Her stomach flipped—not romantically. Well, a little romantically. Mostly from terror.
Two bandits bolted toward a wagon where a merchant couple cowered. Esther lifted her hands, trusting her mother’s gift.
The bracelet pulsed again. Magic streamed from her fingertips in a controlled burst of golden light. A bright wave shot across the path, sending the nearest attackers flying backwards, squawking like disgruntled pigeons.
The magic felt different when it listened to her. Heavier. Older. Like a language she had once known and was slowly relearning.
Nythir grinned smugly. “Perfect.”
The word warmed and terrified her in equal measure. Perfection had never been a compliment in the palace. It had been a demand.
Esther blinked at her own hands. “I meant to do that. I think.”
“Good,” he said. He parried a blade with effortless precision. “You’ll need to do it again.”
A dozen shadowy figures emerged from the treeline. Some wore mismatched armor; others brandished rusty blades and crossbows. Even she could see the holes in their sloppy formation.
“Seriously,” Lyssara groaned. “Why does everything try to kill us?”
“It’s our faces,” Vorrik said, swinging his axe. “We have very killable faces.”
“Speak for yourselves. I have a very kissable face, right Essie?”
Esther inhaled deeply, pretending not to hear Nythir’s comment. She focused. Her magic was hot and lingering, waiting for her command.
The chaotic rush in her chest calmed into focus. She lifted her hands, sending golden whirlwinds outward. They swirled around the nearest attackers, lifting them gently off their feet and depositing them into a ditch.
“Oh,” she gasped. “I did it. I did not blow anyone up.”
She waited for guilt to follow. It didn’t. That startled her more than the magic.
Lyssara cheered. Vorrik whooped. Teren peeked from behind his barrel.
Nythir stepped closer, eyes bright with approval. “You are incredible.”
Esther’s brain promptly melted. She blushed and stumbled, a bumbling mess.
The last surviving bandits turned and ran. Merchants peeked from their wagons, trembling but unharmed.
A bearded merchant approached, wiping sweat from his brow. “Bless the moons,” he said. “Thank you. Bandits have grown bold these past months. The roads are no longer safe. The tension between Valedara and Draewyn has every desperate fool trying his luck.”
Esther stiffened. She heard more than fear in his voice. She heard preparation. People only talked like this when they expected things to get worse.
Lyssara crossed her arms. “I thought the alliance with Kraggmar was supposed to make travel safer.”
“Alliance,” the merchant repeated with a bitter laugh. “There’s been no update on this supposed alliance in months. Folks are scared war will break out from the east before any alliance can be solidified.”
“What war?” Vorrik asked.
The merchant blinked. “The sixteen-year conflict with the Draewyn Dominion. You’ve truly not heard? Their king has raided Valedara’s border villages for decades, and King Arcturus just watches as his people suffer.”
A chill crawled up Esther’s spine. Draewyn. War.
Her vision blurred. Her breath vanished. Suddenly, she was small again, barely six years old. Cold stone pressed into her knees. The sharp, bitter taste of poison numbed her tongue.
It had never gone away entirely. She had simply learned to live around it.
Her mother’s voice whispered frantically: “Essie. Do not fall asleep. Stay with me.”
