Chapter 10 Esther
Esther
How to unwind: try relaxing while your brain does the opposite.
The bathhouse’s steam and lavender soap still clung to Esther’s skin as she and Lyssara stepped back into the small inn room.
Through the open window drifted the echo of vendors shouting prices, carried on river wind and tangled with the mouthwatering scent of roasted nuts and fresh pastries from the town square below.
Her sense of freedom and rigid etiquette training immediately went to war over the temptation to lean out the window and buy everything in sight.
Nythir and Vorrik had been sent away under strict orders—no loitering, no hovering, no arguing—and Esther’s hair was still damp, curling in short, messy waves around her face. No pins. No stiff braids. No maid tugging at loose strands and tutting in disapproval.
She felt uncomfortable. Unstructured.
And yet, oddly lighter for it.
She couldn’t stop smiling.
Her first communal bath.
Her first morning in a town.
Her first sweet potato was eaten while walking.
Everything felt strange and new. She was having fun for the first time in over a decade. This was nothing like reading about freedom in a book—and the realization stung. She regretted not reaching for it sooner.
“Was it really your first time in a communal bath?” Lyssara asked, scrunching something that smelled like warm coconut and citrus into her coils.
“Yes,” Esther admitted. “It was very… unique. I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
She had expected to feel awkward—exposed, even—but instead the warm water, gentle chatter, and lingering woodsmoke from the bathhouse hearth had soothed her in a way palace baths never had. No maids were hovering behind her. No heavy silence. No rigid expectations pressing down on her shoulders.
Just warmth. Steam. Running water. Women laughing.
The bathhouse itself felt like a living thing, its stone worn smooth by generations of bodies.
Low lanterns glowed amber, stained by years of steam, and wooden pegs were carved with tiny sigils meant to ward against slipping and sickness alike.
Esther noticed how everyone brought something different.
Mismatched towels. Shared soaps. Chipped bowls of oil passed freely from hand to hand.
No one watched her closely. No one cared who she was.
In the palace, baths had been private affairs of perfection and silence.
Here, they were maintenance. Of bodies. Of community. Of survival.
Children had splashed at the edges of the pool, earning scoldings from their mothers and giggles from each other. The sight had stirred a brief ache in Esther’s chest—memories of her own mother, lost too early—but the sound of their laughter chased the sadness away.
“Well that’s odd,” Lyssara said. “Being a maid and all. I thought palace staff shared living and bathing quarters.”
Esther froze, her breath catching painfully in her throat. She had forgotten the lie she frantically told in the bath, when Lyssara pressed the issue.
In the palace, her world had been routine and rigid:
Lessons → tea → silence at meals → more lessons → embroidery → evenings locked away with smuggled books.
She had never asked Lucy where she slept.
She’d never even thought to.
The realization sat heavy and wrong in her chest. Lucy hadn’t just chosen to stay. Lucy had never been given the space to leave.
“I—my hours were different,” Esther said finally, her stomach tightening. “As a personal maid, I had more private accommodations.”
She winced inwardly. The lie scratched her throat on the way out. Lucy had always been there—at meals, during lessons, through every waking hour, always beside her.
Esther realized, with a slight and painful pang, how little she truly knew about Lucy’s life outside of her own shadow.
“That seems lonely,” Lyssara said softly.
The words hit like a stone.
Her own loneliness.
Lucy’s loneliness.
How Esther had clung to Lucy like a lifeline—and how Lucy had quietly accepted the weight of it. Guilt settled thick and sticky against her ribs.
“It was,” Esther whispered. “For both of us, I think.”
Knock-knock.
“Delivery for a Miss Esther,” Helga called from outside.
Steam still drifted off Esther’s skin as Lyssara tied her robe tighter and flung the door open.
“Perfect timing!” Lyssara cheered. “Nythir! Come pay for this!”
A sleepy grumble echoed from the adjoining room.
“That was fast,” Nythir yawned. “How much?”
“Five marks and three petals,” Helga replied, dropping a surprisingly heavy box into Lyssara’s arms. A faint scent of pine and wool drifted from it.
Esther blinked at the unfamiliar mix of currency.
Marks she knew, the standard coin stamped and regulated by the crown.
Petals were something else entirely. Pressed bits of lacquered wood, traded in river towns where business moved faster than royal oversight ever could.
They were favors and promises, debts remembered long after the coin had changed hands.
“That much? After the crown she gave you?”
“That was for priority service,” Helga said without shame, holding out her calloused palms.
“Swindler,” Nythir muttered—but he paid anyway. His voice was irritated; his mouth, however, betrayed him with a slight upward twitch.
Vorrik barreled past a moment later. “Food and beer?”
“After we get ready,” Lyssara said firmly. “We’ll meet you at Luna’s Tavern. Out!”
The door slammed.
Then Lyssara smiled wickedly.
“Sit, cinnamon bun.”
“Cinnamon bun?” Esther repeated, confused.
“You know—the one we washed out of your hair.” Lyssara patted the bed. “Now sit. Your hair is a battlefield.”
Esther obeyed, cheeks warming. The inn mattress was thin and stiff, nothing like the plush featherbed she’d grown up in. But she liked it—its simplicity, its honest creak, its realness.
Lyssara combed through gently, coaxing out tangles. The scent of coconut filled the air. Each careful stroke felt grounding.
Lucy used to brush her hair the same way, quick and efficient, fingers practiced from years of untangling silk and stubborn knots alike.
There had never been room for gentleness then.
Only necessity. Esther wondered when care had turned into obligation, and whether Lucy had ever noticed the shift before Esther had.
The thought settled uncomfortably in her chest, warm and volatile, stirring beneath her skin like embers beginning to wake.
“You remind me of my friend,” Esther murmured. “Lucy. She always helped me. Took care of me.”
Lyssara hummed thoughtfully. “And do you want people to take care of you?”
Esther hesitated. “I want to know people better. Not just be taken care of.”
Lyssara’s grin sharpened. “Especially a certain dark-haired elf?”
Before Esther could deny it, one of the candles on the table flared violently.
The flame leapt an inch higher, casting jittery shadows across the walls.
“I’m sorry!” Esther squeaked. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize,” Lyssara said calmly, lowering the flame with a wave of her hand. “Magic mirrors emotion. Nothing shameful about that.”
Esther groaned at hearing Basil’s favorite phrase when lecturing her. He started every lesson with that quote.
Lyssara finished brushing, then stepped back with a low whistle. “We need to trim this later. You look like you fought sentient scissors and lost.”
Esther laughed because that exact scenario had happened once. She had been seven. The scissors had won.
Lyssara flicked her wrist and promptly tossed all three candles out the broken window.
“You don’t have to do that!” Esther cried.
“Essie,” Lyssara said gently, pulling out the green dress, “everyone has things they can’t control. Vorrik snores like an earthquake. Your magic is just louder.”
Esther swallowed. Louder, yes, but also deeper.
Her magic had never felt neat or singular.
It moved in layers, sometimes steady and sometimes raw, as though it carried strength without the structure to hold it.
Compared to the careful magic she had been taught about, hers always seemed to burn a little too bright, reaching before she was ready.
The dress shimmered softly in the light filtering through the window—dark forest green, simple, knee-length, belted at the waist. No lace. No jewels. No heavy embroidery.
Esther slipped into it. The fabric scratched faintly against her skin—unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
The skirt swished when she twirled, light as wind chimes. It hugged her waist gently instead of cinching sharply.
“How do you like it?” Lyssara asked.
“I love it.” Esther’s voice was barely audible. She had never worn a dress made for movement instead of painful beauty. Even her travel dress had been too tight, too rigid.
“Good. Next time we’ll pick something even better. Now that you’re learning to choose.”
Next time.
As if Esther belonged here.
As if she deserved to stay.
If she could choose how she dressed, where she stood, how she moved… what else had she been allowed to choose without realizing it?
“I like the belt,” Esther added shyly.
Lyssara beamed. “Next order: more belts.”
Then Lyssara launched into an exaggerated stage performance.
“Behold—our mighty party! Lyssara the Fearless! Vorrik the Brawn-Heavy! Nythir the Occasionally Useful Healer! And Essie the Magnificent! Torcher of plants and humans alike!”
Esther’s laughter filled the room, bright and uncontained.
For a moment, they sounded like something out of one of Esther’s old storybooks.
Heroes with silly titles, shared meals, and laughter bright enough to scare away shadows.
She held onto the sound, tucking it carefully into her chest, already aware of how fragile moments like this could be.
Storybooks never spent much time on what happened after the adventure ended.
“Now,” Lyssara said, grabbing Esther’s boots and tossing them into her hands, “let’s get you to dinner. Boots on, Cinnamon Bun. The boys are lost without us.”