Vorrik clapped his hands once like a proud father. “Well! That escalated!”
Teren stood up so fast he tripped over a bucket.
Nythir ignored all of them. “It’s simple,” he concluded with all the confidence he should not have had.
“It is not simple!” Esther yelped. “People don’t get married for kissing!” Her objection surprised even her. She wasn’t afraid—she was startled. There was a difference, and noticing it felt like progress.
“You absolutely aren’t,” Lyssara said. “You need witnesses. A ceremony. A signed document. A cake. Possibly a goat, if the priest is dramatic enough.”
Vorrik nodded sagely. “Ours required a goat. It stared directly into my soul.”
Esther was trying to breathe normally, but her lungs had recently decided to be decorative instead of functional.
“Nythir,” she whispered, “we are not married.”
“Legally, not yet. But in spirit, yes we are.”
Then he did something that shocked everyone. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
Esther saw her life pass before her eyes. She was not built for this level of cardiac violence before breakfast.
Vorrik cheered.
Nythir smiled, looking far too handsome and smug after almost killing her via a direct heart attack.
Lyssara put her hands on her hips. “You two need to have an actual conversation about actual marriage, not whatever… whateverthisis.”
“It’s fate,” Vorrik said with profound, unearned wisdom.
“No it isn’t,” Esther squeaked. “You can’t just… jump all the steps! You need things! Like dates! And presents! And cake! And—and—paperwork!”
“And a goat,” Vorrik added.
“I don’t want a goat at the wedding!” Esther shrieked in an octave that would put the wedding goat to shame.
Nythir slid his hand into hers again, causing Esther to squeak like a distressed mouse.
“Essie,” he said softly, “if you’re already married, you can’t be forced into an arranged marriage. And I want to marry you.”
Esther’s mouth fell open. Her heart stuttered. Her magic fluttered like a startled butterfly under her skin.
The logic landed harder than the declaration. Protection framed as a partnership instead of confinement. It frightened her and relieved her in equal measure.
“You want to marry me?” She asked with a shaky voice.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Lyssara threw a blanket over her own head like she needed sensory deprivation to cope.
Vorrik began humming the wedding march under his breath, adding a few goat sounds for realism.
Teren hid behind a barrel. The poor guy had probably woken up and chosen fear.
Esther stared at Nythir. Then at his hand. Then into his eyes.
Her voice was tiny. “O-okay. Maybe the idea… isn’t terrible.” The words were small, but they were hers. Not a duty. Not a concession. A choice made in daylight, with witnesses, and the option to change her mind.
Nythir’s expression brightened with the warmth of a sunrise.
