“Noted,” Nythir said. “But unnecessary.”
Lupin squinted at him, then—begrudgingly—offered his hand.
“You hurt her,” he warned. “I unleash my entire moral support network.”
“…Yourwhat?” Nythir asked.
“My emotional devastation will haunt you for years.”
Esther groaned.
Nythir shook his hand anyway.
And something eased inside her—her family wasn’t perfect, but for the first time, it felt like a future she wanted.
After saying goodnight to her father, after Lupin loudly threatened anyone who evenlookedat her wrong, after Lucy dragged Sylva away by his ear, the castle finally stilled.
Quiet.
Breathless.
Soft with the promise of peace.
Nythir stepped toward her, voice low.
The castle had quieted around them, settling into a rare, fragile stillness.
Esther realized she wasn’t bracing for the next disaster.
For the first time, she allowed herself to exist in the aftermath. Allowed herself to feel the exhaustion, the joy, the grief, and the relief without trying to organize it into duty.
She turned toward Nythir, already knowing she would follow him anywhere.
“Come with me.”
Her heart tripped over itself.
She followed.
They went to her chambers—quiet, dim, moonlight spilling through the window like a blessing.
She closed the door behind them.
Nythir turned toward her, expression unguarded, vulnerable, fierce.
“You nearly died,” he said softly.
“So did you,” she whispered.
He stepped closer until their breaths touched.
“I don’t want to be apart anymore,” he said. “Not for a mission. Not for politics. Not for fear. Not for anything.”
Esther’s heart thudded. “Nythir…”
He reached up, gently brushing a thumb over the faint burn mark on her collarbone. She could have healed it.
He could have healed it.
