Chapter 9 Nythir
Nythir
How to avoid attention: fail spectacularly and loudly.
“Running,” she’d said, as if that explained anything.
As if sprinting half-dressed, half-dead, and entirely insane down a hill made sense to anyone.
And yet, when she laughed as they rolled through the grass…when sunlight hit her face, and she looked—moons help him—happy.
It made perfect sense.
By the time they trudged through Stonehaven’s main gate, they looked like a traveling collection of curses in humanoid form.
That being said, no one batted an eye at their state; Stonehaven had seen worse.
The scent of woodsmoke, frying batter, and river wind filled the air, masking the sulfur and burnt sap clinging to them from Ashvale.
No one going into their local forest came out unscathed. Some never came out.
Nythir knew he looked half feral. His hair was a frizzy, singed disaster, coated in ash and streaked with grass. Mud smeared one entire side of his face. His tunic smelled like burnt moss and regret.
Essie matched him perfectly. Except she was still barefoot, having lost her remaining boot when it burst into flames during their tumble. He was happy it was the boot, not him. He knew he was playing with fire, and getting burned was worth the risk, but he’d prefer to avoid it if he could.
Her silk dress, once pristine and elegant, was now splattered with dirt, torn at the hem, and decorated with little flecks of crispy vine remains. A phoenix among ducks, reduced to a soot-covered, barefoot whirlwind.
They needed to fix her appearance soon.
Not because she didn’t look lovely, stars, she could wear a potato sack and still dazzle a room. But because her noble quality was starting to show in a way that drew attention.
No sane commoner carried themselves with her grace, spoke with her diction, or blasted animated shrubbery with royal-level magic.
He’d never met anyone so dangerous to his peace of mind.
Lyssara trudged ahead of them, muttering about needing a real bath, clean clothes, and possibly divine intervention.
Vorrik followed behind her, shoulders drooping, looking like someone who’d been personally insulted by nature itself.
The marketplace hit him like a wave—bright fabrics flapping in the breeze, hawkers shouting, children running underfoot, and above all, the smells.
Essie froze at the aroma of fresh bread, frying batter, caramelizing sugar, and sizzling meat. Dawn hunger and last night’s skipped breakfast stirred the air into a tormenting feast.
Her stomach growled loud enough that a passing dog glanced at her.
“We should… maybe feed her,” Nythir muttered.
“Feed us all,” Lyssara corrected.
Before they could move on, Essie drifted toward a vendor with a glowing clay oven and stacks of blistered sweet potatoes, nestled in their skins and steaming in the cool morning air. Smoke curled around them like warm hands.
Nythir didn’t even ask her if she wanted any. He silently paid the vendor immediately while she drooled.
The vendor wrapped a sweet potato in parchment and handed it to Essie with a knowing nod.
She held it reverently, inhaling. The warmth seeped into her fingers, turning her cheeks pink.
Nythir felt something in his chest tighten. He watched her entire soul leave her body on her first bite.
“This is…” she whispered. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“It’s just a sweet potato,” he said, amused.
“No,” she insisted. “It’s freedom flavored.”
He nearly choked.
They ate it together as they walked, Essie’s steps bouncing.
Her hair caught the sunlight in wild gold tangles while her laughter drifted between the vendors like a bell.
“I’ve never eaten while walking before,” she admitted quietly. “I wasn’t allowed.”
He stopped mid-step.
No breakfast.
No walking.
No boots.
No choices.
He exhaled slowly.
“You’re allowed now,” he said.
Her smile was small but bright.
“I know.”
Something warm flickered in his chest.
“Oh, Helga,” Lyssara called out to a young dwarf whose pointed hat added two feet to her. It was a bright pink triangle that really stood out in the crowded streets. Gaudy but practical. “I need some clothes delivered to our room at Moonpetal.”
Lyssara flicked a gold coin—picked from the bodies in Ashvale—with flawless aim. Helga snatched it out of the air and bit it.
Nythir would never understand how mangled corpses didn’t bother Lyssara at all, but a zombie squirrel had traumatized her for life.
“What would you like, Mrs. Lyssara?” Helga said, biting the gold coin to check its authenticity. “I've got a few new leathers and furs delivered just today!”
“It's not for me. It's for the missy back there.” She pointed over her shoulder.
“I can pay for it myself,” Essie said too loudly, fumbling through her satchel, before remembering it had a massive hole in it.
All that remained was lint and shame.
Her face reddened.
“You played a key part in our job,” Nythir said gently. “The least we can do is replace your clothes. Add a new satchel and cloak to the order. I’ll pay when it’s delivered.”
“Green,” Vorrik said immediately. “Make her a green dress. It’s my favorite color.”
Helga turned to Essie expectantly.
“Well what would you like, Miss…?”
Essie froze.
Nythir leaned down. “Introduce yourself.”
“I’m… Essie,” she said, curtsying.
Helga clapped with glee. “Oh she’s refined! She’ll clean up beautifully. Now, are you looking for a dress or something more in Mrs. Lyssara’s style?”
“A dress,” Essie said. “Please.”
“And color?”
Nythir leaned in again, voice low. “Green would suit you.”
Her cheeks flushed pink.
“I-I… I'll go with green.”
Before her sparks could give her away, Nythir took her hand, covering the glow.
Her hand was warm.
His chest felt warmer.
When he asked her to hide her magic, she went utterly still.
Her hands turned cold.
He frowned—but Helga interrupted, bustling between them with measuring tape and questions Essie could never answer.
Not style.
Not fabric.
Not color.
Not even footwear preference.
She looked at others for permission with every question. Like a girl raised to never choose anything for herself.
Lyssara eventually answered for her.
When Helga asked about footwear, he saw the exact moment Essie realized she was still barefoot. She wiggled her toes and looked around, awestruck that there was no one reprimanding her over it.
They found plain brown leather boots, sturdy and worn-in. Perfect for travel. And most importantly, ready for her size.
Her dress would take a bit longer.
“See you at Moonpetal,” Lyssara said, shooing them toward the inn.
“What’s wrong?” Nythir asked as they walked, noticing how Essie’s spark had dimmed. Her steps were slower.
“Nothing.”
“You look glum,” Vorrik said.
“Leave her alone,” Lyssara snapped. She looped an arm through Essie’s and pulled her close. “Girl talk. Come along. The men can go… do men things.”
Somehow, this resulted in Essie disappearing upstairs with Lyssara, leaving Nythir and Vorrik standing in the hall like abandoned puppies.
“How did I get booted from my room?” Vorrik muttered, tossing his bag into a corner.
“The same way I got stuck with a smelly orc in mine.”
“I do not smell,” Vorrik snapped. Then sniffed his armpit and grimaced. “That’s not me. That’s the forest.”
Nythir sat heavily on the nearest bed.
“What even is girl talk?”
“Probably things we’re not supposed to hear.”
Vorrik frowned deeply. “Do you think if I wore a dress—”
“No.”
“We’ll see them at dinner,” Nythir said, rubbing his temples.
“For now… apparently we do… 'men stuff.'”
“What is ‘men stuff?’”
Nythir sighed. “Moping until our women come for us.”