Esther’s magic prickled in response, traitorous and bright, as if it wanted to confirm the truth she was denying.
Several children nearby turned, wide-eyed, staring at Esther. Children believed things adults had learned to doubt. That made their faith far more dangerous.
One little boy whispered, awestruck, “Princess?”
Esther’s breath shattered in her chest.
“I am not,” she said, but her voice was paper-thin.
The woman smiled sadly. “You do not need to say it aloud. Your face tells the story she left behind.”
Nythir stepped forward, creating a protective barrier between Esther and the woman. The instinctive relief that followed terrified her. She did not want to need a shield—especially not when the threat was truth.
“This is adult business, out you go, out you go,” Lyssara said, ushering the children out the back door. Vorrik blinked, bewildered, as she dragged him along.
Esther forgot how to breathe. She felt cornered. Seen. Exposed. Her heart pounded, her magic flickered. Too many eyes. Too many whispers.
Panic didn’t roar. It compressed—squeezing her thoughts into something sharp and unmanageable.
She turned and ran. Running had always worked before. Distance softened things. Time dulled edges. She prayed it would work again.
She thought she heard Nythir calling after her, but she was too afraid to look. She would break if she saw the betrayal—or the concern—in his eyes.
She shoved through the doorway and burst into the bright town square. Her boots slapped against the stone as she ran past merchant stalls and startled goats. She didn’t stop until the world blurred into streaks of color.
Only when she reached the quiet edge of the forest did she slow. She leaned against a tree, hands shaking violently.
Trees didn’t ask questions. They didn’t expect answers. Esther clung to that silence like a lifeline.
Her mother had been here. Her mother had spoken of her. Her mother had prepared for her arrival.
Preparation implied certainty. Esther had none.
Ever since receiving her mother’s letter, Esther had become entangled in a grand scheme that moved too fast. People were waiting for her—people who needed a royal voice she didn’t know how to give.
She pressed her trembling hands to her forehead. Her mother had left her more than memories. She had left the responsibility. Responsibility didn’t ask if you were ready. It simply arrived and waited.
And Esther had run from it.
Sliding down the tree trunk until she sat on the forest floor, the bracelet pulsed gently against her wrist—a constant reminder of her mother’s will.
It felt heavier than gold. Heavier than magic. Like a hand reminding her she could no longer pretend ignorance.
She whispered into her palms, “I am not ready.”
But deep down, she feared the truth: the world might not wait for her to be.
And for the first time, Esther wondered if waiting had ever been an option at all.
28
Nythir
How to find someone who runs: follow the place your heart refuses to leave behind.
Nythir ran.
He ignored the shouting merchants and bleating goats. A cart rattled as its driver yanked the reins, swerving just enough for Nythir to slip past. Greyhollow’s colors smeared together around him—bright fabrics, hanging charms, crates of fruit flashing by as he cut through the square.
