His eyes found hers and widened with wonder, like he was seeing the sunrise for the first time.
Esther’s heart felt too big for her ribcage.
When they reached him, King Arcturus exhaled a shaking breath. He took Esther’s hand and placed it carefully into Nythir’s waiting grip.
“Take care of her,” he said.
Nythir’s fingers closed around hers, steady and sure. “With everything I am,” he replied.
The king nodded once. His chin trembled. He turned and stepped aside, taking his place among the guests.
Esther and Nythir faced each other.
Everything else faded into the background color and sound.
Her hand fit perfectly in his. His thumb brushed the back of her knuckles—a tiny, grounding touch that said he was there, that he was not going anywhere, that this was real.
The officiant spoke, but Esther barely heard the words. Blessings, unity, shared futures, the magic of vows—they washed over her like distant waves.
When it was time, she and Nythir turned their hands so their fingers wove together.
The vows were short. They had written them that way on purpose. Truth did not need many words.
“I choose you,” Esther said, her voice clear despite the tightness in her chest. “In duty. In chaos. In fire. In peace. Always.”
“I choose you,” Nythir answered, his eyes shining. “Even when it terrifies me.”
Half the crowd cried.
The other half cheered.
Lupin shouted threats.
Lucy fainted dramatically, dropping backward with perfect theatrical timing. Sylva lunged and caught her before she hit the ground, muttering about fragile humans while staring at her as if she had personally hung every star in the sky.
Lucy peeked one eye open. “Did I fall gracefully?”
“No,” he said. “But you fell.”
“I will take it,” she replied, then sat back up in time for cake.
The officiant said something ceremonial, but neither could pay attention to the words. They only listened when they heard their cue that allowed them to finally kiss.
And when they kissed, the lanterns flickered brighter, warmth swelling through the garden. The phoenix stitching on Esther’s dress glimmered like ember-light. The motes of Estella’s magic in the air seemed to dance.
Their magic resonated—not exploding, not flaring—but settling into the same quiet hum.
Like two notes that had always belonged to the same chord.
It felt, impossibly, like the kingdom itself approved.
Music flooded the space. People leapt to their feet, clapping and shouting. Children tossed petals. Someone—probably Vorrik—let out a victorious roar. The wedding goat tried to eat a tablecloth.
Later, as the night settled and the stars blinked awake, the long tables were covered in crumbs and empty plates. Lanternsswayed gently overhead. Laughter drifted on the cool air. Someone began a slow song, and couples swayed on the grass.
Nythir lifted Esther into his arms, holding her like she weighed nothing. She looped her arms around his neck and rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath his ribs.
They slipped away from the main celebration, heading toward the quieter paths of the palace.
