“That explains why she looked familiar,” Lyssara muttered. She began drawing idle lines in the dirt with a stick, as if her hands needed something to do. “Vorrik, do you remember when that really pretty lady visited the orphanage and gave a huge donation?”
Vorrik frowned in concentration. “The one who brought all the meat? The meat that fed us for a whole week!”
Lyssara groaned. “I said donation, not food.”
“It was a food donation.”
“It was expired meat from the butcher’s wife! Half the orphanage got sick! I’m talking about the other one—the woman who looked just like Essie, only taller.”
Her gaze drifted to Essie, who was now snoring with a thin string of drool slipping from her mouth.
“And more refined,” Lyssara added under her breath.
“Oh yeah,” Vorrik said far too quickly.
He definitely did not remember.
Lyssara sighed. “I heard the head of the orphanage speaking to her. She called herQueen Estella.”
Nythir’s expression sharpened. “Are you certain?”
“Positive. I wasn’t supposed to hear, but I’ve always had a natural talent for spying.” She lifted her chin, as though it were askill worth putting on a résumé. “She used to visit often. And on her last visit… she promised she’d come back for my birthday.”
Her voice wavered—just enough for Nythir to notice.
“But she never did,” Lyssara finished quietly. “A few weeks later, news of the queen’s death spread. That’s when I stopped doubting who she really was.”
Vorrik scratched his beard. “But why would the princess teleport into Ashvale and… y’know…dramatically annihilate bandits?”
Lyssara shrugged, lips curling into a smirk. “Who knows? Maybe she’s running from an arranged marriage. Or her etiquette lessons. She kept mumbling something about that in her sleep.”
Queen Estella’s golden magic had been legendary—gentle yet fierce, warm enough to heal frostbite, bright enough to light entire caverns. It was said she never raised her voice, only her will, and the world bent around her like metal to flame.
Some even claimed her death shattered Valedara’s equilibrium.
The years after her loss grew colder.
Darker.
More hollow.
Nythir wondered what the queen would think of her daughter—falling from the sky, blowing up criminals, crying into cinnamon pastry glaze.
Probably:“Yes, that is exactly my child.”
Nythir’s mouth quirked. “You two can gossip later. For now, she’s just another runaway with a dangerous temper.”
Lyssara stretched, cracking her knuckles. “So we’re not telling her we know?”
“No. There’s more to her than a sheltered girl.”
“So we do get to keep her!” Vorrik boomed—earning a rock to the forehead, courtesy of Nythir’s impeccable aim.
Silence settled over them. Only the fire spoke, snapping softly as it devoured the last of the wood.
Lyssara tilted her head, studying him. “You’re curious about her.”
He didn’t deny it. His eyes drifted back to Essie—her hand tucked near her face, soot streaking her jaw, that faint golden warmth still hovering in the air around her. “She’s… interesting.”
