She didn’t want to become something monstrous.
But—
It’s him or my people.
It’s him or Lucy and Basil and the Baroness and Lyssara and Vorrik.
It’s him or Nythir.
It’s him or me.
Her eyes opened.
“No,” she whispered.
The word did not tremble.
That surprised her.
Everything around her was chaos—shouting, clashing steel, the roar of magic straining against stone—yet inside, something had gone utterly still. Esther felt the moment settle into place, heavy and irrevocable, like a door closing behind her.
She thought of her mother then. Not the queen. Not the legend.
The woman kneeling in orphanage dirt, hands glowing softly as she healed without asking permission.
People first,Estella had taught her without words.
Esther drew a breath.
And chose.
It wasn’t defiance.
It wasn’t bravery.
It was a truth she chose.
Her magic bloomed.
Heat surged beneath her skin—gold, molten, ancient. It gathered behind her ribs, swelling like a sun being forged inside her chest. It flooded into her lungs until she could barely breathe without glowing.
She didn’t pull her hands free.
She didn’t need to.
She exhaled.
Fire.
Golden flames erupted from her palms, her bound wrists, her hair—an inferno blasting outward in a perfect, controlled torrent.
The Draewyn king didn’t even have time to scream.
One breath.
One flare of magic.
And he was ash.
