Lucy hissed at her, curling protectively around Esther like a wounded wolf. Her wrists were raw, bloody, and one clearly dislocated.
Esther’s stomach twisted. Instinctively, her magic reached out—gentle, warm, alive.
“I don’t want anyone to sacrifice for my sake,” Esther murmured. “Never again.”
She sat up slowly, then pushed herself to her feet. Her legs wobbled; nausea rolled through her. But she felt something else too. Something deeper.
Her magic clicked into place. As her mother’s spark had finally fit into the last missing groove, she finally felt complete.
The sensation was not overwhelming.
That was what surprised her.
Her magic did not roar or blaze or demand release. It settled, aligning itself with quiet certainty, as if it had been waiting patiently for this exact moment to become whole.
Esther swallowed hard.
This wasn’t power borrowed from desperation. This was an inheritance accepted.
Somewhere deep in her chest, something old and aching loosened its grip.
“Why aren’t the runes blocking my magic?” Esther asked, placing a trembling hand over one of Zaria’s scratches. Golden warmth flowed from her palm.
Zaria didn’t flinch. She leaned into the touch, allowing the healing to settle. “Same reason I could use my power,” she said simply. “I sabotaged the runes the moment my brother left.”
She pointed at the entrance, where the central rune was gouged straight through—split like a broken spine. Esther was impressed by how swiftly she had done it, without being noticed.
“Runes are fickle things,” Zaria said, shrugging. “One symbol out of alignment, and the whole array is useless.”
“Or explodes,” Lucy clicked her tongue, putting herself between Esther and Zaria like a shield.
Zaria smirked. “Exactly.”
Esther studied the gouged rune with new eyes. It wasn’t sloppy. It was precise. The damage had been done quickly and confidently. By someone who understood exactly how much destruction was necessary and no more. Zaria hadn’t panicked. She had planned.
“So,” Esther said softly, hugging Lucy from behind. “What’s the plan now?”
Zaria didn’t hesitate. “You kill my brother. The king of Draewyn.”
The room froze.
Esther’s breath hitched.
Lucy’s snarl vibrated through her ribs.
The torches seemed to flicker, as if recoiling from the weight of it.
Esther took a deep, shaky breath. Her fingers curled into Lucy’s shirt.
The words did not echo. They sank. Esther felt them settle into her bones, heavy and immovable. This wasn’t a call to arms or a rallying cry. It was an ending—brutal, final, irreversible.
Somewhere in the distance, metal rang against metal.
The war was already moving without her.
For the first time, Esther understood that refusing to choose was itself a choice—one that would cost lives she could never name, faces she would never see.
Her breath shook. This was what destiny actually felt like.
