“Lyssara, this is my friend. She’s here to help.”
Lyssara tripped, and Estella caught her. Golden light flowed from her hands. The limp leg straightened.
Lyssara stared, disbelieving, then burst into tears. “Why?”
Esther’s breath hitched as understanding settled fully.
Estella hadn’t healed Lyssara because it was strategic.
She had healed her because she was there. Because she could. Because someone was hurting in front of her.
The pattern was suddenly unmistakable.
Not kingdoms first.
People first.
The realization threaded neatly into Esther’s own memories—her instinct to stop, to listen, to kneel beside suffering rather than rule above it.
This was the legacy she carried most clearly.
The memory swallowed the answer as it unraveled. Esther understood anyway.
Because she healed everyone she could—knowing she wouldn’t be here long enough to keep doing it.
Snow replaced everything.
Teenage Zaria sat bruised and defiant inside a cave.
“You said you can make me queen?” Zaria scoffed. “Why would I trust an enemy queen?”
“Because Draewyn and Valedara need peace,” Estella said urgently. “War is coming. I’ve seen it.”
Zaria narrowed her eyes.
“I will give you a runespire infused with my magic. Enough to survive long enough to take the throne.”
“And why should I believe you?”
Estella met her glare. “Because I am running out of time. But my daughter… she must live.”
Silence stretched thin.
Finally, Zaria took her hand.
Gold erupted between them.
Esther reeled as the power flared not just from its scale—but from the risk.
Estella had gambled everything on a girl who would one day become an enemy—had trusted foresight enough to believe that survival could grow from opposition.
This is what it means to rule,Esther realized.To make alliances that hurt. To trust people who might betray you.
The lesson burned deeper than any prophecy.
Power was not certainty.
It was choices with consequences.
