20. 19
Mabel paced across her bedroom, heart thundering in her chest. Dawn bled through the window, casting golden ribbons across the stone walls. It felt almost cruel. The light was soft, beautiful, indifferent. As if the world had already decided to keep turning, even as hers threatened to come undone.
Whisper watched as Mabel moved, his wings rustling softly in the quiet. When she picked at her fingers, he let out a sharp caw of disapproval.
“Don’t start with me,” she muttered, shaking out her hands anyway to stop herself. She’d already dressed herself for the day, deep maroon silk draped around her like a reminder of everything she was expected to be.
Whisper fluttered down from the bookshelf, landing on the edge of her bed frame, tilting his head at her.
“I don’t think I can do it,” she paused mid-step.
Whisper offered a soft trill, a tiny thread of comfort in the quiet.
“He loves me … and I’m going to break his heart.” Her fingers tangled in her hair, tugging as if she could pull the ache out by force. “The one person who loves me—gods.” Tears threatened, and she brushed them away before they could fall.
She lifted her gaze to the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes. Shadows beneath them. Dark bruises circled her throat. She’d seen worse—she’d survived worse—but the heartache thrumming through her chest remained all the same.
Whisper fluttered to her shoulder as she stood before the mirror, her gaze weary, lips curving in a practiced smile. She studied herself for fault—too stiff, too soft, too much.
The raven nudged her chin, a gentle prod.
Her hand rose to brush his feathers, fingers trailing through the inky black.
“What do you think?” she whispered, voice trembling.
She flashed the smile again, testing its shape.
But even with a perfect smile, she wasn’t fooling anyone.
The evidence of her state was laid bare for everyone to see.
He tilted his head, as if he were considering.
Then, his gaze snapped to the necklace. Sharp. Unmistakable. He pecked at it once. Then again. Persistent. His eyes remained locked on the charm, his movements slower now, less irritation, more warning.
She shook her head and waved her hand with a flourish.
Nuts and dried fruits filled a small dish on the dresser. Whisper fluttered down, distracted by the offering. She watched him peck at the bowl for a moment, savoring what little peace still clung to her.
I can’t promise the bird will be the only one that dies.
Her father’s words struck through her skull like a bell, each echo sharper than the last. His threats were never empty. She’d learned that before she could even name the fear he’d planted in her.
Her fingers tightened around the doorknob. A tremor ran through her hand. She drew in a breath that should’ve steadied her, but it only scraped against the truth—she was walking toward an ending. The end of them. The end of whatever scraps of choice she still clung to.
She pulled the heavy wooden door open and stepped into the hall, the click behind her soft, final.
She gave herself one last breath. One last moment.
Then she was moving. She took the stairs down, fingers clutching the railing as if they could slow the inevitable. Her heart threatened to break through her ribs as she turned a corner and froze.
Lance.
He stopped too. The air shifted.
He still stole her breath, but this time, it twisted in her chest, sharp and unwelcome.
His smile was easy when he saw her. Unarmored. Real.
She feared the moment it would fall.
“Good morning, Mabel.” Lance smiled, voice smooth as honey as he closed the distance between them. “You look as lovely as ever.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Heat stung her eyes, tears threatening to spill. She saw the exact moment his gaze dropped to her throat, saw the golden hue she loved darken, harden.
His hands lifted toward her.
She stepped back.
“Did he do this to you?” His voice was dark, dangerous.
Her eyes flicked to his hands, sparks flaring to life in his palms, bright and furious.
She couldn’t bring herself to answer, too lost in what was to come.
“Mabel.” His tone softened. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
The tears she’d been holding back finally fell. She crumbled against him, fisting his tunic between her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I’m so sorry.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning. His hand lifted, fingers brushing her cheek, guiding her gaze up to his. Her pulse roared beneath his touch, thunderous, traitorous.
“I …” she started, but the words dissolved as she met his eyes. Deep golden brown. Familiar. She let her gaze fall just for a breath. Studied the curling stubble on his chin, the softness in the lines of his face.
Then she stepped back.
His smile faltered, just slightly. But it was enough to break something in her. “Mabel.” His voice was soft, deep, infectious as it wrapped around her name. “It’s just me. It’s okay.”
“Nothing is okay.” She turned away, hands clenched into fists at her sides, trying to keep from shaking. “I-I might love you,” she whispered, voice wavering. “If I even know what that means.”
Lance stilled in his step to her, eyes widening.
“Which is why I have to do this.” She nearly crumpled.
“Don’t,” Lance said, voice edged and breaking as realization cut through him.
She didn’t turn. Couldn’t. Her eyes stayed fixed on the wall ahead, as if looking at him would undo her resolve. “You knew this was never going to work,” she whispered, the words barely holding together.
“Don’t say that—”
“Stop,” she cut in, voice trembling. “Please. Just listen.”
The silence between them stretched, heavy and waiting.
“We … we can’t do this anymore,” she said, tears slipping down her cheeks, warm and cruel. “I can’t love you and stand beside him.” Her breath hitched.
Lance’s hands grasped the air, magic building, surging in his palms. “At least look at me, please.”
“I can’t.” She shook her head, words breaking on a sob.
She felt his presence, his warmth, pressing close behind her. His hands ghosted over her arms, daring to touch her. It was all she wanted. His skin on hers, his arms holding her tight.
“If I could love you fully—I would,” she said, voice cracking. “You need to know that. I will never feel this way for anyone else.”
Behind her, she heard him shift. A breath. A step.
But she didn’t turn. Because if she did, she wouldn’t leave. And she had to.
But he strolled past her, shoulders tight, chin lifted. “Don’t worry about me, Princess,” he called, but his voice was strained. He paused just ahead of her. “I knew you’d choose him. I just hadn’t imagined it’d be so easy for you to do it.” His steps continued down the hall. “I guess I was wrong.”
Mabel watched him leave, eyes wide, heart racing. She didn’t know what hurt more—the loss, or the silence left in its wake.
He was right. Maybe she didn’t love him like she thought she did. But she couldn’t allow her father to hurt him. And maybe, just maybe, he’d made it easier to leave.
Lance’s boots scraped across the stone, each step calm, his gaze cool—tempered—but the storm inside him was anything but.
His magic churned beneath his skin, grief coiling in his palms, begging to be released. He hadn’t known it could feel like this. Not pain. Not rage. Not shame.
This was something else.
This was heartbreak.
She’d told him she loved him—and then tore it away in the same breath. And now, his magic mourned her louder than he could.
The whispers had turned to shouts.
He’d barely had her. Barely held her in his arms. And yet, it tore something through him.
He stepped into the back gardens, cold air slicing across his face. The fresh snow crunched beneath his knees as he collapsed, chest aching, breath shallow, every emotion crashing into him at once.
Then came the scream.
It ripped from his throat as his magic surged, uncontrollable. A blast erupted from his hands, hot and freezing all at once, tearing through the garden, shattering ceramic, frosting the earth in a violent bloom of ice that burned the ground beneath it.
He shoved his hands into the snow, gasping, trying to ground himself. But the next surge came faster. It knocked him back, sent a flare of magic spiraling into the sky, a streak of light against the clouded morning.
He lay there, blinking up at the gray above, breath ghosting in the air, vision blurred.
The whispers hadn’t stopped. They’d become cries.
“What the fuck is wrong with me,” he whispered, voice raw, barely audible.
The snow didn’t answer.
Ada slipped out of Mabel’s room, the basket of linens dragging heavily against her arms as she made her way toward the washroom.
Mabel’s absence hadn’t surprised her. Years of arguments had taught her the girl’s habits, especially the ones she used to avoid Ada. And though Ada had come hoping to speak with her, to apologize, to hear an apology in return, she’d never been one to push.
Her conversation with Lance had eased her, if only a little.
Enough to trust his intentions, though not enough to believe the rumors could ever be fully silenced.
Still, they’d reached an understanding of sorts.
She would help keep the whispers contained, stop the staff from fanning the flames any further.
If she did her part, maybe—just maybe—Mabel could be something close to happy. It’s all she wanted for her. And though she would never admit it to Lance’s face, she’d never seen Mabel glow like she did that morning.
So she would keep their secret—and pray Cavric never found out.
The servant stairwell’s chill wrapped around her, stone walls echoing each step. Halfway down, she froze. Someone was there. Waiting.
Lance.
He stood with the easy poise of a prince, composed, as if the narrow stone passage belonged to him. But she saw it—the strain clinging to his eyes, the stains marking his cheeks. His gaze fixed on her, expectant. “Took you long enough.”
Ada’s breath caught. “Are you alright?”