Chapter 19 Nythir #2
“You don’t have to speak,” he said under his breath. “Let Lyssara and me handle the talking when coin is involved.”
“That feels rude,” she whispered back.
“That,” he said, “is why we handle the talking.”
Caravan escorts were supposed to be easy coin. Predictable routes. Boring threats. Bandits who scattered once steel flashed, and numbers turned against them.
Lately, none of that had been true.
Guild boards were full of “last-minute replacements” and “unexpected losses.” Too many caravans limped in, missing guards. Too many never arrived at all. Something was tightening along the roads—and it wasn’t hunger alone.
Roads reflected politics faster than courts ever did. When caravans stopped arriving intact, it meant borders were tightening somewhere upstream. Hunger followed. Then desperation. Then, violence was presented as an opportunity.
It looked like the type of day where nothing could possibly go wrong. They set off under a bright, deceptive sky. The wind whispered through the trees, leaves starting to turn shades of red and orange. Everything was beautiful, quiet, and tranquil.
Until one of his companions inevitably caused a disturbance, ruining it all.
The caravan consisted of three covered wagons, two open carts, and a couple of merchants riding alongside, eyes darting to every bush as if it were a bandit in disguise.
Essie rode in the middle of the formation on a clay-colored mare. Nythir rode beside her.
“You can ride closer to Lyssara if you want,” she offered after an hour of riding silently, surrounded by the banter of the travel party.
“I’m fine here.”
“You keep looking around.”
“Yes.”
“As if you’re expecting something to jump out and kill us.”
“That’s because I am.” He scanned the tree line. “It usually does.”
She pursed her lips. “Optimistic.”
“Experienced,” he corrected.
She fell quiet, watching the road. Nythir studied her posture. From the way she sat straight, shoulders back, to her loose grip on the reins—all of it screamed noble-trained rider.
“Slouch,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Slouch. You’re riding like you’re leading a parade.”
“I don’t know how to slouch on a horse,” she hissed, muttering something about etiquette lessons. Nythir wasn’t worried about her magic exploding someone—he couldn't care less about that. He worried about her talking to anyone and revealing her not-so-hidden secret.
Nobility lived in posture long before it lived in titles. You could take the crown away and still spot a ruler by the way they occupied space.
He reached over, nudged her shoulder until she crooked forward a bit. “Like this. Think ‘mild back pain,’ not ‘royal portrait.’” After saying it, he realized there must have been portraits of her. He hoped one day she’d let him see them.
She tried to follow his instructions and somehow made it look like she was being tortured.
He sighed. “We’ll work on it.”
A laugh drifted back along the line. One of the younger merchants, a lanky boy with sun-browned skin and annoyingly bright green eyes, twisted around in his saddle to grin at her.
Nythir catalogued the boy automatically.
Friendly posture. Loose confidence. No visible weapons. The kind of man who relied on charm instead of caution. Dangerous in a different way. Charm unsettled him more than blades. Steel announced its intent. Smiles waited for an opportunity.
The irritation that followed was sharp, immediate, and inconvenient. There it was. Unwanted. Unhelpful. He filed it away under distractions to be dealt with later.
He told himself it was vigilance. He was very good at lying to himself.
“First time on the road?” the boy asked. “You look like a festival banner.”
Nythir did not grind his teeth.
“Yes,” Essie said, polite as ever. “First time outside the city, actually.”
“Seriously?” The boy whistled. “You’re in for a treat then, miss. Name’s Teren.” He flashed a smile that probably worked on tavern girls. “If you need someone to show you around camp tonight, I know all the good spots to sit. Less rocks.”
Nythir’s magic prickled under his skin so faintly he could almost see it.
Essie brightened. “That’s very kind. I—”
“She’ll be with us,” Nythir cut in. “Training.”
Teren glanced at him, then back at Essie.
“Right,” he said slowly. “Didn’t mean any offense.”
“None taken,” Essie said quickly, shooting a look at Nythir.
Teren winked at her before turning back around.
Nythir kept his gaze on the road, imagining the boy tripping over his own feet into a puddle.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Essie said after a long moment.
“Do what?”
“Answer for me.”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “Because you would have said ‘yes’ to anything that sounds even vaguely friendly.”
He had crossed a line there. He knew it. The trouble was, the alternative felt worse.
Her mouth opened, then closed. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” he said. “You’re starved for warmth and acceptance. It makes you too trusting.”
He cursed at himself for reprimanding her, but he couldn’t stop the agitation boiling out. Her fingers tightened on the reins. The bracelet glowed faintly, restraining her sparks, aggravating him further.
“I’m not helpless, Nythir.”
He believed her. That wasn’t the issue. The world didn’t care whether someone was helpless—it cared whether they were protected.
“I never said you were helpless,” he replied. “I said you’re trusting. Those are different.”
She looked away, jaw tight. Guilt slid cold through his chest. He wasn’t angry at her—he was furious at the world that had left her so desperate for ordinary kindness.
“I just want you to be careful,” he added quietly.
“I am careful.”
“You teleported into Ashvale,” he said.
She glared at him. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
“No. Just make sure to teleport me with you next time.”
She sighed, and some of the tension eased from her shoulders.
They rode until the sky shifted from blue to lavender. The caravan master called for a halt on a flat stretch between two low hills. The carts were rolled into a loose circle to block the wind, and a fire was built in the center.
The smells of cooking meat and woodsmoke filled the air. Conversations rose and fell. Lyssara shared stories. Vorrik ate loudly. Merchants laughed. The day had been surprisingly calm, leaving Nythir on edge.
Essie perched on a log near the fire, boots dangling above the dirt. Her green dress was streaked with dust along the hem, a smudge of road grime on her cheekbone. She looked… happy. Tired, but happy. For the first time since she joined them, she looked at ease in her surroundings.
“That one’s Orion,” Vorrik said, pointing at a constellation with a strip of dried meat hanging out of his mouth. “Hunter of wild sheep. Lyssara told me if I misbehaved, he’d come down and take my tusks.”
Lyssara snorted. “I said I would take your tusks.”
Essie laughed, head tipped back, gold sparks barely visible where the firelight reflected in her eyes. Nythir pretended not to watch, though the warmth her laughter brought made him want to.
Teren drifted closer, two tin mugs in hand, far too confident for someone who had known them less than a day.
“Brought extra,” he said, offering one to Essie. “Just watered wine. Helps with saddle ache.”
Nythir stepped between them before he could stop himself.
“I told you,” he said pleasantly, “she’s training with us tonight.”
Teren blinked, then shifted his gaze over Nythir’s shoulder. “Well, what does she say?”
Nythir hated him a little.
Essie peeked around him, eyes flicking between the two. “I can do both,” she said cautiously. “A little training, then sit somewhere that doesn’t smell like fish and orc feet.”
Vorrik looked offended. “My feet smell like triumph.”
“You can barely walk,” Lyssara said. “Triumph lost.”
Teren grinned. “See? She’s got good taste. I’ll only steal her for a bit. Just to show her where the stream is. Quieter there.”
Essie perked up. “A stream? With real running water?”
“Not imaginary running water,” Teren said. “Figure we can go when most folks turn in.”
“Perfect,” she said.
Nythir swallowed a curse. He could tell her no. He could pull rank as healer, as the least hungover member of the party, as the one with the most sense of caution.
But he saw the way her fingers curled around the mug, knuckles white. The flicker of panic beneath the excitement. The way she clearly expected someone to make the decision away from her.
She didn’t want to be controlled anymore. “Not by my father. Not by my kingdom. Not by anyone.” That’s what she had said.
“Fine,” he said. “After training.”
Teren clapped him on the shoulder like they were friends. “Didn’t know you were her father,” he said, eyes glinting.
Nythir ground his teeth. If he had strong attack magic like Essie, Teren would have been in several more pieces. Cooked. On purpose.
But he could only harness healing and defensive magic. Most mages could only control one or two types. Essie was the exception.
He had always hated the types he had. They didn’t suit him like combat magic didn’t suit her. That was why he had gone on a journey to strengthen his fighting skills. Yet he still became the “healer” of a group. He simply used his skills to his advantage.
“I’m her healer,” he said. “Which means if she gets hurt, I fix it.”
“Then I’ll make sure she doesn’t,” Teren said easily. “Scout’s honor.”
Nythir doubted the boy had ever been a scout.
Essie exhaled, shoulders lowering. “Thank you,” she said—to him, not Teren. For the compromise? For not locking her in a wagon? He wasn’t sure.
He just nodded and moved away before she could see the war on his face. He still had time to lock her in a wagon.
Lyssara sidled up next to him as he began setting up practice wards around the fire.
“You hate this.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t stop her.”
“I know.”
“She’ll be careful,” Lyssara said. “She’s not completely oblivious.”
“She thought wanted posters were a novelty,” he reminded her.
Lyssara sighed. “Fair point.”
They worked in silence for a moment. Nythir drew faint silver sigils in the dirt while Lyssara sharpened her sword.
“Going to keep watch?” she finally asked.
“Yes.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
Lyssara hummed. “You could also just admit you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” he said.
“Oh?” Her mouth curved. “Then you’re okay with them canoodling in the starlight?”
He glared at her. She laughed, clapped him on the back, and went to harass Vorrik instead.
Night deepened. Stars bled into the sky. The fire crackled down to coals. Nythir watched Essie practice minor spells. She created and extinguished a tiny ball of gold in her palms. The bracelet glowed with each pulse, smoothing the energy before it could surge out of control.
He enjoyed the comfort the bracelet brought her, but hated how it hid her. He also hated Teren looking at her.
So he layered his own precautions instead. Silent. Invisible. Bound to her spark. If she stepped too far into danger, the wards would sing. If someone else did, they would scream.
Eventually, the caravan quieted. People crawled under wagons or into bedrolls. Someone finished a song on a lute with a last, wobbly chord.
Essie stood, brushing dust from her dress. Teren mirrored her motion.
Nythir’s jaw clenched.
“I’ll be back,” Essie said, oblivious to the tension. “We’re just going to see the stream.”
“Stay within the wards,” Nythir said. “If you step beyond them, I’ll know.”
She shivered at the warning—or the promise—cheeks pink. “Understood,” she whispered, and followed Teren into the darkness. Their laughter drifted back as they disappeared beyond the wagons.
Nythir sat perfectly still.
The fire popped. Night pressed close.
Letting her go felt like stepping back from a ledge he had been guarding with his entire body.
He could stop it. Could forbid it. Could justify it with a dozen practical reasons.
Instead, he loosened the reins.
The pressure didn’t leave. It simply waited.
His magic whispered against the wards. A silver net stretched around camp, specially tuned to Essie’s spark like a wire tuned to a note.
He could feel her moving, just at the edges of his senses. He settled in, every muscle tight. Jaw aching.
If anything went wrong, if her magic spiked, if that boy so much as breathed wrong, he wouldn’t need magic to destroy him.
After all, he thought grimly, when it came to trouble, Essie never did anything halfway. It was his self-appointed job to handle all her problems.
He had crossed a line somewhere between Stonehaven and the open road.
He was no longer guarding a contract. Or a mage. Or even a secret.
He was guarding her.
That realization settled with unsettling ease. Contracts ended. Jobs concluded. This did not feel temporary. And Nythir had never been careless with things that could change the shape of his life.