Chapter 27 Esther
Esther
How to remain composed: have a panic attack quietly where no one can see you.
Greyhollow appeared over the hill like a colorful splash of life against the forest. Bright awnings covered busy stalls.
Merchants called out prices with theatrical flair.
The smell of roasted chestnuts, fresh bread, and spiced tea drifted through the air.
Horses snorted, wagons rattled, and at least five people shouted about discounts simultaneously.
It should have felt cheerful. Cheer had always felt fragile to Esther. Something painted on the surface was meant to distract from what lay beneath.
But behind the bright fabrics and loud voices, Esther saw a another truth.
Dozens of tired travelers lingered near the outer gates. Children slept curled against satchels. A few families camped near the well with nothing but threadbare blankets.
Lyssara surveyed the crowded square with a scowl. “Refugees?”
“They’re from the most recent attack on Ryzik. I heard the whole town was turned to shambles,” Teren said from a safe distance, behind a wagon.
Esther’s heart squeezed.
She had grown up learning the names of flowers and formal dances while her people learned how to run. The imbalance sat heavily in her chest.
She knew her father had kept her sheltered, blind to political strife, but she couldn’t believe she’d been so ignorant of her people’s suffering.
She watched a young mother hush a crying toddler as she stirred thin porridge over a small fire. Another man frantically bartered with a vendor, holding out a cracked toy in exchange for bread.
Esther looked away too late. The image lodged itself behind her eyes, unwelcome and permanent.
The caravan rolled into the central square. Merchants approached immediately, greeted their hired protectors, and handed over payment. The guild ledger was signed. A few people clapped. Others bowed gratefully.
One of the goats tried to eat the ledger. Nythir stopped it just in time, but the goat glared at him like it was personal. Esther almost laughed. Almost. The sound never made it out.
Payment done, Lyssara stretched and said, “We should head to the orphanage to rest.”
“Rest sounds nice,” Vorrik yawned. “But what about food?”
“We’ll have food at the house,” Lyssara replied, her tone sharp like a mother scolding a child. “Now, let’s go.”
Nythir held out his hand to Esther, and she took it. She didn’t overthink it—she needed the grounding, even if the touch made her heart trip over itself. Grounding had become a skill she borrowed from others when she couldn’t find it herself.
The orphanage stood at the far end of town, nestled between a tailor’s shop and a candle maker. Its pale stone walls and bright blue shutters gave it a sturdy, welcoming look. Someone had painted stars along the sign: Stardrop Orphanage.
Despite its size, the building seemed far too small for the number of children who poured from every corner—chasing each other through narrow paths, playing with carved toys, or sitting quietly with bowls of soup. Older teens carried wood or tended to the little ones.
Everywhere Esther looked, she saw too many children for one home. Her throat tightened. Numbers blurred together. Faces did not.
Nythir opened the front door. Voices and warmth spilled out. Long tables stretched wall to wall, bowls of stew simmered on a counter, and a few cots were tucked into corners.
A woman stood near the hearth, stirring a large pot. Her hair was streaked with silver, her skin sun-worn, her expression a careful balance of kindness and exhaustion.
She turned to greet them—and froze. Her ladle slipped from her hand as she stumbled a step forward.
“Estella,” she whispered, though the name sounded far too loud to Esther.
The name struck like a physical blow. Esther had spent years hearing it spoken carefully, reverently, never like this—raw and accidental.
The woman approached slowly, wonder in her eyes, reaching as if to touch a memory.
“No,” she murmured. “Your hair is shorter. Your eyes are younger. Forgive me… for a moment I thought…” She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. “I thought the Queen had walked through my door again.”
Esther stepped back, her breath hitching.
The woman blinked away tears and looked at her anew. “You are her daughter,” she said, voice firm and final.
Esther’s heart froze. She had never expected anyone to recognize her this far from the palace—and yet she was recognized because she looked like her mother. Recognition had always been her greatest fear. It meant expectation.
“I have waited for you,” the woman breathed. “For years. Estella said the princess would come here when the time was right. She described you. She told me to watch the travelers. She told me to look for golden light.”
Esther’s magic prickled in response, traitorous and bright, as if it wanted to confirm the truth she was denying.
Several children nearby turned, wide-eyed, staring at Esther. Children believed things adults had learned to doubt. That made their faith far more dangerous.
One little boy whispered, awestruck, “Princess?”
Esther’s breath shattered in her chest.
“I am not,” she said, but her voice was paper-thin.
The woman smiled sadly. “You do not need to say it aloud. Your face tells the story she left behind.”
Nythir stepped forward, creating a protective barrier between Esther and the woman. The instinctive relief that followed terrified her. She did not want to need a shield—especially not when the threat was truth.
“This is adult business, out you go, out you go,” Lyssara said, ushering the children out the back door. Vorrik blinked, bewildered, as she dragged him along.
Esther forgot how to breathe. She felt cornered. Seen. Exposed. Her heart pounded, her magic flickered. Too many eyes. Too many whispers.
Panic didn’t roar. It compressed—squeezing her thoughts into something sharp and unmanageable.
She turned and ran. Running had always worked before. Distance softened things. Time dulled edges. She prayed it would work again.
She thought she heard Nythir calling after her, but she was too afraid to look. She would break if she saw the betrayal—or the concern—in his eyes.
She shoved through the doorway and burst into the bright town square. Her boots slapped against the stone as she ran past merchant stalls and startled goats. She didn’t stop until the world blurred into streaks of color.
Only when she reached the quiet edge of the forest did she slow. She leaned against a tree, hands shaking violently.
Trees didn’t ask questions. They didn’t expect answers. Esther clung to that silence like a lifeline.
Her mother had been here. Her mother had spoken of her. Her mother had prepared for her arrival.
Preparation implied certainty. Esther had none.
Ever since receiving her mother’s letter, Esther had become entangled in a grand scheme that moved too fast. People were waiting for her—people who needed a royal voice she didn’t know how to give.
She pressed her trembling hands to her forehead. Her mother had left her more than memories. She had left the responsibility. Responsibility didn’t ask if you were ready. It simply arrived and waited.
And Esther had run from it.
Sliding down the tree trunk until she sat on the forest floor, the bracelet pulsed gently against her wrist—a constant reminder of her mother’s will.
It felt heavier than gold. Heavier than magic. Like a hand reminding her she could no longer pretend ignorance.
She whispered into her palms, “I am not ready.”
But deep down, she feared the truth: the world might not wait for her to be.
And for the first time, Esther wondered if waiting had ever been an option at all.