Chapter 21 Nythir
Nythir
How to interrupt a bad situation: bring a rock, a bad attitude, and absolutely no patience.
Nythir had been sitting on a wagon axle, pretending to sharpen a knife and absolutely not watching the ward-thread that tracked Essie’s magic.
Until it spiked.
Not dangerously—just wrong. Fear compressed instead of flaring. A tight, jagged note in the ward-thread that didn’t belong to surprise or excitement. Nythir was already moving before he finished identifying it.
The forest swallowed him in long shadows.
He found a rock along the way. It fit nicely in his palm. He chose it deliberately. Heavy enough to end the situation. Light enough to stop short of something permanent. Violence was a tool, not an impulse—and tonight, it needed limits.
Probably.
All he knew was he couldn’t stab the guy without consequences—despite how much he wanted to.
He moved silently between the pines, silver magic weaving around his steps, until he reached the stream clearing.
He saw them instantly.
Her breath uneven, her eyes wide with fear. Teren was too close, forcibly holding her to him.
Something inside Nythir went very, very quiet.
Then very, very loud.
“Take your hands off her,” he said evenly. Calmly. Menacingly.
Teren spun, letting go as if burned. Lucky for him, that damned bracelet kept him singe-free. “I wasn’t doing anything—”
Nythir didn’t break stride. He walked calmly and confidently, like a trained assassin, with the aim of one, too.
The rock that had previously been in his palm cracked Teren cleanly on the forehead with masterful precision.
Sadly. Just enough to drop him. Not enough to kill him.
Teren let out a startled rooster's cry and collapsed into the dirt.
The danger had passed.
Safety did not arrive with the absence of a threat. It came slowly, in increments—through breath returning, tension loosening, space being reclaimed. Nythir stayed alert, counting those seconds instead of assuming them.
Nythir did not relax.
Experience had taught him that the aftermath was where most mistakes happened—when people assumed safety instead of confirming it.
Essie bolted to him, eyes gleaming. “Nythir!” She all but tackled him with her embrace.
“You alright?” he asked, slipping his arms loosely around her.
Essie nodded, but the tremble in her hands and arms said otherwise.
“He grabbed you?” Nythir asked, stroking her hair. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands; he’d never cared to comfort someone before.
“Yes,” she whispered weakly, her voice breaking.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I just—he was too close. I was scared.”
Nythir exhaled harshly, anger flickering beneath his ribs. “You said yes to walking with him.”
Her breath hitched. “I didn’t know he meant—anything.”
“You never do,” he said, gentler than he felt.
She sniffled, chipping away at his heart. He was not good at the whole comforting thing.
“Essie. Look at me.”
She did.
He took her wrist—the one Teren had grasped—and turned it over gently. No bruises. But her pulse raced like frightened hummingbird wings beneath her skin.
“I’m not angry at you,” he said softly.
Her shoulders loosened a fraction. “You sound angry.”
“I’m angry on your behalf.”
She blinked. Hard. “I don’t know the difference.”
Of course, she didn’t.
He swallowed, carefully brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “Then I’ll teach you.”
It wasn’t a promise of protection. It was a promise of knowledge. Those mattered more in the long run.
She stared at him like he’d handed her a spellbook full of answers.
A groan rose from the ground behind them. Teren attempted to sit up, clutching his forehead. “What… hit me?”
“A falling rock,” Nythir said flatly. “Nature is dangerous.”
Essie elbowed him weakly. “Nythir.”
He ignored her. “You’re done for tonight. And if you go near her again, the next rock won’t stop at falling.”
Nythir had guarded secrets, caravans, and contracts.
This was different.
This was a boundary—and once crossed, it did not reset.
Teren wisely lay back down.
Nythir guided Essie away from the stream, keeping close but not crowding her. “We’re going back to camp.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He stopped walking.
Her apology hit harder than the situation itself. Not because it was unwarranted—but because it was automatic. As if fear alone constituted guilt.
Something old and vicious stirred in his chest. That reflex had been taught to her. Carefully. Repeatedly.
“What are you apologizing for?” He needed her to hear this part. Not later. Not softened. Now, while the moment was raw enough to rewrite.
“For… not understanding. For trusting too easily. For making you worry.”
He turned toward her fully, moonlight brushing pale gold over her features.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her breath caught. “But—”
“You trusted someone because you want to see the good in people.” His voice softened despite himself. “That’s not a weakness.”
“It feels like one.”
“It’s not.” He hesitated, then added, “And I’d rather spend the rest of my life throwing rocks at idiots than see you lose that.”
He had always believed vows mattered more than blood.
Perhaps that was why he had been so careful with them.
“Nythir,” she whispered, her voice small but full of something warm, something scared, something hopeful. “Why are you always—always—”
He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
“Because you deserve people who protect you,” he said. “Not people who make you afraid.”
Her eyes glistened. The bracelet pulsed gold. And for the first time since they’d arrived at the stream, Essie exhaled without shaking.
“Can we go back now?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “But can I ask to do something first?”
“Of course. I owe you for saving me.”
“I don’t want it out of obligation,” he said, gently taking her hand. “I want to do what that filth tried—but correctly.”
“What was he even trying to do?” Essie asked.
Nythir couldn’t help but laugh. She wasn’t playing coy—she was just that clueless.
“Why are you laughing?” she pouted. “I freaked out when he grabbed me. Oh no! Was he trying to kidnap me? You want to kidnap me?”
The question chilled him. Kidnapping was violence with structure. This had been something quieter—and far more common. That difference mattered. He would not let her misname it.“Essie, he was trying to kiss you.”
“K-k-kiss?” she shouted, turning redder than a tomato. “You want to kiss me?” Her voice pitched as some of his favorite sparks escaped the confines of the bracelet. He basked in the knowledge that the runespire Luna gave her couldn’t stand a chance against his connection with Essie.
“Yes.” He traced a finger along her warm cheek and bent down a little closer. “Push me away if you don’t want to. I won’t be mad.”
He waited because waiting was the point. Power meant nothing without restraint. Desire meant nothing without choice.
He waited a beat. Then another.
Then he kissed her, and sparks ignited.
Nothing cracked or went up in flames. Her magic responded differently—not as defense, but recognition. Gold scattered gently, unafraid. Nythir catalogued that too. Magic, like people, behaved differently when it was not being cornered.
Even the bracelet she wore couldn’t keep her magic from reacting to him. And he revealed that.
She didn’t push him away or pull back. She pulled closer. Her hands trembled, clutching his tunic.
She more than welcomed the kiss. She reciprocated it.
It was then that Nythir realized he had been jealous. The realization did not shame him. It clarified him. Jealousy was not possession—it was awareness sharpened by risk.
He hadn’t known what that emotion was before, but what he did know was that he would never admit it to Lyssara.
Some protections were written in ink. Others were written in intent—and enforced without hesitation. Intent, once set, demanded follow-through. And Nythir had never abandoned something he chose to guard.