deliberate palette of dominance.