Esther riding at the head of a glowing, mismatched warband was apparently not something court etiquette classes had prepared them for.
Lucy waved proudly.
Lyssara shouted at guards tomove, unintimidated by armor or rank.
Vorrik challenged three knights to an arm-wrestling contest before he even got off his horse.
Sylva smoldered handsomely.
Even the royal stables froze at the sight of two massive orcs trying to ask where to put their borrowed war beasts politely.
Watching them all spill through the gates, Esther felt something warm and startling bloom in her chest.
This wasn’t an army shaped by doctrine or banners.
It was stubbornness. Loyalty. People who had chosen each other repeatedly when the world offered easier exits.
She wondered if this was what real power looked like—not something inherited, but something gathered slowly, through trust and shared survival.
The old court would never understand this.
She smiled at the thought.
Nythir rode at Esther’s side.
Closer than propriety allowed.
Close enough that every shift of their horses brought their knees brushing.
Close enough that her pulse quickened whenever he glanced at her.
He still hadn’t let go of her hand. Not once.
Lucy noticed and smirked.
Sylva noticed andglowered.
“Don’t say it,” Lucy whispered sweetly.
“I didn’t,” Sylva replied. His tail snapped sharply behind him.
“You were thinking it.”
“I—”
He pressed his lips together like he’d swallowed a confession.
Lucy beamed like she’d won a duel he didn’t know they were having.
We’re not done,his glare said.
Try me,her grin answered.
The throne room doors opened, and the court rose to their feet—older nobles trembling, advisors gasping, younger knights muttering confused prayers.
King Arcturu entered first, with a strong, demanding presence.
“My daughter has returned. With allies. With victory. And with the strength Valedara has always needed.”
