Chapter 3 Esther
Esther
How to make an unforgettable entrance: like a sparkly duck.
Lucy jinxed Esther with her parting shouts.
She screamed as she fell, the sound tearing from her throat and scattering into the wind.
The air whipped past her ears in a roar, stinging her cheeks and tangling her chopped hair.
Static exploded off her skin like a shower of shooting stars, streaking through the sky and fading into the orange glow of sunset.
Esther really hated the color gold.
Her magic shimmered gold, the chains on her jewels glinted gold, and even the cursed crown that marked her as the palace's property was gold. Every reminder of her cage gleamed in that same too-bright hue—the color of rules, of expectations, of things that pretended to be beautiful.
She could go the rest of her life never seeing it again, which wouldn’t last much longer at the rate she was falling.
Valedara’s tutors had tried to teach her about topography, ley lines, and magical interference zones.
But Esther had spent most of those lessons sneak-reading romance novels behind atlases.
She vaguely remembered Basil saying something about teleportation being “dangerously unstable without a designated anchor point,” followed by, “Princess, please stop doodling hearts around assassin characters.”
She should have asked where teleport spells normally landed.
Flat ground?
Soft moss?
Preferably a mattress?
Certainly not plummeting through the sky like a dramatic shooting star whose life choices were questionable at best.
There had long been old legends about teleportation mishaps, noble mages reappearing halfway through barn walls, or emerging inside fountains wearing nothing but embarrassment. Basil once told her, “Emotional instability will scramble coordinates.”
Well. She was the poster child for emotional instability. So this? This was deserved.
She mentally prepared herself to become flatter than the cinnamon bun she’d packed. And knowing her luck, the bun would probably survive.
She thought of those most dear to her as she plummeted toward her demise. In order:
Dear Mother, your daughter indeed died stupidly.
Dear Lucy, please, please, please burn those books.
Dear Basil, I didn’t blow anything up this time.
She decided not to send any thoughts or prayers to her father and brother, who were going to marry her off to an orc who already had children and probably lovers.
As if to rub salt in the wound, her satchel ripped open, releasing all its contents to the wind. The cinnamon bun that she would soon match slapped her in the face. The sugary glaze clung to her bangs, filling her nose with the scent of cinnamon and humiliation.
She could only imagine what the newspapers would say:
Disgraced Princess of Valedara: A Pile of Goop Surrounded by Smut.
Maybe she should have accepted her fate and married the orc king, but she quickly decided death was better.
She had acted rashly. But if they had invited the orc king to a dinner or afternoon tea instead of plotting behind her back, then she would have reacted more calmly.
Probably not, but it was the principle of it.
“What the hell?” a deep voice shouted, cut off by Esther’s landing.
The impact drove the air from her lungs in a violent oof. Her vision spun, her head throbbed, and for a long second, she could only register warmth.
She hit something solid yet soft, like a mattress that needed breaking in.
The ground smelled of moss and mint: a clean, sharp, faintly sweet aroma that made her brain feel fuzzy. A scent she could melt into.
If this were death, it was surprisingly comfortable.
“Did she just fall from the sky?” a woman asked, rough and incredulous.
“Like a meteor,” a gravelly voice responded.
“A meteor with legs that needs to get off me.”
The “warmth” beneath her shifted.
Oh no.
She wasn’t splattered on the ground, dead.
She was very much alive.
And on top of someone.
She didn’t know if this was good news or if she should have gone with death. All she knew was that the Baroness must never find out.
Esther groaned and lifted her head, reluctant to acknowledge reality.
Her hair stuck to her face in sticky strands of cinnamon glaze and sweat. Her vision steadied enough to see the person she’d landed on, and her brain promptly short-circuited.
He was the most unfairly handsome man she’d ever seen. Pale skin dusted with soot. Long, dark hair tied in a loose braid that gleamed red at the edges in the setting sun.
Elves were known for their ethereal beauty; this one looked like the kind that ruined lives.
His attire, a dark, close-fitted tunic stitched with thin silver thread, marked him as an adventurer.
She recognized the pattern from a dusty volume titled A Beginner’s Guide to Handsome Men and Their Homelands… or something similar.
So, what was he?
Beautiful.
Annoyed.
And currently pinned beneath her.
She had accidentally fallen on an elf.
“I can explain,” she said quickly. “This isn’t… whatever it looks like.”
“It looks like you fell on me,” the elf said flatly. His voice was smooth and calm in a way that made her stomach queasy.
This was definitely not how the heroines in the novels started their journeys.
“Right. So exactly what it looks like.” She laughed weakly, pushing at her tangled hair. Bits of pastry clung to her scalp. One boot was missing entirely.
Baroness Levon’s lectures screamed in her memory. In a single misstep, she’d undone years of etiquette, posture, and self-control.
“Up you get.”
A dark, tawny-skinned half-elf lifted her effortlessly by the arms. Esther’s feet dangled as if she weighed less than a feather. The woman’s grip was firm but careful, her palms warm and calloused.
“Huh? You look familiar… have we met before?” she said as she gently set Esther down.
Esther shook her head, unable to recall a maid as tall as the woman in front of her.
The half-elf stood nearly six feet tall, muscles coiled like rope beneath her fitted shirt. Tight pants hugged her generous hips, accented by a long sheathed sword. Her skin carried a faint scent of vanilla and citrus, a softer fragrance than any perfume in the palace.
“She’s glowing.”
Esther turned toward the voice, deep and grumpy. The speaker was an orc with massive, mountain-like shoulders and rust-colored hair that clashed with his green skin, like an inverted carrot.
She noted the absence of warts and the rather attractive face beneath his tusks.
“I’m Vorrik.”
“Now’s not the time for introductions.”
“I’m Nythir.” The handsome elf stood and dusted dirt from his tunic, ignoring his companion completely. “So, are you with the bandits? Or just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Bandits?” Esther asked.
As if summoned by the word, an arrow flew past her face. She would have been skewered if the half-elf hadn’t yanked her aside like she weighed nothing.
It was then that Esther realized they were surrounded by ten, no, fifteen, men.
They were an assortment of races: orcs, humans, dwarves, and beastkin.
Covered in scars and filth, she doubted they’d be recognizable if they bathed.
Grime clung to their clothes, and it looked as if they hadn’t showered in months.
One of the bandits stepped forward, dragging the edge of his rusted blade along a tree trunk until bark peeled away in curls. Another spat at her feet, grinning with blackened teeth. Two more circled to the left, blocking any escape path.
Esther swallowed hard as the half-elf woman shifted protectively in front of her, but even she looked tense now. The men were closing in. Their weapons weren’t raised yet, but their predatory smiles said everything.
Esther’s skin prickled; the air tightened around her lungs. This wasn’t like the palace, where threats were whispers. These men wanted to hurt her.
“That pretty little thing might fetch a good price,” one of the grimy men leered at her. Esther’s stomach flipped.
She was indeed in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Cold sweat broke out across her skin, her breath hitching, her vision blurring.
She had been so protected in the castle, sheltered from the world’s darker side. She didn’t know what to do, and her magic decided panic was the best plan of action.
“Can we break her in before we sell her?” another bandit laughed creepily.
Vorrik stepped between her and the bandits, positioning himself protectively. Nythir flanked her other side, throwing up a barrier to shield them from the onslaught of arrows.
Esther’s vision blurred. She was terrified. She had never been outside the palace gates before. She didn’t know what to expect. Her novels always had a knight saving a princess, not a princess landing in front of a band of vagrants.
Outnumbered.
Without guards.
“Why is the ground shaking?” Vorrik asked, his hand on his axe.
“Oh, for moon’s sake. She’s lit up like a firefly. Look at her hands.”
Esther’s fingers trembled. Gold sparks danced along her skin, crackling like embers. The air around her pulsed with heat, warping under the surge of magic. Her throat tightened. She could taste the fear, bitter and metallic.
The castle had not prepared her for this.
Her magic didn’t obey logic.
It obeyed emotion.
And right now, terror was pouring through her veins like molten metal.
Her fingertips tingled, then burned, then blazed, light swelling faster than she could breathe. Her fingers went numb under the force of her frenzied magic.
“Everyone, move!”
A thunderous boom drowned out Nythir's voice.
Sparks flew. Trees splintered. Men screamed.
Golden light engulfed them.
Esther blinked through the settling dust—a few charred trees smoked in the distance. The air smelled of copper, smoke, and something burnt.
Her ears rang. Vorrik and the half-elf lay on the ground, blinking in disbelief. Nythir was covered in soot, his hair singed at the ends.
And all around them…
Pieces of what might once have been bandits littered the clearing.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh no, no, no…”
Her whisper turned into a shriek. The wind carried it through the trees, scattering birds into the darkening sky. Her throat burned from the smoke, her eyes stung, and her heart hammered.
“I don’t think she’s with the bandits,” Vorrik said, helping his half-elf companion up.
“Well, that was effective.” Nythir chuckled and patted her on the back. “Good job.”
Esther straightened at the words.
She was being praised.
For the first time, her chaotic, uncontrolled magic was being praised.
Then it hit her.
She was being praised for killing several men.
They had attacked her first, but blowing them up went beyond self-defense. Not that she knew anything about self-defense.
Esther had dreamed of adventure once, of freedom, open skies, and daring rescues. But novels hadn’t prepared her for the smell of burning flesh or the weight of unintended violence. She wanted to be brave, not dangerous.
Something wet and heavy slapped against her shoulder, interrupting her morbid thoughts. She turned to see a severed arm slide into the dirt beside her boot.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Esther whimpered, falling to her knees.
She wanted to be someone her mother could be proud of, not someone whose magic lashed out like a wounded animal.
She didn’t want this power.
She didn’t want to hurt people.
In a matter of minutes, she had gone from princess to runaway to murderer.
“I think I’m concussed,” the other woman groaned. “I’m Lyssara.”
“About time you told us who you are, girl.”
“I’m Es— ”
Whack.
Something hard, possibly karma disguised as debris, hit her head. The world tilted sideways, the smoke softening to silver around the edges.
Esther’s last coherent thought before darkness swallowed her was that at least she had finally managed to leave the palace.
Though her next stop might be the dungeon.