Chapter 26 Esther
Esther
How to handle conflict: let your friends fight while you question your life choices.
The caravan rattled along the dirt road like rusted bells tied behind a running horse. It was loud, shaky, and one unfortunate bump away from disaster.
Esther clutched her satchel tighter. She did not have enough emotional stability for disaster—not today, not with Nythir looking at her like he wanted to say good morning in that tone. The tone that made her want to bury herself under the nearest rock until her soul evaporated.
“Essie,” Lyssara called from atop her horse, “you look like a disgruntled shrub. Sit up.”
“I like being a shrub,” Esther muttered. Shrubs didn’t call attention to themselves—they thrived quietly in the background. That was her. She aspired to be just like the shrubs they rode past.
The caravan stretched ahead: six wagons, two dozen merchants, and several goats Vorrik insisted were emotional support animals. They were obviously not. The air smelled of hay, wood, spices, and impending doom.
Esther had learned to recognize that feeling—the quiet stretch before something went wrong. It lived low in her chest, like a held breath she hadn’t chosen to take.
As if summoned, doom arrived.
Thunk.
An arrow embedded itself in the road, inches from Esther’s horse.
Sound vanished for a heartbeat. The world narrowed to distance and direction and the certainty that she had been almost—but not quite—too slow.
The riders shouted. The goats screamed.
Nythir drew his dagger, shielding her before her mind could process the near miss.
She didn’t protest. She registered it instead—how quickly he moved, how carefully he positioned himself without forcing her backward. Protection without displacement. It mattered.
“Ambush,” he barked.
More arrows rained from the trees. Merchants ducked behind crates. One man dove off his wagon, rolling in the dirt like he had trained his entire life for this moment.
Esther’s hands flared with gold, her panic igniting her magic. Sparks shimmered under her skin, eager and wild.
Her thoughts spiraled. She clenched her eyes shut, bracing for Bandit Explosion ACT II.
Panic always felt the same: heat, pressure, and the sense that something terrible was about to escape her, no matter how tightly she held on.
The bracelet pulsed once, like a warm, anchoring hug. Her magic softened and coiled inward instead of bursting outward. Nothing exploded. Nothing caught fire.
The calm didn’t erase the fear. It redirected it—channeling the surge into something survivable. Esther wondered, distantly, how often her mother had needed the same interruption.
Steel clashed ahead. Lyssara leapt from her horse, slicing an arrow mid-flight as if she had trained since birth to argue with projectiles.
Vorrik charged with all the grace of a drunken avalanche.
Teren immediately hid behind a barrel, pants stained with pee.
Nythir glanced toward her. “Essie. With me.”
Her stomach flipped—not romantically. Well, a little romantically. Mostly from terror.
Two bandits bolted toward a wagon where a merchant couple cowered. Esther lifted her hands, trusting her mother’s gift.
The bracelet pulsed again. Magic streamed from her fingertips in a controlled burst of golden light. A bright wave shot across the path, sending the nearest attackers flying backwards, squawking like disgruntled pigeons.
The magic felt different when it listened to her. Heavier. Older. Like a language she had once known and was slowly relearning.
Nythir grinned smugly. “Perfect.”
The word warmed and terrified her in equal measure. Perfection had never been a compliment in the palace. It had been a demand.
Esther blinked at her own hands. “I meant to do that. I think.”
“Good,” he said. He parried a blade with effortless precision. “You’ll need to do it again.”
A dozen shadowy figures emerged from the treeline. Some wore mismatched armor; others brandished rusty blades and crossbows. Even she could see the holes in their sloppy formation.
“Seriously,” Lyssara groaned. “Why does everything try to kill us?”
“It’s our faces,” Vorrik said, swinging his axe. “We have very killable faces.”
“Speak for yourselves. I have a very kissable face, right Essie?”
Esther inhaled deeply, pretending not to hear Nythir’s comment. She focused. Her magic was hot and lingering, waiting for her command.
The chaotic rush in her chest calmed into focus. She lifted her hands, sending golden whirlwinds outward. They swirled around the nearest attackers, lifting them gently off their feet and depositing them into a ditch.
“Oh,” she gasped. “I did it. I did not blow anyone up.”
She waited for guilt to follow. It didn’t. That startled her more than the magic.
Lyssara cheered. Vorrik whooped. Teren peeked from behind his barrel.
Nythir stepped closer, eyes bright with approval. “You are incredible.”
Esther’s brain promptly melted. She blushed and stumbled, a bumbling mess.
The last surviving bandits turned and ran. Merchants peeked from their wagons, trembling but unharmed.
A bearded merchant approached, wiping sweat from his brow. “Bless the moons,” he said. “Thank you. Bandits have grown bold these past months. The roads are no longer safe. The tension between Valedara and Draewyn has every desperate fool trying his luck.”
Esther stiffened. She heard more than fear in his voice. She heard preparation. People only talked like this when they expected things to get worse.
Lyssara crossed her arms. “I thought the alliance with Kraggmar was supposed to make travel safer.”
“Alliance,” the merchant repeated with a bitter laugh. “There’s been no update on this supposed alliance in months. Folks are scared war will break out from the east before any alliance can be solidified.”
“What war?” Vorrik asked.
The merchant blinked. “The sixteen-year conflict with the Draewyn Dominion. You’ve truly not heard? Their king has raided Valedara’s border villages for decades, and King Arcturus just watches as his people suffer.”
A chill crawled up Esther’s spine. Draewyn. War.
Her vision blurred. Her breath vanished. Suddenly, she was small again, barely six years old. Cold stone pressed into her knees. The sharp, bitter taste of poison numbed her tongue.
It had never gone away entirely. She had simply learned to live around it.
Her mother’s voice whispered frantically: “Essie. Do not fall asleep. Stay with me.”
The world dissolved into ringing. Gold flickered violently down her arms while her bracelet hummed, straining to contain itself. Containment hurt. Not physically—existentially. Like being told to breathe shallower when you were already drowning.
“Essie,” Nythir grabbed her shoulders. “Essie, look at me.”
Her knees buckled. Nythir caught her and gently lowered her to the ground. She couldn’t see what was in front of her anymore.
“Hey. You’re alright.” Lyssara knelt, shielding Esther from the merchant’s eyes. That mattered more than the magic. Being hidden was different from being restrained. “Nythir, calm her.”
“I am trying,” he growled.
The bracelet pulsed hard. Nythir poured his steadily flowing silver magic into her, coaxing the frantic energy to stabilize. Slowly, the sparks faded, and Esther remembered how to breathe.
“I am fine,” she lied with the confidence of someone who was absolutely not fine.
Lying felt safer than explaining. Explanation led to questions. Questions led to choices she wasn’t ready to make.
Nythir glared at her like he wanted to set the world on fire for daring to tremble.
Lyssara looked at her like she knew better.
Vorrik looked at her like she needed a goat.
The merchant, blissfully unaware of the chaos he’d caused, continued in a thoughtful tone.
“King Maelrik presses harder every season, putting pressure on Valedara to come to terms with their beliefs or go to war. The assassination attempt over a decade ago was just a warning.” Esther’s heart stuttered. Warnings were meant for survivors.
“Rumor has it, there has been talk of a royal marriage with Kraggmar to solidify borders.”
Esther froze. So that was it. Not just power. Not just legacy. Leverage.
“We’ve heard enough,” Nythir barked.
The merchant blinked, confused, then backed away.
Once he was out of earshot, Lyssara whispered, “Essie, are you alright?”
She pasted on the weakest, most suspicious smile imaginable.
“Just a little tired,” she lied. There was no way she could tell them she was one of the royals who might stop a war she knew nothing about.
Nythir didn’t believe her. Lyssara didn’t believe her. The goats probably didn’t believe her.
But no one pressed. And she loved them all for that. Silence, she was learning, could be mercy instead of neglect.
The caravan resumed its slow journey. Wagon wheels creaked over the dirt, continuing as if no battle had ever happened.
Esther breathed shakily. Her past was clawing its way into her present, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to remember what happened all those years ago.
She stared ahead at the long road stretching between the trees. For the first time since leaving the palace, Esther wondered: Am I running from the right danger?
For the first time, Esther wondered if the danger she feared most wasn’t behind her—or ahead—but waiting for her to stop running long enough to choose.