Chapter 19 Nythir
Nythir
How to protect a secret princess: distract everyone, lie convincingly, and pretend you’re not jealous of idiots with dimples.
Nythir had learned three truths since Essie fell out of the sky and added chaos to his life, which he had previously thought was impossible:
First: she attracted chaos like lanternlight coaxed moths into its glow.
Second: her chaos had a tendency to explode.
Third: he apparently had no self-preservation instincts, because he kept following her anyway—like a professional moth.
Lanterns didn’t choose the moths that found them. They simply burned. The responsibility always fell to whoever stood close enough to keep the flame from becoming a signal fire.
Morning light slanted through the inn’s warped glass windows, washing the room in warm pastels that made Stonehaven look softer than it really was. Almost serene. Down in the street, carts rattled over cobblestones, and someone shouted about fresh bread. A typical, boring morning.
He used to hate mornings, but over the past few days, he'd found them less horrible. He still hated them—but just a little less with Essie nearby.
Nythir leaned against the window frame, watching Essie through the warped reflection.
She stood near the bed, frowning at the thin gold bracelet etched with vines.
It hummed faintly, and the air around her felt…
different. Less agitated. Less chaotic. Her magic, which had always shimmered against his senses like a barely contained storm, now flowed like a tranquil stream in neat little channels.
The bracelet did its job too well.
Tools that worked perfectly were the most dangerous kind. They discouraged vigilance. He didn’t trust anything that removed risk without teaching the cost.
From a tactical standpoint, it was brilliant—no stray flares, no obvious tells, nothing that screamed royal mage with catastrophic potential. From a healer’s perspective, it stabilized her better than any grounding spell he’d ever learned.
From a personal one?
It felt like watching someone dim their own light to survive.
Survival demanded adaptation, not erasure. He had seen what happened to people who learned to shrink instead of sharpen. They lasted longer. They lived less.
“I still don’t like that it came from Luna,” he muttered.
Knowledge was leveraged. And Luna collected leverage like other people collected jewelry—openly, proudly, and with intent. The idea that Essie had been vulnerable in someone else's hands gnawed at him.
Essie startled. “I thought you were watching the street.”
“I am,” he said. “And you. And the door. I’m very efficient.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “You’re sulking. Again.”
“I’m not sulking,” he lied. “I’m assessing risk.”
“You’re sulking,” she repeated, fastening the bracelet. The metal pulsed once in time with her heartbeat. No sparks. No lanterns flared. “And risk has already been assessed. Luna said my mother left it with her.”
“That’s the part I don’t like,” he muttered.
So far, that was the only truth he had heard from Essie. Luna knew her mother, and the bracelet was made by her. But she still refused to give any information about herself. Actions made it obvious, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.
He didn’t like that Luna knew more about Essie’s past than he did. He didn’t like that Essie had cried in another person’s arms. And he definitely didn’t like that Luna had been the one to give her a gift that made her feel safer in her own skin.
Essie flexed her fingers experimentally. Gold light glowed beneath her skin, then smoothed out—as if the bracelet itself was smoothing it.
“It works,” she whispered, awe softening her features. “I can… breathe. Inside.”
“You’re perfect with or without it,” Nythir said.
“You mean it?” Her eyes were wide with confusion, hope, and something he couldn’t quite name.
“Come on,” Lyssara called from the door, interrupting the moment.
Nythir cursed. She was already dressed in travel leathers, her braid looped into a crown to keep it off her neck, a recently sharpened sword at her hip.
“Job board opens in ten. If we’re late, Sable will give our caravan to someone boring. ”
Vorrik lumbered in behind her, strapping an axe across his back. “And we can’t let that happen. I’m emotionally attached to that route.”
“You’re emotionally attached to food,” Lyssara said. “The caravan happens to go through our hometown.”
“Attached regardless,” he said proudly.
Essie perked up, bracelet forgotten. “We’re really taking the escort job?”
“Yes,” Nythir said, pushing off the window. “You wanted to see more of the world. This is the safest way—doesn’t involve teleporting into a bandit nest.”
He had wanted to show her the world gently. Slowly. Not like this—through threat assessment and kill zones. But the world rarely waited for permission.
“I told you, that was only once.”
“Once is enough,” he said. “Let’s not add to your explosive death count.”
Her smile faltered. Guilt flickered in her gaze. He regretted the words immediately.
“That’s not what I—”
“It’s fine,” she said too quickly. “You’re right. Caravan. Job. No more accidental killing.”
He wanted to hold her. Whisper apologies into her ears. Take away all the pain his idiotic words caused. He had never cared if his words hurt someone. But not Essie. Never her.
Lyssara’s gaze lingered on him longer than necessary.
She had fought beside him long enough to recognize the signs—jaw too tight, magic held too carefully, attention split in ways that got people killed.
“You’re compromised,” she said quietly.
He didn’t bristle. Lyssara never used that word lightly. Compromise meant altered priorities. Altered priorities got people killed. He just disagreed about who was at risk.
“Feelings later,” Lyssara clapped dramatically. “Coin now. Move it, ducklings.”
Nythir cursed again.
Luna’s tavern was quieter in the daylight. Last night’s chaos had boiled down to sticky tables and the faint smell of ale clinging to the beams. The lantern orbs dimmed for morning, bathing everything in soft amber.
The window Essie had cracked was boarded up, leaving the corner dark and sullen. Vorrik had conveniently been tossed through it during their tavern brawl, so they weren’t responsible for repairs. He was useful sometimes—but never when he meant to be.
Sable stood by the job board, arms crossed, now looking twenty years younger and twice as annoyed.
“Stop staring,” she growled as they approached.
“I’m not staring,” Nythir lied. “I’m observing the outcome of irresponsible healing.”
“Tell your mage duckling she owes me ten years of back pain,” Sable said. “But my knees haven’t felt this good since I was twenty.”
“You’re welcome,” Essie said shyly. “Actually, I have a tiny, little, unimportant question.”
Sable’s stony expression cracked into a quick, fond grin before she could stop it. “Yeah, yeah. What do you need, Cinabun?”
Nythir hated them calling her that.
Essie leaned in close and whispered, “How old is Luna?” She needed to work on her whispering skills.
Sable barked out a laugh as Luna ran over frantically before anything could be revealed. She jabbed a thumb at the board, changing the topic. “Caravan to Greyhollow. Three wagons. Paying well above average. Leaving in an hour. Their usual escort fell sick. I told them we’d take it.”
“Greyhollow,” Vorrik said happily. “Home sweet miserable home.”
Lyssara elbowed him. “It’s not miserable. It just smells like wet sheep.”
“And sweat,” he added.
Essie leaned closer to the parchment, distracted from her previous question. “How far is Greyhollow?”
“Four days at caravan speed,” Nythir said. “A little longer if the road’s bad.”
Her eyes widened in awe. “Four days,” she said, voice hushed. Four days of open road. Four days away from the palace. Four days where anything could happen. She looked like an adorable barn owl about to take its first flight.
Sable cleared her throat. “Caravan master’s waiting in the yard. Try not to terrify him.”
“Who, me?” Nythir asked innocently.
“Yes,” Sable and Lyssara said in unison.
The caravan master was a compact dwarf with a beard so carefully braided it could have been used as a measuring tool.
It nearly reached the ground, covering the entire front of his body.
He checked them over as if buying horses: weighing armor, scars, the set of Nythir’s shoulders, the gleam of Lyssara’s sword.
Then his gaze landed on Essie. Nythir saw the exact moment the man decided she was too soft for the road.
“This one,” the caravan master said, pointing. “What does she do?”
“She’s with me,” Nythir said smoothly. Essie’s brows shot up, but he ignored it.
“She’s a mage,” Lyssara added. “Very efficient at… crowd control.”
The man’s eyes flicked to the faint scorch marks on Nythir’s sleeve, then to the way his cloak had been neatly burned shorter on one side.
“I see,” he said slowly. “Does she behave?”
“No,” Vorrik said.
“Yes,” Nythir said at the exact same time.
The caravan master squinted.
Nythir felt the calculation settle in his bones.
Essie was a liability. Too soft-spoken. Too honest. Too visibly unused to the road. Anyone with eyes would underestimate her—and anyone with sense would exploit that.
Underestimation was only helpful if you knew when it was happening. Essie did not. That made her powerful—and exposed.
He chose her anyway.
The decision surprised him less than it should have.
“We’ll keep her in check,” Lyssara sighed. “She’s more useful than she looks. Discount if she accidentally explodes bandits.”
The man hesitated, then shrugged. “As long as she explodes the right people. Payment on arrival.” He jerked his head toward the wagons. “We leave in thirty.”
Nythir guided Essie away before she could apologize to anyone for existing. He made a silent vow: she would never apologize for that again. As far as he was concerned, she never had to apologize—even if she was at fault.