Lyssara slapped Vorrik’s arm. “You absolute mountain! You can’t just break the princess!”
Then, ignoring her own words, she did the exact same thing Vorrik did.
“Essie! I’m so sorry!”
“What?” Esther croaked, her face buried in Lyssara’s chest.
“I—” Lyssara nuzzled her. “I was so used to you being… you, I forgot who you are. You look exactly like her. The Queen. Except shorter. And without the dignity.”
“Lyssara,” Nythir warned.
“She knows I love her,” Lyssara said, releasing Esther so she could breathe once more. “But Charon saw it too. Of course she did. I should’ve realized she’d recognize the resemblance. But I didn’t know the Queen left a message. For you.” Her voice cracked, eyes full of tears.
“Hey—hey—don’t—” Esther reached out, only for Lyssara to grab her hand and squeeze it so tightly Esther thought the bones might fuse together.
“You were just this tiny runaway girl with terrible balance and worse survival instincts,” Lyssara said, voice wobbling. “I didn’t want to scare you away. But I was also selfish. I wanted to be a protector to the daughter of the woman who saved our entire town. The Queen who helped me walk again. The reason half the people in Greyhollow survived the plague.”
Vorrik nodded, tears falling freely. “When I saw Lyssara running at me on two legs with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen… I thought I was dreaming. It was like a goddess appeared just to protect us orphans. Give us a chance to not just survive, but to live.”
“We couldn’t offer her anything in return.” Lyssara’s arms trembled, but she still held firm against Esther. “But she didn’t care. She made sure to visit often. Not just the orphanage. She visited everyone in need. Healed them. Listened to them. She was Greyhollow’s saint.”
Esther’s heart twisted sharply. “I didn’t know any of that.” She paused, voice small. “Do you only see me as her shadow?”
Lyssara sniffed loudly. “She was the best. And you—gods, Essie—” She pulled her into a crushing hug that made Essie squeak. “You’re not her, but you’re you. And that’s just as good.”
“The way you argued with a man twice your size this morning was amazing,” Vorrik added. Earlier that morning, she had confronted a drunken man harassing a younger woman. It had escalated quickly—yelling, shoving, and finally a kick to the shin—until Vorrik intervened.
“I never knew the Queen,” Nythir said softly, “but I do know you have the makings to be your own goddess. Not just the shadow of one.”
Esther didn’t know how to respond except to melt into them, hands gripping their shirts, eyes stinging.
Vorrik wrapped his arms around both of them, making a Lyssara–Esther sandwich and sobbing into Lyssara’s shoulder.
Nythir stood at her side, expression soft and warm in a way that made Esther’s chest fold in on itself. She leaned into him without thinking. His hand slid to her back, anchoring her.
Then, in classic Vorrik fashion, he ruined the moment.
“So… does this mean Nythir’s gonna be king now?”
Lyssara choked on her own spit. “Oh fuck—”
Vorrik gasped. “We’ll have all the power!”
Lyssara covered her face. “No. No power. No crowns. No—whatever the hell kings do. Absolutely not. We are not responsible enough.”
Nythir blinked slowly. “I do not want a crown.”
“Good,” Lyssara snapped. “Because you’d lose it within a week.”
Vorrik nodded enthusiastically. “Or Essie’s magic would explode it!”
Esther groaned into her hands. “Please. Stop talking.”
They did not.
But they closed in around her again—a chaotic, loud, tear-soaked knot of arms, warmth, and affection—until her throat ached from holding back more tears. Nythir gently placed his arm around her shoulder and guided her back toward the orphanage.
The orphanage quieted once the children fell asleep in a tangle of limbs, patched blankets, and stuffed animals that were well past their years. Vorrik and Lyssara snored in opposite corners of the tiny guest room, one on a pile of quilts, the other on the floor with a borrowed pillow.
