Chapter 22 Esther
Esther
How to make camp mornings interesting: add one bold elf, one confused mage, and at least one person insisting on bringing a goat.
Esther woke the next morning with warm sunlight across her face, a faint ache in her lips and an aching back from sleeping on hard ground all night. She regretted her past decision to pack only eight books, which had been lost to the universe moments after teleporting.
Sleeping under the stars felt like something out of a fairy tale.
Fairy tales never mentioned how hard the ground was or how exposed everything felt without walls. She should have packed a pillow. It would have softened her landing and improved her sleep quality.
Still, she had slept better than she ever had in silk sheets. Safety, she was learning, was not the same as luxury.
The camp was awake. People talked. Horses snorted. Someone was already burning breakfast. It was Vorrik. For someone who loved food so much, he was a terrible cook.
Essie sat up and stretched her aching muscles. The skin on the back of her neck tickled. She felt intent eyes on her and instinctively knew she shouldn’t look—but did anyway.
Nythir was staring at her from across the fire like a man who wanted to say good morning and possibly commit arson.
Her instinctive response was to hide. Instead, she froze. Hiding had been her first reflex for years. Standing still—being seen—felt like a new skill she had not practiced enough to trust.
He stood and walked over like a wolf stalking something inevitable.
Esther, for some reason, felt her survival instincts activate. Her non-existent ones, because she didn’t fight or flee.
No—she hastily stood and greeted him. It was easier when moments were private. Public acknowledgment—daylight, witnesses, familiarity—was much harder. Esther did not yet know how to hold something precious without trying to fold it away.
“Good morning,” she said quickly, biting her tongue. She brushed her fingers through her knotted hair. She didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse not to have a mirror, because her hair felt like a tangled disaster created by a caffeinated squirrel.
“Essie,” Nythir said, his voice firm, as if he were about to ruin several lives before breakfast, “we need to inform the group.”
“About what?” she asked, fingers stuck in a particularly stubborn knot.
He didn’t answer. He took her free hand—her other still trapped in her hair—and gently guided her toward the group. Esther appeared to have been the last to wake.
Lyssara wandered over, chewing dried fruit, her hair also a mess, and her sword strapped on like she was ready to fight someone purely for fun.
Esther felt better about her own appearance.
Vorrik followed with his usual sunshine energy and a piece of bread in his mouth. His earlier attempt at breakfast had turned to dust while he cooked it. It was impressive how bad he was. His cooking skills were possible worse than Esther’s magic control—and that was saying something.
Teren was sitting on a log, pretending to be invisible. He avoided eye contact with everyone, which made Esther feel a little guilty. She decided to check on his rock-shaped injury later, when Nythir wasn’t paying attention.
Which could take a while, because he seemed alarmingly good at paying attention to her.
Nythir cleared his throat and loudly declared, “Essie and I are married now.”
The universe paused.
A spoon clattered.
Someone choked on their tea.
Esther stared at him while everyone stared at her.
“What?” She had intended to whisper, but shouted instead.
Lyssara squinted. “Married as in… legally? Emotionally? Socially? Accidentally?”
“Yes,” Nythir said confidently.
“No,” Esther squeaked. The absurdity grounded her. If the world was going to tilt, at least it was tilting with witnesses.
“Explain,” Lyssara said, pulling up a chair that absolutely had not existed one second ago.
Nythir nodded solemnly. “Essie and I kissed.”
Lyssara and Vorrik stared blankly.
Esther stared at them, staring blankly at her. And everyone stared at them, staring at each other. It was like one of those weird nightmares that weren’t necessarily scary, but made a socially anxious person’s skin crawl.
And Esther was the portrait-perfect example of a socially anxious person.
At that moment, if she hadn’t been wearing her mother’s bracelet, she would have combusted into a pile of human goop just to escape. Death by fire was better than whatever she was experiencing currently.
“And,” Nythir continued, “I vowed years ago I would only ever kiss one person. Therefore—”
“No,” Esther repeated, louder this time. “Wait. No.”
“—we are married.”
Lyssara made the sound of a cat choking on a lemon.
Vorrik clapped his hands once like a proud father. “Well! That escalated!”
Teren stood up so fast he tripped over a bucket.
Nythir ignored all of them. “It’s simple,” he concluded with all the confidence he should not have had.
“It is not simple!” Esther yelped. “People don’t get married for kissing!” Her objection surprised even her. She wasn’t afraid—she was startled. There was a difference, and noticing it felt like progress.
“You absolutely aren’t,” Lyssara said. “You need witnesses. A ceremony. A signed document. A cake. Possibly a goat, if the priest is dramatic enough.”
Vorrik nodded sagely. “Ours required a goat. It stared directly into my soul.”
Esther was trying to breathe normally, but her lungs had recently decided to be decorative instead of functional.
“Nythir,” she whispered, “we are not married.”
“Legally, not yet. But in spirit, yes we are.”
Then he did something that shocked everyone. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
Esther saw her life pass before her eyes. She was not built for this level of cardiac violence before breakfast.
Vorrik cheered.
Nythir smiled, looking far too handsome and smug after almost killing her via a direct heart attack.
Lyssara put her hands on her hips. “You two need to have an actual conversation about actual marriage, not whatever… whatever this is.”
“It’s fate,” Vorrik said with profound, unearned wisdom.
“No it isn’t,” Esther squeaked. “You can’t just… jump all the steps! You need things! Like dates! And presents! And cake! And—and—paperwork!”
“And a goat,” Vorrik added.
“I don’t want a goat at the wedding!” Esther shrieked in an octave that would put the wedding goat to shame.
Nythir slid his hand into hers again, causing Esther to squeak like a distressed mouse.
“Essie,” he said softly, “if you’re already married, you can’t be forced into an arranged marriage. And I want to marry you.”
Esther’s mouth fell open. Her heart stuttered. Her magic fluttered like a startled butterfly under her skin.
The logic landed harder than the declaration. Protection framed as a partnership instead of confinement. It frightened her and relieved her in equal measure.
“You want to marry me?” She asked with a shaky voice.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Lyssara threw a blanket over her own head like she needed sensory deprivation to cope.
Vorrik began humming the wedding march under his breath, adding a few goat sounds for realism.
Teren hid behind a barrel. The poor guy had probably woken up and chosen fear.
Esther stared at Nythir. Then at his hand. Then into his eyes.
Her voice was tiny. “O-okay. Maybe the idea… isn’t terrible.” The words were small, but they were hers. Not a duty. Not a concession. A choice made in daylight, with witnesses, and the option to change her mind.
Nythir’s expression brightened with the warmth of a sunrise.
Lyssara yanked the blanket off her head. “Wait—no—that’s not how logical discussions work!”
Vorrik gasped dramatically and grabbed the nearest merchant. “Where is the nearest goat?”
“No goats!” Esther cried.
But she was smiling. Smiling like an idiot in love.
Because she was an idiot in love. She waited for guilt to follow. For shame. For the instinctive urge to apologize for taking up space. None of it came.
Then it hit her.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
She was in love.
With an elf who committed to marriage like it was an invitation to afternoon tea. She had absolutely no idea how to navigate this new emotional development. But for once, not knowing felt like a possibility rather than a failure.
Nythir squeezed her hand gently.
“Good,” he murmured.
Lyssara covered her eyes. “You two are going to kill me.”
Vorrik patted her head. “I’ll look for a goat.”
“No goats!” Lyssara snapped, remembering the horrible bleating menace at her wedding. “This is why adults shouldn’t be left unsupervised.”