Esther
How to trust breakfast: with extreme caution and mild paranoia.
The morning sun pried through the curtains like an overly eager intruder, landing directly across Esther’s eyelids. The light felt too bright, too sharp. Like someone had carved it with a knife and angled it right at her face.
The room felt different in the daylight.
Not dangerous. Not hostile. Just… alert. As if the walls were listening instead of resting, the way the palace halls always had.
Daylight had always been the most dangerous time in the palace. Shadows hid intentions, but light exposed expectation. Morning meant lessons. Corrections. Smiles that did not reach the eyes. She had learned early that being watched did not always mean being protected.
Esther had grown up learning the subtle difference between safety and supervision, and this felt uncomfortably close to the latter.
Freedom, Esther was learning, did not arrive quietly. It arrived jangling nerves and setting off alarms she hadn’t known were still wired into her body. The palace had trained her to anticipate harm before it happened. Even now, safety felt like something she had borrowed and would be asked to return.
She groaned and burrowed deeper into the pillow. The lingering scent of spilled ale clung to her hair, sour and stubborn. Her head throbbed in sync with the tavern’s distant morning bustle below. Each clatter of dishes bounced around her skull like a personal punch to her brain.
Her legs felt heavy, as if phantom vines still wrapped around them from yesterday’s sprint through a tantrum-throwing forest. Her back ached with the memory of dancing far too enthusiastically while tipsy. And her dignity…her dignity was hurt from existing anywhere near Nythir with alcohol involved.
Dignity had been one of the first things she’d learned to guard. Not because it mattered to her—but because it mattered to everyone else. A princess who embarrassed herself was a liability. A princess who laughed too loudly was undisciplined. A princess who wanted anything at all was dangerous.
She had murky memories of dancing in the tavern with Luna and others she didn’t know. She had a feeling that she had made a complete fool of herself.
Yesterday had been... a lot.
And she never wanted to move, speak, or be perceived again.
Wanting to disappear was familiar. She had mastered stillness long ago—how to breathe quietly, how to make herself smaller without shrinking, how to exist without leaving marks. What unsettled her was not the exhaustion, but the absence of regret. She did not regret laughing. She did not regret dancing. She did not regret wanting more.
A floorboard creaked by the doorway.
Then a warm smell of fresh cinnamon, toasted sugar, and roasted coffee beans drifted toward her. The air thickened with it, cozy and nostalgic. For a heartbeat, she could almost feel Lucy brushing her bangs back, placing a smuggled sweet roll under her nose while whispering gently, “Wake up before your father realizes you’re not in bed.”
It had only been a few days. But it felt like she hadn’t seen her closest friend in years.
“Wakey wakey, Cinabun,” a cheerful, sing-song voice chimed.
Esther groaned and yanked the thin blanket over her head. The fabric was cool against her overheated cheeks.
“Come on,” the voice laughed. “I even brought you coffee.”
The bed dipped beside her, light enough not to jostle her but deliberate enough that the mattress gave a little sigh beneath the weight. Esther peeked out from the blanket.
Luna sat poised on the mattress like an artist’s muse, legs tucked gracefully beneath her. Her silver hair now gleamed violet in the sunlight. Not a single strand out of place. Not a trace of hangover. Not an ounce of shame.
Esther blinked. “Do you... also work for the inn?”
Luna smirked and offered the steaming mug. A swirl of cream spiraled across the surface like delicate artwork.
“Nice guess, but nope.”
Luna moved like someone who knew exactly how much space to take up. Not too close. Not too far. She settled beside Esther with practiced ease, like she had done this a hundred times before—for different people, in other rooms.
It was oddly comforting.
And that, Esther realized distantly, was what made it unsettling.
Esther pushed herself upright with the enthusiasm of a corpse rising from the dead—fitting, really. The motion sent a lightning bolt of pain through her skull. The room tilted, then settled. Her stomach sloshed unpleasantly.
