Lucy burst through the dust like a feral gremlin. She took in the smear of ash, the charred rolling head, and gasped with unrestrained delight.
“That’s what you get!” she shrieked, running up to punt the charred head like a soccer ball.
It hit a pillar. Wobbled. Fell.
Lucy threw her arms up. “Itoldyou I wasn’t dying without kissing a man!”
Sylva froze. “What—”
Lucy grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him like she was conquering a kingdom.
Sylva dropped his daggers. A Kraggmar orc cheered. A Valedaran knight fainted. Even the Baroness merely blinked and whispered, “Well then.”
Esther almost laughed.
But she was already looking at him.
Nythir.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t move.
He simply opened his arms.
Her breath shattered.
Her duty cracked.
Her composure crumbled.
Her strength flooded out of her in a single heartbeat.
She ran.
Nythir caught her mid-stride, arms wrapping around her with a force that said he had nearly lost her and would never risk it again. She buried her face in his chest, inhaling the scent of smoke and silver magic and home. His hands shook as he lifted her. His breath broke when he pressed his lips to her temple.
He kissed her like he was choosing life.
She kissed him back like she was choosing her future.
“Absolutely not!” King Arcturus shrieked.
“Esther—stop kissing that strange elf!” Lupin howled.
But Esther only kissed him harder.
Because for the first time in her life—
She was choosing her own story.
And no king living or dead could stop her now.
The throne room slowly emptied, chaos bleeding into subdued murmurs as soldiers escorted prisoners out and civilians searched for familiar faces. Lucy was still arguing with Sylva about whether her kiss counted as battlefield valor. The Baroness lectured a guard on posture. Basil looked like he aged ten years in the last twenty minutes.
But Esther barely heard any of it.
Nythir hadn’t let go of her.
