Somewhere behind him, Lyssara barked orders while Vorrik crashed into something that sounded expensive.
None of it mattered.
Essie had run. And all he could think, as he sprinted past the last row of stalls, was how she moved that fast on those short legs of hers.
He caught the faint imprint of her footsteps in the trampled dirt, leading toward the trees. The noise of the marketplace thinned behind him, replaced by the hush of the forest at Greyhollow’s edge. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in dappled patches. The air smelled of earth and crushed grass instead of sweat and spices.
He spotted her at the base of an old elm, tucked into its roots as if she wanted the ground to swallow her. Her hands shook so hard he could see it from a few paces away.
She did not hear him. Not until he carefully knelt beside her.
“Essie,” he said softly.
She flinched and folded in on herself, chin sinking to her knees.
He did not touch her. He sat next to her instead, close enough to be there, far enough that she could breathe. The bark pressed into his back. A bird hopped somewhere above them, scratching against the branches.
“I am here,” he said. “Not to crowd you. Just to sit with you.”
For a long time, the only sound was her ragged breathing and the distant murmur of the square. A breeze stirred the leaves, brushing cool fingers over the back of his neck.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were red and shining, full of something that looked like despair.
“I am a mess,” she whispered. “I cannot do this.”
“You do not have to talk yet,” Nythir said gently.
But she did. Once the first crack appeared, everything spilled through.
“I know nothing about her,” Essie said, voice trembling. “Everyone else does. Everyone knows more about my mother than I ever did.”
Her fingers found the fabric of her sleeves and twisted, wringing the cloth like she was afraid it might vanish if she let go. She took a shaky breath, staring at the dirt between her boots.
“In the palace, no one talked about her,” she said. “It was forbidden. If I asked, the King changed the subject. The servants went quiet. They said her name was sacred. They said it was painful to speak about her. They said it was better to let her rest.”
Nythir shifted a little closer, letting his shoulder brush hers. A small, steady point of warmth. He stayed silent, afraid that any word from him would shatter the fragile strength it took for her to speak.
Essie swallowed hard. For a moment, the air felt heavier, like the forest itself had paused to listen.
“All I truly knew,” she said, “was that she was warm. That she was kind. That she was a good queen. That people loved her. That she had magic.” Her voice cracked. “Sometimes, it felt like her magic never left. Like the palace remembered her even if no one spoke her name.”
She pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, fingers digging into her hair.
“I did not even know she was one of the strongest mages in Valedara’s history until Luna told me the truth,” she said.“Everyone else knew. Everyone spoke of her like she was a legend, a miracle, a light the kingdom lost.”
Tears spilled over again, tracking down her cheeks. One dropped to her knee, darkening the fabric.
“And I know almost nothing,” she whispered. “I do not know her stories. I do not know her magic. I do not know her spells or her strengths or her past. I only know that she is everything I am not.”
Nythir hesitated. There were moments when Esther’s magic felt too precise, too familiar—like something remembering itself rather than being born.
Essie hugged her knees closer, shoulders trembling.
“How am I supposed to live up to a woman I barely remember?” she asked, words breaking. “How am I supposed to be the daughter of someone I never truly knew? I am lost. I am scared. And I feel like I am failing a mother who deserved better.”
Her voice fell to almost nothing.
“I cannot be her,” she said. “I cannot even begin to understand her.”
