She took that as a warning rather than a welcome.
Draewyn would not kneel easily.
Neither would Valedara.
And somehow, she would have to stand between both.
The long table dominating the center of the hall was carved from volcanic granite, dark and glossy as a stormcloud. The edges bore knotwork symbols that represented Draewyn’s older dynasties—unity, vigilance, ruthless order. They felt brittle now, as if relieved to have shed their tyrant.
Looking at them together, Esther felt the strange dissonance of it settle in.
This was not a council shaped by bloodlines or banners.
It was chaos and coincidence and stubborn survival.
People who had chosen to stay when leaving would have found it easier.
She realized, distantly, that this was what scared the old powers most.
Not her magic.
This.
Zaria lounged at the head of the table like it was a throne she’d grown up in. Luna perched across her lap, tail flicking in rhythm with Zaria’s breathing, the succubus entirely unbothered by the gravity in the room. Her wings twitched with leftover adrenaline from the battle, casting shadows shaped like mischievous blades across the stone.
Across from them sat King Arcturus, stiff-backed, shoulders tense, his crown askew as though he’d shoved it on in a hurry. His face looked older—creased by a night of terror, relief, and the dawning realization that his daughter had become someone the world would bow to.
Beside him hovered Lupin, pale and twitchy, clearly reliving every moment the Draewyn king’s blade had pressed to Esther’s throat. His enormous half-orc fiancée stood beside him, wearing her ceremonial armor like it was jewelry. Arietta rested an affectionate hand on Lupin’s shoulder; Lupin looked like he might faint from either love or fear.
On Esther’s side sat the chaos that had torn through a kingdom and somehow stitched it back together.
Basil, frazzled, ink-stained, and scanning every surface as if checking for lingering curses.
The Baroness, spine straight as a blade, purse on her lap, radiating unspoken violence.
Sylva, trying very hard not to look at Lucy and failing so spectacularly it was almost a talent.
Lucy, basking in the afterglow of battlefield triumph like she had won a kiss—or a war.
Lyssara and Vorrik elbowing each other with the subtlety of stampeding oxen.
Sable, quiet as death, eyes tracking every exit and every heartbeat.
And Nythir.
Nythir sat to her right, hand wrapped around hers like an anchor. His thumb traced slow arcs against her skin, grounding her. He had not let go of her hand since they entered the hall. Not when Basil distributed treaty drafts. Not when the Baroness lectured Sylva about weapon etiquette. Not when King Arcturus cleared his throat and muttered, “Young man, that is—”
“Yes,” Nythir said flatly.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” the king said, bewildered.
“Yes,” Nythir repeated.
The king sighed.
Esther squeezed his hand once in apology. Nythir squeezed back:Don’t apologize for me.
Her heart fluttered in her chest before she could stop it.
