26. 25
The trees thinned just as the last breath of sunlight slipped below the horizon, casting everything in that soft, in-between glow where gold faded to blue and the world held its breath.
The hunter’s lodge emerged from the brush, weathered, half-swallowed by vines and snow, the wood darkened with age. One of the shutters hung crooked, creaking faintly as the wind pressed against it. Ice blanketed the roof.
Mabel stood still for a moment, taking it in.
The chill had crept beneath her gown hours ago, fingers numb, damp silk clinging to her ankles. She adjusted Whisper on her arm, and the raven gave a soft rustle of wings, sensing her hesitation. Her entire body was trembling in the cold.
Lance stepped ahead, testing the door with a shove. It gave with a reluctant groan, revealing a single, dusty room inside. Shadows stretched long across the wooden floorboards, and the scent of old smoke lingered in the air—beneath it, something fainter. Pine. Ash. Time.
“It’s not much,” Lance said, stepping inside. “But it’s dry. And no one will look for you here.”
Mabel followed slowly, her eyes sweeping the space as if trying to read what was left behind.
A hearth sat cold against the far wall, a half-broken chair near it.
Shelves lined with glass jars—some still sealed.
Steep, time-worn stairs hugged the wall beside the hearth, their wood bowed with age.
At the top, closed doors waited in silence—lodgings long abandoned, untouched by light or memory.
A place once meant for retreat. For silence. For hiding. Now likely abandoned as it sat so close to the Mirewilde.
She crossed to the hearth and crouched beside it, trembling fingers brushing the edge of the stone.
Outside, the last band of sunlight flared once across the sky—then was gone. The forest exhaled into night.
Lance crossed the room and seized the splintered chair by its backrest, no ceremony, no pause. The wood groaned, then snapped with a sharp crack—the legs crumbling like dry kindling in his grip. He hauled the remains to the hearth and tossed them aside with a grunt.
Without a word, he began clearing the hearth, sweeping away old ash and fragments of charred wood—ghosts of a fire long gone.
Mabel joined him quietly, kneeling beside him to arrange the kindling.
She didn’t look at him, not directly. Her eyes lingered on her hands, steady and sharp, even as the dark crept in around them.
She did her best to start a fire. Her frozen fingers trembled as she tried to conjure a flame.
Finally, she managed one and sparked it on the wood. It burned—small, stubborn. It licked at the bark, then took, a small fire blooming between them. The orange light threw long shadows up the walls, softening the edges of the worn cabin, warming the cold gloom one breath at a time.
Mabel leaned back slowly, eyes fixed on the growing flame. She edged as close as she dared, knees drawn tight, hands extended toward the warmth. Fingers splayed, she let the heat lick at her palms—aching, welcome, real.
Whisper fluttered down from the rafters where he’d perched and landed near the hearth, giving a low click of approval. But he didn’t settle. He stayed vigilant, watching.
Mabel pulled the crown from her head and set it beside her, the gold catching the firelight but no longer gleaming the way it had beneath the temple chandeliers.
Everything was quieter now. Cracked open. Waiting.
Mabel stayed near the hearth, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, watching the flame breathe. The heat seeped slowly into her bones, chasing away the ache of running and the cold of what came after.
Her gaze flickered to Lance, the subtle mask of indifference lining his features, then up at Whisper. “I wonder if any hunters left clothes behind. I need to get out of this dress.”
The fire’s warmth clung to her as Mabel rose from the hearth, brushing soot from her fingers.
She moved toward the narrow staircase at the far end, the steps steep and worn with use long past. Whisper fluttered down from the hearth to meet her, landing lightly on the top of the railing. He tilted his head, blinking slowly, then gave a single click as she approached.
Mabel smiled, lifting a hand. He hopped onto her shoulder without hesitation; claws gentle against the thin fabric of her gown. She paused for a moment, her fingers stroking his feathers absently, the heat of his small body grounding her.
“Still with me,” she whispered.
Then she climbed the stairs.
The upper floor was colder, the windows streaked with old rain and frost. She crossed into a small room—likely once a bunk for the occasional traveler.
A dresser sat opposite an old, stained mattress.
Dust lay heavy on the wood, untouched for years.
But as she pulled the drawers open, they were empty.
“I don’t doubt this place was looted,” she muttered to Whisper. “Guess I’ll perish of frostbite.” She tried for a joke, but it fell flat.
He offered a low chirr in response.
Mabel eased the door shut, the soft click echoing louder than it should have. For a moment, she simply stood there, the scent of ash and aged wood wrapping around her like a second skin. The gown clung to her, sodden and heavy, its silk now tattered—ghost-white and useless.
Her breath trembled as she reached behind her, fingers numb and fumbling as she slipped into the folds of her gown and drew out the scroll. She unrolled it slowly, careful not to tear the thin parchment.
Only three words stared back: Trust no one.
Her breath caught.
The handwriting was unmistakable—an elegant, slanted script marked with the same little flick at the tail of every letter. Frey’s hand. No signature. No embellishment. Just the warning.
Mabel swallowed, staring at it as though it might change if she blinked. Trust no one. Not even Lance? Not even—
Her eyes lifted to Whisper, perched again on the rafters, watching her without a sound.
“You brought this to me,” she whispered, fingers tightening around the edge of the note. “Frey sent you … She must’ve known.”
Known what, though? That someone would follow her? That there was danger behind a familiar face?
Before she could sit with the weight of it, the door creaked. She startled and shoved the note into her bodice, crumpling it instinctively as Lance stepped into the room.
He paused in the doorway, eyes flicking over her tattered dress. “No luck?” he asked with a tilt of his head.
Mabel shook her head and forced a tight smile, her hands still clenched behind her back.
Whisper made a low click from the shadows above.
The silence lingered a beat longer than it should have, but Mabel didn’t press. Whatever questions burned beneath her ribs, she folded them away—for now.
Lance offered a half-tilted smile, softer than before. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the stairs. “Let’s try to get you warm.”
She followed without protest.
Whisper leaped from his perch and glided down after them, wings wide and noiseless. He landed on the mantel just above the hearth, feathers ruffling as he resumed his vigil.
The fire had burned low but steady, casting a soft glow. Lance pulled an old blanket from the back of a chair and spread it around Mabel’s shoulders as she eased down beside the flames.
She let herself lean into the warmth. She needed it.
Lance carefully sank down beside her, the space between them narrowing to a breath. Their knees touched—barely. Just enough for warmth to pass between them.
“Fire always finds you,” he said after a moment, gaze fixed on the flames. “Or maybe you find it. Vice. Weapon. Refuge. It’s all the same for you, isn’t it?”
She didn’t look at him. Mabel closed her eyes slowly; the fire’s glow etched in her lashes. She didn’t answer. But something in her—something coiled and quiet—unfurled just a little.
Whisper blinked once. Still watching.
Mabel sat still, shoulders wrapped in the blanket, eyes half-lost to the glow—but she felt him shift beside her.
Lance leaned in, just a little at first. His fingers grazed hers where they rested in her lap, testing the quiet. She recoiled slightly, eyeing him with an unease clinging to her chest.
“You don’t have to be alone in this,” he said softly.
Above them, on the railing near the fire’s edge, Whisper gave a sharp click, feathers rustling. Then another, more insistent caw, low and displeased.
Mabel stilled, lips parting, but her gaze flicked toward him—his eyes locked on Lance, body tense, wings slightly flared in warning.
Lance blinked, brows tugging together slightly, leaning back—but only just.
And that’s when it caught her eye.
The fire snapped, casting a fresh rush of gold across his face—and in the shifting light, something didn’t sit right. The lines of his jaw didn’t quite match the shadows. The curve of his mouth—something about it held too still. Too constructed. Not him, not quite.
Her heart gave a violent kick.
But she didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
She offered a soft smile instead, lowering her head just enough to hide the flicker of realization behind lowered lashes. Mabel’s mind spun quietly. Trust no one, Frey had written.
And now, with her pulse tight and her breathing measured, she began to understand why.
“I-I need some air,” she said, the tremor in her voice betraying the composure she tried to wear.
“I’ll come with you,” Lance offered as she rose.
She turned sharply. “No. I’m fine,” she said, plastering her best practiced smile on her lips. “I just need a minute—alone.”
Without waiting for a reply, she stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click.
The cold hit her like truth.
She exhaled hard, breath curling in the night air, and gripped the porch railing for support. Her wide eyes scanned the trees ahead—but they didn’t see the dark. They searched for answers.
How did I not see it?
The timing. How he’d known exactly where to find her. Every word perfectly tuned to soothe.
Her stomach sank.
She stared at her trembling hands, chest rising in sharp breaths.