“That much? After the crown she gave you?”
“That was for priority service,” Helga said without shame, holding out her calloused palms.
“Swindler,” Nythir muttered—but he paid anyway. His voice was irritated; his mouth, however, betrayed him with a slight upward twitch.
Vorrik barreled past a moment later. “Food and beer?”
“After we get ready,” Lyssara said firmly. “We’ll meet you at Luna’s Tavern. Out!”
The door slammed.
Then Lyssara smiled wickedly.
“Sit, cinnamon bun.”
“Cinnamon bun?” Esther repeated, confused.
“You know—the one we washed out of your hair.” Lyssara patted the bed. “Now sit. Your hair is a battlefield.”
Esther obeyed, cheeks warming. The inn mattress was thin and stiff, nothing like the plush featherbed she’d grown up in. But she liked it—its simplicity, its honest creak, its realness.
Lyssara combed through gently, coaxing out tangles. The scent of coconut filled the air. Each careful stroke felt grounding.
Lucy used to brush her hair the same way, quick and efficient, fingers practiced from years of untangling silk and stubborn knots alike. There had never been room for gentleness then. Only necessity. Esther wondered when care had turned into obligation, and whether Lucy had ever noticed the shift before Esther had. The thought settled uncomfortably in her chest, warm and volatile, stirring beneath her skin like embers beginning to wake.
“You remind me of my friend,” Esther murmured. “Lucy. She always helped me. Took care of me.”
Lyssara hummed thoughtfully. “And do you want people to take care of you?”
Esther hesitated. “I want to know people better. Not just be taken care of.”
Lyssara’s grin sharpened. “Especially a certain dark-haired elf?”
Before Esther could deny it, one of the candles on the table flared violently.
The flame leapt an inch higher, casting jittery shadows across the walls.
“I’m sorry!” Esther squeaked. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize,” Lyssara said calmly, lowering the flame with a wave of her hand. “Magic mirrors emotion. Nothing shameful about that.”
Esther groaned at hearing Basil’s favorite phrase when lecturing her. He started every lesson with that quote.
Lyssara finished brushing, then stepped back with a low whistle. “We need to trim this later. You look like you fought sentient scissors and lost.”
Esther laughed because that exact scenario had happened once. She had been seven. The scissors had won.
Lyssara flicked her wrist and promptly tossed all three candles out the broken window.
“You don’t have to do that!” Esther cried.
“Essie,” Lyssara said gently, pulling out the green dress, “everyone has things they can’t control. Vorrik snores like an earthquake. Your magic is just louder.”
Esther swallowed. Louder, yes, but also deeper. Her magic had never felt neat or singular. It moved in layers, sometimes steady and sometimes raw, as though it carried strength without the structure to hold it. Compared to the careful magic she had been taught about, hers always seemed to burn a little too bright, reaching before she was ready.
The dress shimmered softly in the light filtering through the window—dark forest green, simple, knee-length, belted at the waist. No lace. No jewels. No heavy embroidery.
Esther slipped into it. The fabric scratched faintly against her skin—unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
