He stopped in front of her and just looked at her.
For a long, full moment, he did not speak. His gaze traced her face, her dress, the phoenix feathers that matched his. Something in his expression crumpled and rebuilt itself all at once.
“You take after her,” he said hoarsely.
“My magic?” Esther asked.
“Your stubbornness,” he said. Then he smiled—small and aching. “And your way of making everything look brighter simply by standing in it.”
Her throat closed around a rush of feelings she could not name fast enough.
“I always thought,” she said quietly, “that you did not want me in the middle of things. That you wanted me hidden away.”
“I wanted you safe,” he said. “I did not know how to do that without locking you in a box. I was wrong. And when you were gone, I realized that all my careful distance did nothing. I had already lost you, and I had never properly held you.”
He reached out and, with a hesitation that hurt to see, cupped her cheek.
“Let me hold you now,” he whispered. “At least this once—when it matters like this.”
She leaned into his palm and nodded.
“I am proud of you, Esther,” he said. “Terrified. But so proud I do not know where to put it.”
Tears stung behind her eyes. “I wanted to hear that for so long.”
“I wanted to say it for just as long,” he admitted. “Your mother handled the soft words. I handled the frightening ones. It seems you learned to do both.”
He offered his arm.
“May I walk you to your future?”
She slipped her hand through his arm. “Please.”
The garden hushed.
Music began, soft and hopeful.
They stepped forward together.
The aisle was not a narrow strip of red carpet—it was a path between tables, lined with people.
Children holding armfuls of flowers. Elders leaning on canes. Guards standing at attention. Farmers in their best shirts. Orcs who tried to stand still and failed, swaying with the music instead.
As she walked, the sights blurred with her tears. She did not see faces as individual shapes but as one warm, living tapestry. These were the people she had chosen. The people she had almost died for. The people she would keep fighting for.
Her father leaned in just enough for her to hear him.
“You are not walking away from me,” he said softly. “You are walking toward everything you deserve. That is all I have ever wanted for you, even when I did a terrible job of showing it.”
Esther pressed her forehead briefly against his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For staying. For trying. For being here now.”
His hand on hers tightened.
Ahead, at the end of the aisle, Nythir waited.
He wore formal clothes of dark fabric and silver accents—understated but impossibly flattering. His hair was neatly tied back, his pointed ears adorned with simple metal cuffs. He looked like a prince by accident, and nothing about him had ever looked more right.
