And right now, terror was pouring through her veins like molten metal.
Her fingertips tingled, then burned, then blazed, light swelling faster than she could breathe. Her fingers went numb under the force of her frenzied magic.
“Everyone, move!”
A thunderous boom drowned out Nythir's voice.
Sparks flew. Trees splintered. Men screamed.
Golden light engulfed them.
Esther blinked through the settling dust—a few charred trees smoked in the distance. The air smelled of copper, smoke, and something burnt.
Her ears rang. Vorrik and the half-elf lay on the ground, blinking in disbelief. Nythir was covered in soot, his hair singed at the ends.
And all around them…
Pieces of what might once have been bandits littered the clearing.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh no, no, no…”
Her whisper turned into a shriek. The wind carried it through the trees, scattering birds into the darkening sky. Her throat burned from the smoke, her eyes stung, and her heart hammered.
“I don’t think she’s with the bandits,” Vorrik said, helping his half-elf companion up.
“Well, that was effective.” Nythir chuckled and patted her on the back. “Good job.”
Esther straightened at the words.
She was being praised.
For the first time, her chaotic, uncontrolled magic was being praised.
Then it hit her.
She was being praised for killing several men.
They had attacked her first, but blowing them up went beyond self-defense. Not that she knew anything about self-defense.
Esther had dreamed of adventure once, of freedom, open skies, and daring rescues. But novels hadn’t prepared her for the smell of burning flesh or the weight of unintended violence. She wanted to be brave, not dangerous.
Something wet and heavy slapped against her shoulder, interrupting her morbid thoughts. She turned to see a severed arm slide into the dirt beside her boot.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Esther whimpered, falling to her knees.
She wanted to be someone her mother could be proud of, not someone whose magic lashed out like a wounded animal.
She didn’t want this power.
She didn’t want to hurt people.
In a matter of minutes, she had gone from princess to runaway to murderer.
“I think I’m concussed,” the other woman groaned. “I’m Lyssara.”
“About time you told us who you are, girl.”
“I’m Es— ”
