19. 18
Mabel stalked the halls of Aurevyn’s castle, fingers absently picking at the raw skin around her nails. The corridor stretched long and dim, lit by flickering sconces casting gold and shadow across the stone. The air was cold, laced with the scent of burning cedar and something older.
Her steps were slow. Measured. Almost defeated.
She’d told Theodore she’d try. The words had scraped her throat raw, but they were the only move left.
If she wanted to win, she had to play.
And she would play well. She would wear the mask. Bury the storm. Let duty drown desire.
Let desire whisper escape.
She faltered mid-step, fingers pausing their assault on her nail beds. The thought echoed through her like a drumbeat: Escape.
She let it settle. Let it root.
And when she moved again, her pace quickened. Her breath sharpened. Her eyes burned with something new. She drifted through the castle, rounding corners, climbing staircases carved from stone.
The freezing salt air bit at her skin and tugged at her cloak as she stepped onto the southern balcony. Below, Aurevyn sprawled in splendor, lanterns glowing across the city like scattered constellations, streets winding like veins through the heart of the kingdom.
But Mabel’s gaze reached farther. Beyond the walls. Beyond the farmland.
To the edge. Where the Mirewilde began.
The forest loomed in the distance, its treeline jagged and black against the snow. Even in the dark, it pulsed with presence.
She stared at it, heart thudding.
Could she make it? Alone?
And if she did—
Would it let her in? Or would it consume her whole?
Mabel gripped the icy stone railing, letting the cold bite deep into her palms. Frost laced the edges, the wind whispered through the balustrades in a tongue she almost understood.
Above, the sky churned, clouds thick and restless, bruised with storm light. They parted only slightly, revealing a sliver of moon, pale and watchful, as if even it hesitated to bear witness.
Mabel’s pulse held steady, but her thoughts spun.
Was she truly cursed? Bound to a life of silence, of obedience? She’d dared to believe Lance might be her escape. But even that, she now saw, would be taken. Stripped away like everything else.
Was this punishment? Had the gods marked her for her family’s sins? Was Lance their cruel messenger, their twisted answer to a question she hadn’t meant to ask?
She looked at the stars, searching for mercy, for meaning.
“Is this what you wanted?” she shouted at the sky. “To see me broken? To see me fall?”
No answer came. Her chest tightened. And slowly, she sank to her knees, the cold stone biting through silk and skin. Her breath trembled. Her hands folded, not in grace, but in desperation.
Her eyes shut tight.
“Please,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Please forgive me.” The words spilled like a confession, fragile and raw. “I’ve broken my vows. I’ve shamed my house. I was blind—I thought I could be more than what I was given.”
The silence pressed in, vast and unyielding.
“If you’re listening,” she said, voice barely audible, “if any of you are listening—Auren, Meryth, anyone—I’m sorry. I tried to be good. I tried to be what they wanted.” Her fingers curled against the stone. “I wanted to be chosen. I wanted to be loved.”
She looked up, eyes glistening, searching the clouds as if they might split open and offer her a sign.
Her voice broke. “What do I do?” she cried, not to anyone in particular, but to the silence itself. “Please … just tell me what to do.” The question hung in the air like a spell, trembling between breath and silence.
And then—movement.
A single streak of light pierced the clouds. A shooting star, falling fast beyond the horizon, past the snow-laced hills and into the shadow of the Mirewilde.
She watched, breath caught.
Had it been a sign? Had a god heard her?
The wind answered.
It surged around her in a sudden rush, lifting her hair, spinning her skirts in a spiral of motion. The air turned sharp, electric. She gasped, the cold slicing through her throat like glass.
Magic stirred in the night.
And for a moment, she wasn’t sure if she was alone.
She’d grown up on stories, whispers passed between servants, warnings etched into lullabies. Tales of spirits and beasts that haunted the Mirewilde. Of wind that called your name not to guide, but to lure. And if it ever did, you were to run the other way.
Moorthwyn had always sat close to the forest’s edge. From her bedroom window, she could see the treeline. As a child, she’d spent hours watching it, waiting for movement. A flicker of light. A ghost between the branches.
And once, when she was small and reckless, the wind had called her.
It was the night she tried to run.
Her father had struck her in court—open-handed. She’d been meant to serve wine, to stand silent and invisible. But she’d listened. She’d heard him propose raising taxes on families already starving through winter.
And she’d scoffed. She’d spoken. She’d defended the people.
The room had gone still. Her father rose from his seat, his shadow stretching long across the stone floor. She’d shrunk beneath it, but he didn’t hesitate. His hand came down hard, the sound echoing off the walls, sharp as a blade.
The council had watched in silence.
He dismissed them with a wave, and she stood trembling, her cheek burning, her eyes wide with something that felt like betrayal.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The marks he left in the council’s absence said enough.
She was no longer his daughter. She was a symbol. A servant. A girl meant to be seen, not heard.
That night, she wandered into the back gardens; the frost crunching beneath her slippers. The moon hung low, and the wind curled around her.
She felt it then—the pull.
It tugged at her bones, at the hollow place her father had carved out.
And she ran.
She’d stepped beyond the garden wall, feet bare, heart thudding. And she couldn’t do it.
But the forest had never let her go. It had left her with questions that never quieted. Why me? Why then? Why now?
Was it mercy? Or something else?
She looked out over the horizon one last time, the Mirewilde a shadowed line against the snow. The wind curled around her ankles, soft and coaxing.
“What waits for me out there?” her voice trembled.
A sweep of black cut across her vision. Mabel spun just as a raven dropped onto the balustrade, claws clicking against the stone.
“Let’s try this again,” a voice chimed through her mind—bright, impossible to ignore.
She staggered back, heart thudding. “Meryth …?”
“Yes, my child.” The raven fluffed its wings in a proud, almost regal flare. “I have watched you closely. You are ready.”
Mabel’s throat tightened. “Ready for what?”
“So many questions.” The raven gave a low, amused croak. “The gods have chosen you. We have seen your growth, your endurance. We know the sacrifices behind you … and the ones ahead. You are prepared to face them.”
“But—”
“Hush.” The raven’s eyes narrowed, dark and depthless. “You will wed the Aurevynian prince. The rest will follow.”
Mabel’s gaze drifted past the railing, toward the distant treeline dissolving into dusk. “What of Lance?”
“The Prince of Magic will take his rightful place in time. Do not fear for him.”
Her breath hitched. She looked back at the goddess wearing a raven’s skin, a dozen questions burning behind her tongue.
“I cannot answer the one you’re about to ask,” Meryth said, cutting her off with eerie gentleness. “Do as you are commanded. The rest will follow.” The raven hopped closer, tilting its head, studying her as though weighing her soul. “And when I tell you to run—run.”
Mabel lurched upright, covers twisting around her waist, sweat cooling on her brow. Her heart hammered against her ribs as her gaze swept the darkened room. Had it been a dream?
She clutched the sheets—then froze. Something solid pressed against her palm.
Slowly, she lifted her hand.
A crystal lay there, heavy and cold. Obsidian, carved with impossible delicacy into the shape of a raven in mid-flight. Its edges caught the faint moonlight drifting from the window, sharp as truth.
Her breath stuttered.
It wasn’t a dream.
It was real.
Terrifyingly, undeniably real.
Whisper stirred atop the bookshelf, feathers rustling as he blinked down at her. His gaze was sharp, curious, already reading her mood.
“Come,” she called gently.
He made a theatrical show of stretching, wings out, tail flicking, before gliding down to land on the blankets beside her.
“You’re not Meryth in disguise, are you?” she teased, a tired smile tugging at her lips.
Whisper tilted his head, blinked once, then twice.
“I’ll take that as a no.” She sank back into her pillows, fingers slipping under his beak. He leaned into the touch with a soft, pleased chirr.
“I need air,” she breathed out.
Whisper clicked his beak in firm agreement.
Under the hush of night, she pulled on her cloak. Whisper hopped onto her shoulder, settling like he belonged, and together they slipped into the corridor, swallowed by shadow and silence.
She darted through corridors, skipped past servants, and finally landed in front of the tall doors.
With a soft groan, they opened.
The frozen air rushed up to meet them, sharp enough to steal her breath. Her skirts lifted with the breeze, swirling around her legs as she stepped outside.
“Stay close,” she said gently.
Whisper launched from her shoulder in a sweep of dark wings, circling once before gliding ahead through the chill.
She waded through the gardens, eyes drifting over statues and snow-covered bushes. The cold bit at her cheeks, seeped through the wool of her dress, but she welcomed the sting. It reminded her that she was still alive.
As much as she wanted to never return, she missed the gardens of Moorthwyn. Dreary as they were, they breathed—wild, tangled, unapologetically alive. Vines climbed wherever they pleased. Moss claimed stone. Flowers bloomed in defiance of order.