Chapter 8 Esther
Esther
How to survive the forest: accept that the trees might hate you personally.
At dawn, Ashvale woke up angry.
Esther had barely managed a few hours of blissful, soot-scented sleep before the forest itself decided to come alive. One moment, sunlight was only beginning to brush the treetops; the next, the entire forest stirred like a giant creature stretching after a long night.
Leaves unfurled with a whispering sigh. Moss brightened from gray to vivid green. Vines rippled and lifted like lazy serpents waking from a nap. Roots shuddered beneath the soil, cracking like knuckles.
She had never seen anything like it.
In twenty-one years, Esther had never expected to become a weapon. She also never expected to be used like one so early in the morning.
The group ran at full sprint through the living forest. Lyssara led the charge, her blade slicing through vines that swung down like hungry ropes. Nythir stayed just behind her, parrying roots that erupted from the ground like spears.
Once the sun rose fully above the canopy, Ashvale came alive with a vengeance—and absolutely none of it was Esther’s fault. If the trees could have glared at her, she was certain they would’ve.
She might’ve appreciated the breathtaking morning sun peeking through trees, the dew sparkling on sentient leaves, the soft groaning of awakening branches… if she weren’t draped over Vorrik’s shoulder like an oversized magic lantern.
“Fire!” Vorrik bellowed, as though she were a trained weapon.
He angled her downward.
“Wait—no—Vorrik!” Esther sputtered, but her hands flared gold, eager traitors.
Flames shot from her palms, blasting a rotting stump barreling after them. The stump burst into shrapnel, scattering charred bark across the forest floor.
“Hell yeah!” Nythir whooped, sounding far too delighted about her apparent combat usefulness.
Much like the bandits did, she thought. Which immediately made her stomach flip. Whether it was guilt or the fact that Vorrik’s shoulder bounced like an unsteady horse, she couldn’t tell.
“Try not to set the whole forest on fire!” Lyssara shouted, ducking a vine that snapped like a whip.
Vorrik ignored her entirely. He stomped through a curtain of moss that slapped Esther in the face, leaving her coughing up green fuzz. The world was a blur of emerald light and golden sparks.
“Left! Left!” Nythir barked.
“I am going left!” Vorrik roared.
“No, my left!”
A branch smacked into the side of Vorrik’s head, leaving maple sap smeared across his cropped hair. Esther burst into hysterical laughter.
She extended both hands. Fire roared free, incinerating the offending limb in a whoosh that filled the air with burning sugar and woodsmoke.
“Are you enjoying this?” Nythir panted.
She was.
Despite the fear and chaos, a wild exhilaration thrummed through her.
She’d started the morning terrified—but somewhere between dodging killer vines and blasting rogue shrubbery, exhilaration had taken over.
She felt alive. Freer than she had ever been within polished palace walls that smelled of roses, lemons, and expectations.
Then—light. Actual sunlight.
The oppressive trees parted, spilling them into a wide clearing.
The air hit her sharply—cool, crisp, smelling of wet earth and something sweet, like flowering clover.
Rolling green hills dipped away from the forest edge.
Down in the valley, rooftops glittered as morning sun reflected off the river.
“Out,” Lyssara wheezed, bending over her knees. “Oh gods… we’re out.”
Vorrik slowed to a stop and finally—blessedly—lowered Esther to the ground. Her legs were jelly. She dropped to a knee, lungs burning, eyes watering from smoke and adrenaline.
Behind them, the sentient vines recoiled into the shadows, rustling like scolded pets. One leaf slapped irritably against a trunk.
“I think it’s mad at us,” Esther said.
“Good,” Vorrik grumbled, smacking dirt off his armor. “It started it.”
Nythir clapped her on the shoulder, grinning. “Look alive. Town ahead. And I smell bread. And beer.”
His braid was stuffed with twigs. His face was flushed. His hair a disaster. And somehow, he had the audacity to look even more attractive like that. Esther tore her gaze away quickly before her magic betrayed her.
Vorrik stretched. “Anyone else hungry?”
Lyssara nodded. “I could eat an entire chicken.”
Nythir smirked at Esther. “And you? Lost any pastries lately?”
She glared. “It was a strategic bun deployment.”
He tilted his head. “Is that what we’re calling catastrophic gravitational failure now?”
“Shut up,” she muttered, cheeks warm.
Down below, a small town nestled against a silver river, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. The faint sound of laughter and music floated up the hill.
No walls trapping her. No guards watching her. No carefully orchestrated lessons or suffocating expectations.
This was nothing like Valedara’s marble symmetry.
It was messy.
Lived in.
Human.
She loved it instantly.
Her heart hiccuped.
Then, she bolted.
“What the—Essie!” Nythir shouted, his voice lost to her laughter. Her hair whipped behind her as she tore downhill, bare soles pounding the dew-kissed grass. Every scent, every sound, every color rushed at her—bread baking, dogs barking, children shrieking with morning joy.
Freedom.
Real, actual freedom.
She kicked off her last remaining shoe, savoring the cool tickle of grass between her toes.
Nythir caught up faster than she expected and grabbed her arm.
Momentum toppled them both, sending them tumbling downhill.
They rolled through mud and morning mist until they landed in a heap, Nythir half-sprawled over her.
He gasped. “What— what was that?”
“Running,” she giggled, breathless.
“Running from what? We’re out of the forest.”
“Exactly!” she beamed up at him. “Look at it! It just looks so fun!”
“At least wait for us before you blindly run to someplace unknown,” he sighed, still pinning her gently to the earth. “Again.”
“She didn’t run before,” Lyssara called, hands on her hips as she stood over them. “She teleported. Now kiss and make up. I need a bath.”
Esther’s magic flared with embarrassment—and promptly set the ends of Nythir’s hair on fire.