Chapter 6 Nythir
Nythir
How to camp: trust no twig, leaf, or suspicious nighttime breeze.
Nythir enjoyed the quiet softness of the night under a full moon. Crickets hummed in the dark, steady as a heartbeat. The forest breathed in a slow, even rhythm. Smoke from the dying fire curled through the air, sweet with the warm scent of Essie’s magic.
Nythir kept watch from the edge of the camp, one knee drawn up, his knife resting lazily in his fingers. The firelight reached him in flickers—just enough to glint off the steel.
Behind him, Esther slept.
She had drifted off mid-sentence, halfway through explaining why cinnamon buns were superior to diplomacy.
Now she lay bundled in Nythir’s far-too-large cloak, hair a tangle of gold and soot.
She looked serene—like she wasn’t in a dangerous forest at all.
She truly had nothing to fear with him watching over her, but she could have afforded a bit more caution.
The ground was still scattered with faint traces of her magic, tiny shining specks that pulsed with each exhale. It was an enchanting sight that lured dragonflies to dance through it, weaving patterns until Nythir couldn’t tell which glimmer belonged to magic and which to nature.
“Never seen anything like it,” Vorrik rumbled from across the fire. He poked the embers with a stick. “You sure she’s not some kind of demigod?”
“She’s definitely something,” Lyssara said, leaning back against a log. Her onyx braid glowed faintly orange in the firelight. “You don’t blow up fifteen men and half a forest by accident. Or wear the royal insignia on your cloak.”
“Maybe she’s cursed,” Vorrik offered. “Or possessed. Or both.”
Nythir didn’t answer. He watched the rise and fall of Esther’s shoulders. Even asleep, her fingers twitched—as if the magic in her veins refused to rest.
Lyssara followed his gaze. “She’s too clean, even with the soot,” she murmured. “Look at those hands. No calluses, no scars. And her accent’s polished as a palace floor.”
Vorrik squinted at Esther. “You’re saying she’s—” he paused dramatically, waiting for someone else to finish.
“A noble mage,” Lyssara concluded. “One that works close to the king. It's the only theory that makes sense.”
Nythir finally spoke, voice low. “Close… but not quite.”
Both of them looked at him.
He didn’t take his eyes off Essie. “Her terrible lying skills, the royal insignia, the golden magic… Old scriptures said the golden bloodline died with the queen. Clearly, someone lied.”
He let out a slow breath. “I’d wager the power was hidden—and we just rescued the Princess of Valedara.”
“That explains why she looked familiar,” Lyssara muttered. She began drawing idle lines in the dirt with a stick, as if her hands needed something to do. “Vorrik, do you remember when that really pretty lady visited the orphanage and gave a huge donation?”
Vorrik frowned in concentration. “The one who brought all the meat? The meat that fed us for a whole week!”
Lyssara groaned. “I said donation, not food.”
“It was a food donation.”
“It was expired meat from the butcher’s wife! Half the orphanage got sick! I’m talking about the other one—the woman who looked just like Essie, only taller.”
Her gaze drifted to Essie, who was now snoring with a thin string of drool slipping from her mouth.
“And more refined,” Lyssara added under her breath.
“Oh yeah,” Vorrik said far too quickly.
He definitely did not remember.
Lyssara sighed. “I heard the head of the orphanage speaking to her. She called her Queen Estella.”
Nythir’s expression sharpened. “Are you certain?”
“Positive. I wasn’t supposed to hear, but I’ve always had a natural talent for spying.” She lifted her chin, as though it were a skill worth putting on a résumé. “She used to visit often. And on her last visit… she promised she’d come back for my birthday.”
Her voice wavered—just enough for Nythir to notice.
“But she never did,” Lyssara finished quietly. “A few weeks later, news of the queen’s death spread. That’s when I stopped doubting who she really was.”
Vorrik scratched his beard. “But why would the princess teleport into Ashvale and… y’know…dramatically annihilate bandits?”
Lyssara shrugged, lips curling into a smirk. “Who knows? Maybe she’s running from an arranged marriage. Or her etiquette lessons. She kept mumbling something about that in her sleep.”
Queen Estella’s golden magic had been legendary—gentle yet fierce, warm enough to heal frostbite, bright enough to light entire caverns. It was said she never raised her voice, only her will, and the world bent around her like metal to flame.
Some even claimed her death shattered Valedara’s equilibrium.
The years after her loss grew colder.
Darker.
More hollow.
Nythir wondered what the queen would think of her daughter—falling from the sky, blowing up criminals, crying into cinnamon pastry glaze.
Probably: “Yes, that is exactly my child.”
Nythir’s mouth quirked. “You two can gossip later. For now, she’s just another runaway with a dangerous temper.”
Lyssara stretched, cracking her knuckles. “So we’re not telling her we know?”
“No. There’s more to her than a sheltered girl.”
“So we do get to keep her!” Vorrik boomed—earning a rock to the forehead, courtesy of Nythir’s impeccable aim.
Silence settled over them. Only the fire spoke, snapping softly as it devoured the last of the wood.
Lyssara tilted her head, studying him. “You’re curious about her.”
He didn’t deny it. His eyes drifted back to Essie—her hand tucked near her face, soot streaking her jaw, that faint golden warmth still hovering in the air around her. “She’s… interesting.”
Lyssara smirked. “That’s what men always say before they end up hexed or heartbroken.”
Nythir stood, stretching out stiff muscles. He had learned quickly that reacting to Lyssara’s taunts only encouraged her.
He stepped closer to the fire and adjusted a loose blanket over Esther’s shoulder. The glow beneath her skin softened under the fabric, her magic humming quietly, as if soothed.
“She can keep her secret,” he said. “At least until she’s ready to use her real name again.”
Lyssara’s grin softened. Vorrik snorted, tossing another branch into the fire. “This is going to be fun.”
Nythir didn’t disagree.
The fire cracked, scattering sparks into the dark. They rose like tiny fragments of gold, drifting upward before fading into the trees—just like her magic.
“It’s settled then,” Nythir said, positioning himself between Essie and the open forest. “We should rest before the forest becomes too active.”