Real, actual freedom.
She kicked off her last remaining shoe, savoring the cool tickle of grass between her toes. Nythir caught up faster than she expected and grabbed her arm. Momentum toppled them both, sending them tumbling downhill. They rolled through mud and morning mist until they landed in a heap, Nythir half-sprawled over her.
He gasped. “What— what was that?”
“Running,” she giggled, breathless.
“Running from what? We’re out of the forest.”
“Exactly!” she beamed up at him. “Look at it! It just looks so fun!”
“At least wait for us before you blindly run to someplace unknown,” he sighed, still pinning her gently to the earth. “Again.”
“She didn’t run before,” Lyssara called, hands on her hips as she stood over them. “She teleported. Now kiss and make up. I need a bath.”
Esther’s magic flared with embarrassment—and promptly set the ends of Nythir’s hair on fire.
9
Nythir
How to avoid attention: fail spectacularly and loudly.
“Running,” she’d said, as if that explained anything.
As if sprinting half-dressed, half-dead, and entirely insane down a hill made sense toanyone.
And yet, when she laughed as they rolled through the grass…when sunlight hit her face, and she looked—moons help him—happy.
It made perfect sense.
By the time they trudged through Stonehaven’s main gate, they looked like a traveling collection of curses in humanoid form. That being said, no one batted an eye at their state; Stonehaven had seen worse. The scent of woodsmoke, frying batter, and river wind filled the air, masking the sulfur and burnt sap clinging to them from Ashvale. No one going into their local forest came out unscathed. Some never came out.
Nythir knew he looked half feral. His hair was a frizzy, singed disaster, coated in ash and streaked with grass. Mud smeared one entire side of his face. His tunic smelled like burnt moss and regret.
Essie matched him perfectly. Except she was still barefoot, having lost her remaining boot when itburst into flamesduring their tumble. He was happy it was the boot, not him. He knew he was playing with fire, and getting burned was worth the risk, but he’d prefer to avoid it if he could.
Her silk dress, once pristine and elegant, was now splattered with dirt, torn at the hem, and decorated with little flecks of crispy vine remains. A phoenix among ducks, reduced to a soot-covered, barefoot whirlwind.
They needed to fix her appearance soon.
Not because she didn’t look lovely, stars, she could wear a potato sack and still dazzle a room. But because her noble quality was starting to show in a way that drew attention.
No sane commoner carried themselves with her grace, spoke with her diction, or blasted animated shrubbery with royal-level magic.
He’d never met anyone so dangerous to his peace of mind.
Lyssara trudged ahead of them, muttering about needing a real bath, clean clothes, and possibly divine intervention.
Vorrik followed behind her, shoulders drooping, looking like someone who’d been personally insulted by nature itself.
The marketplace hit him like a wave—bright fabrics flapping in the breeze, hawkers shouting, children running underfoot, and above all,the smells.
Essie froze at the aroma of fresh bread, frying batter, caramelizing sugar, and sizzling meat. Dawn hunger and last night’s skipped breakfast stirred the air into a tormenting feast.
Her stomach growled loud enough that a passing dog glanced at her.
“We should… maybe feed her,” Nythir muttered.
