Her stomach twisted. Kraggmar. The orc kingdom. The one with a fifty-year-old king.
Her mind spiraled. She tried to imagine her future husband, who probably had warts. And now, apparently, an arranged marriage to her.
She pressed closer to the door, her heart pounding so loudly it drowned out their hushed voices. Eavesdropping was wrong, but it was the only way Esther could gather information. Her father would always say something like, “This doesn’t concern you,” or some other version of ‘stop asking questions’ when she tried to learn things directly.
She tried to get as close to the cracked door as possible, her heart thumping when the floorboard creaked beneath her. She stopped breathing, afraid she had given away her presence. But after a silence that stretched over several agonizing heartbeats, the conversation continued.
Her father sighed, his voice tired. “It’s the only way to secure peace. She will adapt. We’ll announce the engagement at the Harvest Ball.”
For a moment, she stood frozen, her heartbeat lodged in her throat.
It wasn’t just fear twisting inside her. It was betrayal.
They hadn’t warned her.
Hadn’t spoken to her.
Hadn’t even considered her voice.
A memory surfaced, her father laughing as he hoisted her onto his shoulders during the Harvest Festival. Lupin handed her candied apples. A time when she believed she could earn their affection simply by being good, quiet, perfect.
Somewhere along the way, she had slipped from daughter to duty.
Esther, useless princess of Valedara, was about to be married off to an old orc king with a wart. They’d finally found a usefor her, a sacrifice for a treaty wrapped in silk—a stain scrubbed from their perfect view.
Her ears rang. The room tilted. Her already too-tight corset seemed to shrink two sizes.
She spun on her heel and bolted down the hall, skirts whispering furiously. Her shoes clicked on the marble floors that caught the orange light of the dying sun. The chilled air grew hot and suffocating and candles flared as she rushed by.
She cursed the architects who had designed the halls absurdly long. It felt like an eternity until she finally arrived at her personal chambers.
She slammed her door. Then, remembering her etiquette training, she opened it again to close it more gently.
She fell to her knees with ragged breath. She tried to catch her breath, but the air, heavy with polish and wax, refused to satisfy her lungs.
“Calm thoughts, gentle heat,” she muttered, quoting Basil. “No explosions.”
Maybe she had misheard. She had caused many explosions lately; perhaps it had taken a toll on her hearing.
A nearby candle flickered nervously.
“Calm thoughts, no explosions,” she repeated over and over in a trembling voice.
The candle responded by doing the exact opposite, and exploded. She wondered why there were so many candles in the palace and decided she wasn’t the problem. The problem was the unnecessary number of candles that could blow up.
Smoke curled up the walls. Esther groaned. “Of course. My life’s burning down before the wedding even starts.”
For a moment, she considered letting everything burn, letting her magic consume her until nothing remained that could be sold. Maybe then, she could be free.
Crack!
Esther glanced over and met her eyes in a mirror that cracked like a spiderweb.
Her reflection stared back: singed hair, red eyes, and a less-than-perfect posture—the disgraced princess of the Valedara royal family.
“Oh, fantastic,” she sobbed. “Even the mirror’s judging me.”
The pieces of glass tinked against the overly polished floor, almost like a sad melody, scratching the pristine surface Esther hated so much.
