And the memories of last night, after she left the tavern, trickled in. Completely clear despite the inebriated state she had been in. The boldness. The dancing. The almost kissing someone under a moonlit sky.
She was never drinking again. Probably.
But maybe she would. When she needed some liquid courage.
To maybe almost kiss a handsome elf again.
“Then why are you delivering breakfast?” she whispered, embarrassed by how dry and cracked her voice sounded.
“Because I was curious.” Luna’s tone danced between mischief and sincerity. “And I like watching people wake up. Here, try it. I guessed the cream and sugar.”
Esther accepted the mug as if it were a sacred relic. The ceramic was warm beneath her palms, grounding her. She inhaled the scent. It smelled rich and sweet, with too much sugar but exactly the right amount of relief.
She took a sip. Warmth spread down her throat and blossomed in her chest. She took another.
Her magic stirred before her thoughts caught up. It never waited for permission. It responded to fear faster than reason, to emotion faster than logic. That was why they had called her unstable. That was why she had been trained to suppress instead of understand. Feeling too much had always been the problem.
When she was calm, it stayed warm and quiet, like sunlight behind closed eyes. When she was afraid, it prickled and sparked, demanding release. Her tutors had called it instability. Her father had called it dangerous.
Esther had learned to call it a warning.
“Have you ever been told you’re too trusting, Cinabun?” Luna leaned in, her breath brushing Esther’s cheek like a teasing breeze.
“A few times,” Esther admitted quietly.
“You shouldn’t drink things from strangers.”
Esther froze.
The words hit something old and buried. A rule etched into her bones long before she understood why it existed. Her stomach turned, not from the coffee, but from memory—thick and bitter and wrong, clinging to the back of her throat like a warning she’d failed to heed once before.
Her heart lurched so hard she felt it echo in her ribs. Her hands trembled, the mug rattling faintly against the saucer. Her magic prickled awake under her skin like static lightning.
Luna lunged.
In one swift motion, Esther’s wrists slammed into the mattress, pinned by deceptively delicate hands. Coffee splashed across the sheets, dark droplets soaking into the linen and dripping to the wooden floor with soft, rhythmic patters.
Esther gasped—no, choked—as Luna’s weight settled across her hips.
She kicked her legs, struggling to break free, but Luna’s grip was fierce and unyielding. Esther couldn’t escape with her measly strength alone.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Her legs went numb at the edges, tingling.
This wasn’t how danger was supposed to feel.
There were no raised voices. No drawn blades. Just warmth turned sharp, and familiarity was misused. Her magic flared too late, confused by the sudden shift, scrambling to protect her from something it hadn’t recognized as a threat soon enough.
She had mistaken kindness for safety.
The palace specialized in that mistake. Kindness was easier to accept than control. Easier to obey. Easier to forgive. Esther had never learned how to recognize danger that smiled.
The realization hurt worse than the fear.
Magic flared up—instinctive, wild—begging to defend her, but she forced it down with sheer, terrified will. She knew what happened when she lost control.
A whisper curled through her mind like smoke:“Don’t die.”
“No,” Esther’s voice cracked. “No, please—”
