She slowly lifted the cloak from her lap and stared at the phoenix sigil.
Her heart cracked.
In one motion, she tore it off and hurled it into the fire.
“What cloak?” she said, maintaining perfect royal composure.
The orange thread curled and dissolved like a dying sun.
“Do you even know how much that was worth?” Vorrik whispered.
Esther swallowed the hollow ache in her chest.
“No,” she said.
And she didn’t care.
The flames reflected in Nythir’s eyes as he watched her, amused, impressed, and far too handsome for someone who could so thoroughly shatter her emotional stability.
When he smiled at her like trouble incarnate, she wondered, just faintly, if Lucy would consider it stupid to die, if the cause was a devilish smile.
6
Nythir
How to camp: trust no twig, leaf, or suspicious nighttime breeze.
Nythir enjoyed the quiet softness of the night under a full moon. Crickets hummed in the dark, steady as a heartbeat. The forestbreathed in a slow, even rhythm. Smoke from the dying fire curled through the air, sweet with the warm scent of Essie’s magic.
Nythir kept watch from the edge of the camp, one knee drawn up, his knife resting lazily in his fingers. The firelight reached him in flickers—just enough to glint off the steel.
Behind him, Esther slept.
She had drifted off mid-sentence, halfway through explaining why cinnamon buns were superior to diplomacy. Now she lay bundled in Nythir’s far-too-large cloak, hair a tangle of gold and soot. She looked serene—like she wasn’t in a dangerous forest at all. She truly had nothing to fear with him watching over her, but she could have afforded a bit more caution.
The ground was still scattered with faint traces of her magic, tiny shining specks that pulsed with each exhale. It was an enchanting sight that lured dragonflies to dance through it, weaving patterns until Nythir couldn’t tell which glimmer belonged to magic and which to nature.
“Never seen anything like it,” Vorrik rumbled from across the fire. He poked the embers with a stick. “You sure she’s not some kind of demigod?”
“She’s definitely something,” Lyssara said, leaning back against a log. Her onyx braid glowed faintly orange in the firelight. “You don’t blow up fifteen men and half a forest by accident. Or wear the royal insignia on your cloak.”
“Maybe she’s cursed,” Vorrik offered. “Or possessed. Or both.”
Nythir didn’t answer. He watched the rise and fall of Esther’s shoulders. Even asleep, her fingers twitched—as if the magic in her veins refused to rest.
Lyssara followed his gaze. “She’s too clean, even with the soot,” she murmured. “Look at those hands. No calluses, no scars. And her accent’s polished as a palace floor.”
Vorrik squinted at Esther. “You’re saying she’s—” he paused dramatically, waiting for someone else to finish.
“A noble mage,” Lyssara concluded. “One that works close to the king. It's the only theory that makes sense.”
Nythir finally spoke, voice low. “Close… but not quite.”
Both of them looked at him.
He didn’t take his eyes off Essie. “Her terrible lying skills, the royal insignia, the golden magic… Old scriptures said the golden bloodline died with the queen. Clearly, someone lied.”
He let out a slow breath. “I’d wager the power was hidden—and we just rescued the Princess of Valedara.”
