But Esther was gone.
She had left him on her own two legs. She was the only person he ever dropped his guard around. If anyone had so much as breathed outside that door, he would have noticed.
The knowledge landed like a blade between his ribs.
She had trusted him. Trusted him enough to walk away without waking him, to believe he would understand her silence when he found it.
Nythir pressed his palm hard against his chest, breath coming too fast, too shallow.
He should have woken sooner. Should have known. Should have felt the shift in the air the moment she made her decision.
He had promised himself he would never cage her.
And in keeping that vow, he had left her unguarded.
Guilt coiled hot and sharp beneath his skin. Love had not failed her. He had.
His lungs caved inward. He scrambled out of bed, grabbed the bracelet, and tore into the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the front door.
His mind raced with questions and worry. She wanted him—so why had she left? Why could he not sense her, no matter how far he stretched his wards?
The silence was wrong. Not absence—wrongness.
Nythir had always felt her before he saw her. A warmth at the edge of his awareness. A familiar pull, like gravity remembering its source. Even when she was frightened. Even when she hid.
Now there was nothing.
The emptiness clawed at him, panic blooming cold and fast. He poured more power into the wards, teeth clenched, vision blurring at the edges. Nothing answered.
His magic recoiled, unsettled, as if it too recognized that this was not how things were supposed to be.
The street was chaos—smoke, shouting, running figures lit by flickering spellfire.
“Essie!” he shouted, voice cracking. No answer.
He ran through the streets, sending out his magic to find any lingering spark of hers. The longer her magic did not respond, the more frantic he became.
“Halt!”
He spun, dodging a splice of magic that tore through the air.
A man he did not recognize. And next to him—Sylva.
An acquaintance. Barely. A name from a guild board. Someone Nythir had passed in silence more times than he had spoken to.
But the look Sylva gave him now was lethal.
“He is cloaked in Esther’s magic!” the man said, summoning a sword made of wind.
“And… impossible! Queen Estella's magic?”
Nythir sized up the aura knight, aware of the familiar faces—ones that could trick Essie into leaving his side and into their trap.
He grasped his dagger, waiting for them to attack first.
Sylva charged. Steel flashed—dual blades unsheathed, gleaming in the dim light.
“Where is Esther—and Lucy?!” Sylva snarled.
