“I like that they claimed you,” he said quietly. “That you let them.”
Esther tilted her head, studying him. “You sound jealous.”
“I am,” he admitted readily. "But not in the way that matters.”
He stepped closer, just enough that she could feel the heat of him, the steady strength beneath his calm. His hand slid to her waist—not possessive, not demanding—simply there, grounding her.
“This,” he said softly, “is what you choose to carry.”
Her breath caught.
She reached for him without thinking, fingers curling into the front of his tunic the way they had the night before—sure now, unafraid. He inhaled sharply at the contact, eyes darkening, attention narrowing until the world truly did fall away.
“Careful,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll forget we’re surrounded by half the city.”
“Then forget,” she whispered.
His answering smile was slow and dangerous.
He kissed her—not hurried, not hidden—just deep enough to make her knees soften, just restrained enough to promise more later. The crowd faded into heat and breath and the solid truth of him against her.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling.
“Tonight,” he said quietly. “After they’ve eaten. After the lanterns burn low.”
Her pulse leapt.
“Yes.”
The word carried everything: exhaustion, hope, want, certainty.
He kissed her once more, gentler this time, as though sealing it.
When they turned back toward the festival, Esther felt different—not lighter, not finished—but complete—claimed in more ways than one.
She squeezed his hand, feeling the future tighten into focus.
One kingdom rebuilding.
One promise kept.
And later—when the city finally slept—a future queen and the man who loved her, alone together, choosing each other again.
47
Nythir
How to Prepare to Be King: panic quietly, fail publicly, persevere anyway.
Nythir had faced assassins with less dread than this.
He stared at the parchment in front of him, jaw tight, quill hovering uselessly above the page. The wordsTreaty Ratification Proceduresswam slightly, as though they were actively trying to escape his comprehension.
He did not blame them.
“This is a trick,” he muttered.
Lyssara, seated far too comfortably across the table, didn’t even look up from her tea. “It’s a signature.”
