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 the 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.
“Let. Her. Go.”
He didn’t shout it.
He breathed it—like a prayer breaking apart in his throat.
His voice trembled.
His hands shook.
His eyes—those steady, gentle eyes—were full of terror.
He was unraveling.
And for a heartbeat, seeing the fear in him—fearfor her—almost broke her resolve.
I can’t lose you.
His magic said it.
His shaking breath said it.
The tremor in his stance said it.
The Draewyn king snarled. “Bow, or she bleeds.”
Esther closed her eyes.
And the world inside her changed.
She saw flashes behind her eyelids—her mother’s handwriting, her mother’s voice stitched into memory. She saw the children in the plaza clutching stale bread. The refugees from Kraggmar who whispered thanks as if she’d given them worlds, not crumbs. The burned homes. The dying fields. The people who’d smiled at her with hope that made her chest ache.
If she did nothing—
Draewyn would crush Valedara.
More children would starve.
More homes would burn.
More innocents would die.
And this man—this cruel, power-hungry, small-hearted king—would keep killing until someone stopped him.
Her fear dissolved into something sharper.
She didn’t want to kill him.
She didn’t want blood on her hands.
