He opened the pouch and poured a few smooth, pale stones into his palm. They glowed faintly in the sunlight.
“Moonstones,” he said. “For clarity. For protection. Us foxes give them at important thresholds. New journeys. New oaths.”
Esther’s eyes stung. “They are beautiful.”
He hesitated, then offered one. “Keep it with you. Just in case Lucy’s bad decisions spill over.”
“Excuse me,” Lucy said. “My decisions are excellent.”
“Your results are questionable,” Sylva replied.
Lucy elbowed him lightly. “You’re being sweet. Don’t ruin it.”
“I am not being sweet,” he said. His tail betrayed him by flicking in a pleased rhythm.
Esther closed her fingers around the stone, feeling its cool weight settle against her palm.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He dipped his head once and stepped back.
For a moment, the noise of the garden faded. Esther looked around at the people bustling through the space—knights stringing lanterns, children sneaking early sweets, orcs arguing lovingly over seasoning, the Baroness lecturing a table arrangement as if it had offended her honor.
This was her life now.
Not the lonely, quiet halls she had once wandered.
Not the frightened, suffocating version of the palace she had grown up in.
Alive. Messy. Loud. Hers.
Her heart raced.
“Lucy,” she whispered. “What if I trip? What if I forget my vows? What if I say the wrong thing? What if Nythir changes his mind halfway through the ceremony and just runs into the forest and becomes a hermit or something?”
“Esther,” Lucy said, taking her shoulders. “Deep breath. Again. There. Good. One: if you trip, I will also trip so they think it’s a performance. Two: your vows are simple and you wrote them. Three: if Nythir runs away, Sylva will track him, Vorrik will tackle him, Lyssara will drag him back, and I will throw cake at him until he repents.”
Esther huffed a laugh. “That is not comforting.”
“It should be,” Lucy said. “You are terrifyingly loved.”
From the other side of the garden, a small commotion rose. The ceremonial officiant had arrived and, according to whispers, had already walked into a low-hanging branch, apologized to it, and then tried to bless a squirrel.
The squirrel had not been impressed.
Basil rubbed his temples. “I am beginning to regret agreeing to work with living people.”
“You say that every day,” the Baroness replied.
“Yes,” Basil said. “And I am always correct.”
Before Esther could spiral any further, the noise around her shifted. A ripple of awareness passed through the gathered guests. Musicians readied their instruments. Children were shushed. Lanterns burned a little brighter.
Her father was approaching.
King Arcturus walked across the garden in formal robes. They were not heavy with jewels or ostentatious gold. They were well-made and dignified, with phoenix feathers subtly embroidered into the sleeves. His crown sat steady on his head, but his eyes were anything but calm.
They were bright. Wet at the corners.
