“Of course. I owe you for saving me.”
“I don’t want it out of obligation,” he said, gently taking her hand. “I want to do what that filth tried—but correctly.”
“What was he even trying to do?” Essie asked.
Nythir couldn’t help but laugh. She wasn’t playing coy—she was just that clueless.
“Why are you laughing?” she pouted. “I freaked out when he grabbed me. Oh no! Was he trying to kidnap me? You want to kidnap me?”
The question chilled him. Kidnapping was violence with structure. This had been something quieter—and far more common. That difference mattered. He would not let her misname it.“Essie, he was trying to kiss you.”
“K-k-kiss?” she shouted, turning redder than a tomato. “You want to kiss me?” Her voice pitched as some of his favorite sparks escaped the confines of the bracelet. He basked in the knowledge that the runespire Luna gave her couldn’t stand a chance against his connection with Essie.
“Yes.” He traced a finger along her warm cheek and bent down a little closer. “Push me away if you don’t want to. I won’t be mad.”
He waited because waiting was the point. Power meant nothing without restraint. Desire meant nothing without choice.
He waited a beat. Then another.
Then he kissed her, and sparks ignited.
Nothing cracked or went up in flames. Her magic responded differently—not as defense, but recognition. Gold scattered gently, unafraid. Nythir catalogued that too. Magic, like people, behaved differently when it was not being cornered.
Even the bracelet she wore couldn’t keep her magic from reacting to him. And he revealed that.
She didn’t push him away or pull back. She pulled closer. Her hands trembled, clutching his tunic.
She more than welcomed the kiss. She reciprocated it.
It was then that Nythir realized he had been jealous. The realization did not shame him. It clarified him. Jealousy was not possession—it was awareness sharpened by risk.
He hadn’t known what that emotion was before, but what he did know was that he would never admit it to Lyssara.
Some protections were written in ink. Others were written in intent—and enforced without hesitation. Intent, once set,demanded follow-through. And Nythir had never abandoned something he chose to guard.
22
Esther
How to make camp mornings interesting: add one bold elf, one confused mage, and at least one person insisting on bringing a goat.
Esther woke the next morning with warm sunlight across her face, a faint ache in her lips and an aching back from sleeping on hard ground all night. She regretted her past decision to packonly eight books, which had been lost to the universe moments after teleporting.
Sleeping under the stars felt like something out of a fairy tale.
Fairy tales never mentioned how hard the ground was or how exposed everything felt without walls. She should have packed a pillow. It would have softened her landing and improved her sleep quality.
Still, she had slept better than she ever had in silk sheets. Safety, she was learning, was not the same as luxury.
The camp was awake. People talked. Horses snorted. Someone was already burning breakfast. It was Vorrik. For someone who loved food so much, he was a terrible cook.
Essie sat up and stretched her aching muscles. The skin on the back of her neck tickled. She felt intent eyes on her and instinctively knew she shouldn’t look—but did anyway.
Nythir was staring at her from across the fire like a man who wanted to say good morning and possibly commit arson.
Her instinctive response was to hide. Instead, she froze. Hiding had been her first reflex for years. Standing still—being seen—felt like a new skill she had not practiced enough to trust.
He stood and walked over like a wolf stalking something inevitable.
