Not safety.
Not certainty.
But… being counted.
She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. More thieves. More arguments. More chaos.
But she knew this: she would not be invisible.
And somehow, she smiled at the thought.
35
Esther
How to Choose Between Love and Duty: cry a little, pretend you’re fine, repeat.
Esther woke to the sound of gentle breathing beside her.
For a moment, she didn’t move. She didn’t breathe any deeper than necessary. She lay still and let the world exist without her, balanced delicately on the rise and fall of the chest beside her.
The fear, the memories, the weight of her mother’s legacy were all washed away for the barest of moments as she drank in the morning sight of Nythir.
Nythir slept on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other resting where she had tucked herself closer sometime in the night. His hair had come loose from its braid and spilled across the pillow in dark waves. A faint scar crossed his collarbone. It was old and half-hidden. Something she had noticed once and never asked about.
Esther shifted slightly, testing the space between them. Nythir stirred but didn’t wake, only turning his head toward her as if he could sense her pulling away. His fingers tightened unconsciously in the blanket.
For a few precious seconds, the world felt small. Manageable. Like all that mattered existed within the quiet space between their breaths.
She even found herself smiling faintly at the familiar background noises—Vorrik’s horrendous snoring rattling the walls, Lyssara muttering something about squirrels in contempt during her sleep.
Then the rest of the world crept back in.
The orphanage.
The hungry families.
The whispers of war were tightening around Greyhollow like a closing fist.
Her mother’s letter pressed heavily in her pocket, the folded parchment a constant reminder that she had been left something more than grief. She had been left with responsibility.
For one reckless heartbeat, she imagined letting the world sort itself out and letting councils argue, and kingdoms fall into whatever shape they chose. Letting Lucy scold her, Basil sighs dramatically, and everyone survives without her intervention.
She imagined choosing him.
The image was fragile. Beautiful. Impossible.
Esther slipped carefully from the bed, gathering her cloak with practiced quiet. She paused at the door, looking back once more.
“I don’t know how to do both,” she whispered, though he couldn’t hear her. “But I’m trying.”
She swallowed hard.
Love felt so small next to all of that.
Not unimportant… just fragile.
She slipped from the bed before anyone else woke, careful not to disturb Nythir. She paused only long enough to press a quiet kiss to his forehead and whisper a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.
