“Huh? You look familiar… have we met before?” she said as she gently set Esther down.
Esther shook her head, unable to recall a maid as tall as the woman in front of her.
The half-elf stood nearly six feet tall, muscles coiled like rope beneath her fitted shirt. Tight pants hugged her generous hips, accented by a long sheathed sword. Her skin carried a faint scent of vanilla and citrus, a softer fragrance than any perfume in the palace.
“She’s glowing.”
Esther turned toward the voice, deep and grumpy. The speaker was an orc with massive, mountain-like shoulders and rust-colored hair that clashed with his green skin, like an inverted carrot.
She noted the absence of warts and the rather attractive face beneath his tusks.
“I’m Vorrik.”
“Now’s not the time for introductions.”
“I’m Nythir.” The handsome elf stood and dusted dirt from his tunic, ignoring his companion completely. “So, are you with the bandits? Or just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Bandits?” Esther asked.
As if summoned by the word, an arrow flew past her face. She would have been skewered if the half-elf hadn’t yanked her aside like she weighed nothing.
It was then that Esther realized they were surrounded by ten, no, fifteen, men. They were an assortment of races: orcs, humans, dwarves, and beastkin. Covered in scars and filth, she doubted they’d be recognizable if they bathed. Grime clung to their clothes, and it looked as if they hadn’t showered in months.
One of the bandits stepped forward, dragging the edge of his rusted blade along a tree trunk until bark peeled away in curls. Another spat at her feet, grinning with blackened teeth. Two more circled to the left, blocking any escape path.
Esther swallowed hard as the half-elf woman shifted protectively in front of her, but even she looked tense now. The men were closing in. Their weapons weren’t raised yet, but their predatory smiles said everything.
Esther’s skin prickled; the air tightened around her lungs. This wasn’t like the palace, where threats were whispers. These men wanted to hurt her.
“That pretty little thing might fetch a good price,” one of the grimy men leered at her. Esther’s stomach flipped.
She was indeed in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Cold sweat broke out across her skin, her breath hitching, her vision blurring.
She had been so protected in the castle, sheltered from the world’s darker side. She didn’t know what to do, and her magic decided panic was the best plan of action.
“Can we break her in before we sell her?” another bandit laughed creepily.
Vorrik stepped between her and the bandits, positioning himself protectively. Nythir flanked her other side, throwing up a barrier to shield them from the onslaught of arrows.
Esther’s vision blurred. She was terrified. She had never been outside the palace gates before. She didn’t know what to expect. Her novels always had a knight saving a princess, not a princess landing in front of a band of vagrants.
Outnumbered.
Without guards.
“Why is the ground shaking?” Vorrik asked, his hand on his axe.
“Oh, for moon’s sake. She’s lit up like a firefly. Look at her hands.”
Esther’s fingers trembled. Gold sparks danced along her skin, crackling like embers. The air around her pulsed with heat, warping under the surge of magic. Her throat tightened. She could taste the fear, bitter and metallic.
The castle had not prepared her for this.
Her magic didn’t obey logic.
It obeyed emotion.
