Chapter 12 Esther
Esther
How to hide feelings: stare intensely and pretend it’s normal.
They looked like a pair straight out of one of her novels.
Nythir stood at the bar, smiling at a woman whose silver hair caught the lantern light like spun starlight — the kind of woman romance books described as effortlessly stunning. The type who didn’t accidentally summon explosions when nervous.
Esther tugged at the uneven ends of her own hair, wishing she hadn’t hacked it off like a sleep-deprived lumberjack. If she’d known her teleportation spell would drop her into a band of adventurers—and in front of an unfairly attractive elf—she would have:
Not cut her hair.
Packed makeup.
Reinforced her satchel so her guidebooks wouldn’t be lost to a murderous forest.
“Looks like he’s got some business with Luna,” Lyssara said. “Best not to interrupt them. Let’s take a seat.”
Best not to interrupt them?
Nythir did not look out of place behind the bar. That unsettled her more than it should have. He spoke easily, held himself like someone used to being listened to, not because of rank but because of competence. It dawned on her that this was not his first negotiation disguised as conversation.
Esther shoved her hands deep inside her cloak so no one would notice the faint gold flickering under her skin. Her eyes darted around the tavern, scanning for her natural predator—candles.
None.
Instead, lanterns glowed with floating light orbs—expensive rune devices she’d only seen during palace balls. They were finicky, high-maintenance, and required regular magical absorption.
Rune lanterns like these weren't decorative indulgences.
They marked places of importance. They were meant to keep magic stable in crowded rooms and to quietly record disturbances.
Esther realized, a little belatedly, that this tavern was not simply a place to drink.
It was a place where things were watched, remembered, and acted upon.
She sank into the corner table beside Lyssara. It provided the perfect vantage point to keep an eye on the bar while remaining invisible.
Invisible.
In her previous life, she had never been invisible.
But here. With friends. Her chest fluttered at the thought.
Something tugged at her awareness, faint but persistent.
Not fear. Not excitement. Something steadier.
Esther frowned, pressing her fingers together as her magic shifted in response.
When she glanced toward the bar and met Nythir’s eyes, the sensation settled immediately, as if a string pulled too tight had finally gone slack.
Then reality crashed back in.
Her lips trembled, butterflies thrumming violently in her stomach.
“Stop looking over there like he’s a fish at the campfire,” Lyssara muttered.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“And stop sitting like a princess.”
“P-Princess?” Esther squeaked. Her bloodstream felt like boiling water, static crackling down her arms. Outside, a splash was followed by a string of curses.
“What makes you say that?” she whispered sharply.
“Oh, moons.” Lyssara winced as the entire window beside them splintered with a loud crack. “I meant the posture. The way you’re sitting on your cloak like it’s a throne.”
Esther swallowed hard.
“Maybe a drink will relax you. What do you like?” Lyssara asked.
“I’ve never had alcohol.”
“What,” Lyssara gasped dramatically. “You’re twenty-one?”
“Almost twenty-two.”
“You poor, sheltered child! We’re fixing that tonight.” Lyssara flagged down Luna—just as Nythir leaned in to slip a coin between the woman’s breasts.
Crack!
Esther wanted Lucy’s arms to cry into. She should’ve kept her interactions with men strictly to reading novels.
There was an undercurrent in the room that had nothing to do with flirtation. Voices pitched just low enough. Laughter timed too carefully. Esther felt it prickle along her spine, as magic warnings did, the sense that something was being decided nearby without her consent or understanding.
“Well,” Lyssara groaned, dragging a hand down her face, “she’s definitely going to notice that now.”
“Good thing there aren’t candles,” Esther muttered, staring at the ruined window.
“Good thing indeed. Oh—they’re finishing up. Come on.” Lyssara moved to join the others.
Esther didn’t.
She stayed tucked in the shadows, staring through the cracked window.
Sunset stretched endlessly, unblocked by palace walls. Rolling paths, distant mountains, even the edge of Ashvale—everything lay open before her.
It was beautiful.
It hurt.
“That’s a very big crack,” Nythir chuckled, sliding into the seat across from her.
His voice—she hated how much she loved the sound of it.
“Is it true you’ve never had alcohol?”
“It’s true,” she murmured, avoiding his gaze. Her stomach twisted. For the first time in her life, she worried about the damage she could cause.
“Try this one.” He nudged his mug toward her. His fingers brushed the rim—the same fingers that had just touched Luna.
She pushed it back. “I don’t want to.”
“Just a sip?”
Stars, she wanted to. But—
“I can’t even control my magic sober,” she whispered. “If I drink—”
“Why not?”
“Did you not hear what I just said?” She clenched her hands under the table to hide the faint glow. Shame prickled down her spine.
The cracked window. Her uneven hair. Her entire existence.
She was the runaway Princess of Valedara. And he had smiled at Luna like… She bit her tongue.
Without touching her, without even looking at her hands, Nythir shifted.
His magic brushed against hers like a steadying breath.
The glow dulled, then softened, responding to him in a way it had never done before, either to discipline or command.
Esther swallowed, shaken by how easily her power listened.
“I heard you,” Nythir said softly. “I just don’t see the problem.”
“My magic—”
“Is fine,” he said gently. “I’ll take care of you and your magic. Just like at the campfire.”
Her breath hitched.
“But you told me to hide my sparks,” she whispered.
“What—oh.” His expression shifted as understanding dawned. “Essie… you misunderstood.”
Her heart stopped. “I don’t understand.”
He reached across the table and took her hand—warm, steady, unafraid of the glow beneath her skin.
“Your sparks,” he murmured, “are identifiable. Beautiful. Alluring. They shine too bright. I wasn’t telling you to hide because I don’t like them.” His thumb brushed her knuckles. “I like them too much.”
Her breath left her in a trembling rush.
“You’re running from something,” he continued quietly. “A girl in silk dresses doesn’t just teleport into a dangerous forest. I don’t need the details yet. But until you’re ready…” His gaze softened. “You’re ours now. And we can help.”
Her throat tightened as something warm and terrifying bloomed in her chest.
No one had ever said that to her without strings attached. Not tutors. Not nobles. Not even well-meaning allies. The words did not cage her. They made space. Esther realized with quiet terror that this was what safety felt like, and that made it far more dangerous than fear.
“Is this the lil’ mage Lyssara told me about?” Luna appeared with a drink, glowing pink and purple. The sweet scent wafted up instantly. “Essie, right? Or should I call you Cinabun?”
“Cinabun?” Esther squeaked. “Uh… sure?”
“You’re adorable. Waste of a good evening to sit in a dark corner with grumpy here.” Luna plopped down beside Esther, looping her arm through hers. She was soft, warm, and very close.
This felt familiar, Esther realized.
Like a rival love interest trying to stake a claim on the male lead. She really wished she had her guidebooks to navigate this situation.
“I mind,” Nythir grumbled.
“Oh? Why?” Luna purred, pressing closer.
“Because you’re interrupting.”
“You’re in my tavern.”
Esther looked between the two, confused by the tension. It was completely different from their earlier flirting. Before, they had looked like a perfect painting hung on palace walls. Now, they resembled two dogs about to fight over the last bone.
Luna leaned in. “Lyssara said Cinabun here wasn’t spoken for. Or is she?”
Two sets of eyes fixed on Esther.
Her mind went blank. “Maybe?”
Nythir’s sky-blue eyes darkened into a storm, jaw ticking.
Luna laughed. “Coy. I like it.”
“What do you mean, maybe?” Nythir growled.
Esther panicked. “I didn’t agree to anything, but the arrangement—well—I ran away—so maybe—”
“So that’s what you’re running from,” Nythir said, smirking as if it weighed nothing.
She had said too much.
Esther grabbed the sweet drink Luna had set before her and chugged it.
“Woah!” Luna cheered. “Look at her go! Chug! Chug!”
Soon, Esther was several drinks deep, laughter spilling from her like sunlight.
Then she and Luna were dancing in the center of the tavern, spinning wildly as a cheering crowd gathered.
Strong hands caught her by the waist, pulling her close.
“Are you having fun?” Nythir asked, his voice warm against her ear.
“So much fun!” she shouted, breathless.
Maybe her father had been wrong. Maybe alcohol didn’t make her magic worse.
Maybe… freedom did.
Or maybe—it was being allowed to be herself. But she didn’t yet know what that truly meant.
“Dance with me,” Esther twirled, throwing her arms around Nythir’s neck.
His calm persona cracked, and she glimpsed a momentary look of shock on his face.
“Your wish is my command,” he chuckled. The slight sound sent warmth rushing through her. “But not here.”
Nythir guided her gently through the overcrowded tavern and into the crisp night air. The chill caressed her flushed cheeks.
She didn’t know if she felt so warm from the alcohol or from the way Nythir’s long fingers clasped hers.
She settled on both—but mostly Nythir. She did not want him to notice how much he affected her.
As always, her magic betrayed her. Sparks flickered along her fingers. She tried to pull away, but he held tighter.
Instead of scattering, the sparks settled into a slower rhythm, matching the calm cadence of Nythir’s magic. Where her power usually surged and recoiled, it now moved with purpose. Not restrained. Not silenced. Simply guided. The realization left her breathless.
“I don’t know how,” Esther muttered, eyes on their moving feet.
“What don’t you know?”
“Heart and mirrors.”
“What about them?”
“How to… heart my mirror.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Nythir chuckled, “but I’ll do my best to heart your mirror.”
“Really?” Esther squeezed his hand.
“Really.” He squeezed back. “We’re here.”
They arrived in a small garden, the scent of roses thick in the night air. A fountain trickled in the center, moonlight reflecting off the water. It looked neglected—small cracks and chips in the once-beautiful structure—but Esther sympathized with it.
The rose bushes were wild and unruly, leaves sprouting in all directions, overpowering the small red buds.
They weren’t the perfectly tended blooms of her childhood, but somehow their fragrance was more potent, more alive.
They were still beautiful without the strict control a gardener would have imposed.
She loved her mother’s roses, but these wild ones… they resonated with her.
Wild things did not lack beauty. They lacked permission. Standing there, surrounded by roses that had grown without approval or pruning, Esther wondered for the first time if her magic had been waiting for the same freedom.
“It’s dirty and dark here,” Nythir said, lighting a lantern in the corner. “But we can dance without a crowd.” He gave a slight bow and held out his hand.
“I’ve never danced with a man before,” Esther admitted, placing her hand in his. The lantern flickered with her heartbeat, but she wasn’t worried. Somehow, she knew her flames wouldn’t betray her—not this moment.
“I’m proud to be your first,” he whispered, barely louder than the flicker of the lamp. He guided her into a gentle waltz. It was the first dance she had ever learned, years ago, tucked away in lessons long forgotten—and now, finally, she could use it.
The moon hung low over Stonehaven by the time Nythir walked Esther back to the inn. Their fingers—warm, faintly sparking—reluctantly parted at the door.
The moment their hands separated, her magic stirred uneasily, like something woken too soon. The glow beneath her skin dimmed but did not fade, lingering in quiet protest. Esther pressed her palm to her chest, unsettled by how wrong the distance felt after only a few hours.
She swayed slightly, drunk on sugar, alcohol, and freedom. Golden light still clung to her skin like the last embers of a dying fire.
“Sleep,” he murmured, brushing a soft curl from her cheek.
“Only… if you do too,” she mumbled, eyes half-lidded.
He almost laughed, almost leaned in, nearly let reason slip away—but the inn door creaked behind them, and the moment vanished like smoke.
Essie blinked up at him once more, soft and drowsy, then disappeared inside. The scent of roses and cinnamon lingered long after she was gone.