Chapter 15 Esther
Esther
How to trust breakfast: with extreme caution and mild paranoia.
The morning sun pried through the curtains like an overly eager intruder, landing directly across Esther’s eyelids. The light felt too bright, too sharp. Like someone had carved it with a knife and angled it right at her face.
The room felt different in the daylight.
Not dangerous. Not hostile. Just… alert. As if the walls were listening instead of resting, the way the palace halls always had.
Daylight had always been the most dangerous time in the palace. Shadows hid intentions, but light exposed expectation. Morning meant lessons. Corrections. Smiles that did not reach the eyes. She had learned early that being watched did not always mean being protected.
Esther had grown up learning the subtle difference between safety and supervision, and this felt uncomfortably close to the latter.
Freedom, Esther was learning, did not arrive quietly.
It arrived jangling nerves and setting off alarms she hadn’t known were still wired into her body.
The palace had trained her to anticipate harm before it happened.
Even now, safety felt like something she had borrowed and would be asked to return.
She groaned and burrowed deeper into the pillow. The lingering scent of spilled ale clung to her hair, sour and stubborn. Her head throbbed in sync with the tavern’s distant morning bustle below. Each clatter of dishes bounced around her skull like a personal punch to her brain.
Her legs felt heavy, as if phantom vines still wrapped around them from yesterday’s sprint through a tantrum-throwing forest. Her back ached with the memory of dancing far too enthusiastically while tipsy.
And her dignity…her dignity was hurt from existing anywhere near Nythir with alcohol involved.
Dignity had been one of the first things she’d learned to guard. Not because it mattered to her—but because it mattered to everyone else. A princess who embarrassed herself was a liability. A princess who laughed too loudly was undisciplined. A princess who wanted anything at all was dangerous.
She had murky memories of dancing in the tavern with Luna and others she didn’t know. She had a feeling that she had made a complete fool of herself.
Yesterday had been... a lot.
And she never wanted to move, speak, or be perceived again.
Wanting to disappear was familiar. She had mastered stillness long ago—how to breathe quietly, how to make herself smaller without shrinking, how to exist without leaving marks.
What unsettled her was not the exhaustion, but the absence of regret.
She did not regret laughing. She did not regret dancing. She did not regret wanting more.
A floorboard creaked by the doorway.
Then a warm smell of fresh cinnamon, toasted sugar, and roasted coffee beans drifted toward her.
The air thickened with it, cozy and nostalgic.
For a heartbeat, she could almost feel Lucy brushing her bangs back, placing a smuggled sweet roll under her nose while whispering gently, “Wake up before your father realizes you’re not in bed. ”
It had only been a few days. But it felt like she hadn’t seen her closest friend in years.
“Wakey wakey, Cinabun,” a cheerful, sing-song voice chimed.
Esther groaned and yanked the thin blanket over her head. The fabric was cool against her overheated cheeks.
“Come on,” the voice laughed. “I even brought you coffee.”
The bed dipped beside her, light enough not to jostle her but deliberate enough that the mattress gave a little sigh beneath the weight. Esther peeked out from the blanket.
Luna sat poised on the mattress like an artist’s muse, legs tucked gracefully beneath her. Her silver hair now gleamed violet in the sunlight. Not a single strand out of place. Not a trace of hangover. Not an ounce of shame.
Esther blinked. “Do you... also work for the inn?”
Luna smirked and offered the steaming mug. A swirl of cream spiraled across the surface like delicate artwork.
“Nice guess, but nope.”
Luna moved like someone who knew exactly how much space to take up. Not too close. Not too far. She settled beside Esther with practiced ease, like she had done this a hundred times before—for different people, in other rooms.
It was oddly comforting.
And that, Esther realized distantly, was what made it unsettling.
Esther pushed herself upright with the enthusiasm of a corpse rising from the dead—fitting, really. The motion sent a lightning bolt of pain through her skull. The room tilted, then settled. Her stomach sloshed unpleasantly.
And the memories of last night, after she left the tavern, trickled in. Completely clear despite the inebriated state she had been in. The boldness. The dancing. The almost kissing someone under a moonlit sky.
She was never drinking again. Probably.
But maybe she would. When she needed some liquid courage.
To maybe almost kiss a handsome elf again.
“Then why are you delivering breakfast?” she whispered, embarrassed by how dry and cracked her voice sounded.
“Because I was curious.” Luna’s tone danced between mischief and sincerity. “And I like watching people wake up. Here, try it. I guessed the cream and sugar.”
Esther accepted the mug as if it were a sacred relic. The ceramic was warm beneath her palms, grounding her. She inhaled the scent. It smelled rich and sweet, with too much sugar but exactly the right amount of relief.
She took a sip. Warmth spread down her throat and blossomed in her chest. She took another.
Her magic stirred before her thoughts caught up.
It never waited for permission. It responded to fear faster than reason, to emotion faster than logic.
That was why they had called her unstable.
That was why she had been trained to suppress instead of understand.
Feeling too much had always been the problem.
When she was calm, it stayed warm and quiet, like sunlight behind closed eyes. When she was afraid, it prickled and sparked, demanding release. Her tutors had called it instability. Her father had called it dangerous.
Esther had learned to call it a warning.
“Have you ever been told you’re too trusting, Cinabun?” Luna leaned in, her breath brushing Esther’s cheek like a teasing breeze.
“A few times,” Esther admitted quietly.
“You shouldn’t drink things from strangers.”
Esther froze.
The words hit something old and buried. A rule etched into her bones long before she understood why it existed. Her stomach turned, not from the coffee, but from memory—thick and bitter and wrong, clinging to the back of her throat like a warning she’d failed to heed once before.
Her heart lurched so hard she felt it echo in her ribs. Her hands trembled, the mug rattling faintly against the saucer. Her magic prickled awake under her skin like static lightning.
Luna lunged.
In one swift motion, Esther’s wrists slammed into the mattress, pinned by deceptively delicate hands. Coffee splashed across the sheets, dark droplets soaking into the linen and dripping to the wooden floor with soft, rhythmic patters.
Esther gasped—no, choked—as Luna’s weight settled across her hips.
She kicked her legs, struggling to break free, but Luna’s grip was fierce and unyielding. Esther couldn’t escape with her measly strength alone.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Her legs went numb at the edges, tingling.
This wasn’t how danger was supposed to feel.
There were no raised voices. No drawn blades. Just warmth turned sharp, and familiarity was misused. Her magic flared too late, confused by the sudden shift, scrambling to protect her from something it hadn’t recognized as a threat soon enough.
She had mistaken kindness for safety.
The palace specialized in that mistake. Kindness was easier to accept than control. Easier to obey. Easier to forgive. Esther had never learned how to recognize danger that smiled.
The realization hurt worse than the fear.
Magic flared up—instinctive, wild—begging to defend her, but she forced it down with sheer, terrified will. She knew what happened when she lost control.
A whisper curled through her mind like smoke: “Don’t die.”
“No,” Esther’s voice cracked. “No, please—”
Her vision blurred at the edges. The scent of cinnamon turned suffocatingly sweet. A cold tear slid down her cheek, trailing into her hairline. She wasn’t in the inn anymore. She was in a small bed with worn sheets and winter-chilled air, unable to breathe, unable to cry, unable to—
Her heart hammered painfully.
Luna leaned down until their noses almost touched.
“I am very skilled at making potions and poisons,” she purred.
“Poison?” Esther squeaked. The word detonated inside her like a memory-shard. Her pulse stuttered—too fast, then too slow.
Her body remembered before her mind allowed it. Heat. Then cold. A pressure in her chest that made breathing feel optional. Someone crying. Someone begging her to stay awake. The memory fractured before it could take shape, but the fear remained—raw and immediate.
Her body remembered something her mind refused to name: something cold, yet burning, that ended in darkness.
A woman’s trembling voice whispered, “Please—stay with me.”
Heat pressed against her chest. Too hot.
Magic ripped through her veins like molten lava.
A heartbeat stops, then starts again.
Not again. Not again. Not again—
Luna startled, then guiltily said, “No—no, not poison.”
She released Esther’s wrists so quickly that it left a ghost of pressure behind. Luna cupped her cheeks gently, thumbs brushing away tears with light, apologetic strokes.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said softly. “Stars, I misjudged that horribly.”
Esther hid her face in her hands. Her breaths came shaky and uneven. “Then... what was that for?”
“Truth potion,” Luna winced. “Well...fake truth potion. It wasn’t real. I was...messing with you.”
Esther looked up, wet, blotchy cheeks glistening. “Truth... potion?”