His body trembled. Not from fear. From the unbearable, rising pressure of everything he had not allowed himself to feel until now.
I failed her. I wasn’t fast enough. I should have been here. I should never have let her out of my sight. I can’t lose her—stars, I can’t—
The Draewyn king jerked Essie closer, blade digging into her skin as a bead of blood welled.
“Ah,” he drawled, smirk dripping with cruelty. “The stray dog comes running.”
Nythir saw red. Actual red. Magic flared behind his eyes until the world tinted crimson at the edges.
Lyssara sighed loudly as Vorrik whispered, “Oh no…”
Sylva muttered, “He’s past reasoning now.”
The king tilted Esther’s chin with the blade. “Look how desperate you are. All of this… for a troublesome little—”
Something in Nythir snapped like a bowstring stretched too far.
Silver magic exploded up his arms—not controlled, not measured, but raw, feral, instinctive. His hands shook violently, fingers curled as if already around the king’s throat.
His voice, when it came, was not loud. It didn’t need to be.
“This,” he said, each word trembling with rage and something far more fragile beneath it, “is the last mistake you’ll ever make.”
He stepped forward. Every emotion he’d shoved down for years—fear, guilt, longing, helpless love—rose all at once, choking him. His breath wavered, uneven. The weight of nearly losing her crushed him from the inside.
She could have died. She almost did. He could have arrived to a corpse.
The very thought made his vision blur.
“Essie,” he whispered, voice breaking as her name ripped out of him like a prayer and a curse. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But everything in him was unraveling, and there was no stopping it.
His knees nearly buckled under the realization: He could not do this—he would not survive losing someone he loved.
The Draewyn King pressed the dagger harder.
Esther winced.
Nythir’s breath shattered. “Don’t hurt her,” he said, the plea raw and unprotected. “Please. Don’t—”
He was trembling. Not from rage now. From something far more dangerous.
He felt Lyssara tense beside him. Felt Vorrik and Sylva draw weapons. Felt the Baroness readying her purse with lethal intent. Felt Basil’s magic coil like a storm behind them.
But all Nythir saw was Essie. Her wide eyes. Her scraped cheek. Her shaking breath. The tiny drop of her blood sliding down the king’s blade.
And he knew—If she died now, the world would go silent forever.
The prince of Valedara stumbled into view at the doorway, horror carved so deeply into his expression that she barely recognized him.
Lupin’s voice cracked. “Esther—no—”
The Draewyn king dragged her upright by the ropes, blade biting deeper. “Drop your weapons or lose your precious princess.”
Esther felt panic ripple through the room like a tremor—the soldiers, the civilians, her friends, her family.
And Nythir—
Nythir stepped forward with magic erupting around him like a star going nova.
