Chapter 28 Nythir
Nythir
How to find someone who runs: follow the place your heart refuses to leave behind.
Nythir ran.
He ignored the shouting merchants and bleating goats. A cart rattled as its driver yanked the reins, swerving just enough for Nythir to slip past. Greyhollow’s colors smeared together around him—bright fabrics, hanging charms, crates of fruit flashing by as he cut through the square.
Somewhere behind him, Lyssara barked orders while Vorrik crashed into something that sounded expensive.
None of it mattered.
Essie had run. And all he could think, as he sprinted past the last row of stalls, was how she moved that fast on those short legs of hers.
He caught the faint imprint of her footsteps in the trampled dirt, leading toward the trees.
The noise of the marketplace thinned behind him, replaced by the hush of the forest at Greyhollow’s edge.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves in dappled patches.
The air smelled of earth and crushed grass instead of sweat and spices.
He spotted her at the base of an old elm, tucked into its roots as if she wanted the ground to swallow her. Her hands shook so hard he could see it from a few paces away.
She did not hear him. Not until he carefully knelt beside her.
“Essie,” he said softly.
She flinched and folded in on herself, chin sinking to her knees.
He did not touch her. He sat next to her instead, close enough to be there, far enough that she could breathe. The bark pressed into his back. A bird hopped somewhere above them, scratching against the branches.
“I am here,” he said. “Not to crowd you. Just to sit with you.”
For a long time, the only sound was her ragged breathing and the distant murmur of the square. A breeze stirred the leaves, brushing cool fingers over the back of his neck.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were red and shining, full of something that looked like despair.
“I am a mess,” she whispered. “I cannot do this.”
“You do not have to talk yet,” Nythir said gently.
But she did. Once the first crack appeared, everything spilled through.
“I know nothing about her,” Essie said, voice trembling. “Everyone else does. Everyone knows more about my mother than I ever did.”
Her fingers found the fabric of her sleeves and twisted, wringing the cloth like she was afraid it might vanish if she let go. She took a shaky breath, staring at the dirt between her boots.
“In the palace, no one talked about her,” she said. “It was forbidden. If I asked, the King changed the subject. The servants went quiet. They said her name was sacred. They said it was painful to speak about her. They said it was better to let her rest.”
Nythir shifted a little closer, letting his shoulder brush hers. A small, steady point of warmth. He stayed silent, afraid that any word from him would shatter the fragile strength it took for her to speak.
Essie swallowed hard. For a moment, the air felt heavier, like the forest itself had paused to listen.
“All I truly knew,” she said, “was that she was warm. That she was kind. That she was a good queen. That people loved her. That she had magic.” Her voice cracked. “Sometimes, it felt like her magic never left. Like the palace remembered her even if no one spoke her name.”
She pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, fingers digging into her hair.
“I did not even know she was one of the strongest mages in Valedara’s history until Luna told me the truth,” she said. “Everyone else knew. Everyone spoke of her like she was a legend, a miracle, a light the kingdom lost.”
Tears spilled over again, tracking down her cheeks. One dropped to her knee, darkening the fabric.
“And I know almost nothing,” she whispered. “I do not know her stories. I do not know her magic. I do not know her spells or her strengths or her past. I only know that she is everything I am not.”
Nythir hesitated. There were moments when Esther’s magic felt too precise, too familiar—like something remembering itself rather than being born.
Essie hugged her knees closer, shoulders trembling.
“How am I supposed to live up to a woman I barely remember?” she asked, words breaking. “How am I supposed to be the daughter of someone I never truly knew? I am lost. I am scared. And I feel like I am failing a mother who deserved better.”
Her voice fell to almost nothing.
“I cannot be her,” she said. “I cannot even begin to understand her.”
Nythir exhaled slowly. He had seen her furious, stubborn, terrified, brave. He had never seen her this undone, crushed beneath a weight no one had ever taught her how to carry.
He reached toward her and paused halfway, giving her time to pull away. She did not.
Very gently, he brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of his knuckles. Her skin was cool from the shade of the tree.
“Essie,” he said softly. “You do not have to be her.”
She blinked at him, eyes blurry and confused.
“You are not failing her,” he went on. “Those who failed are those who kept her memory locked away from you. You grew up with silence instead of stories. With rules instead of guidance. With expectations instead of truth.”
Essie’s gaze dropped to the ground again. A beetle crawled across the toe of her boot, and she did not seem to notice.
“Your mother was not meant to be a legend you must compete with,” Nythir said. “She was your mother. And the grief others carry is not yours to shape into duty.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
“You think you are failing because you do not know enough,” he said quietly. “But you are here. You are trying. You care. That alone would have made her proud.”
Essie shook her head, slow and miserable.
“I do not feel strong,” she said.
“Strength is not a feeling,” Nythir replied. “It is something you discover when you refuse to stay broken.”
He hesitated, words gathering like stones he had avoided lifting for years.
“You asked how I stay calm,” he said. “How I know who I am. The truth is, I did not.”
Essie sniffed, dragging her sleeve over her nose without much dignity. “What do you mean?”
“My life used to feel gray,” Nythir said. “I was born in a town so small it never made it onto any map. We had one road, one tavern, and one old man who shouted at the clouds for changing too fast. Every day was the same. Quiet. Predictable. Empty.”
A wry smile tugged at his mouth.
“I worked in a tannery for a while,” he said. “All day, every day, it was the same dull leather and the same smell that clung to my clothes no matter how often I washed them. I was surviving, not living. I felt like I had no purpose. Nothing that felt like color.”
Essie watched him with wide, wet eyes, as if it had never occurred to her that his world could ever have been anything but bright.
“Then I met Lyssara and Vorrik,” he said. His smile softened. “Two nightmares who walked on two legs and laughed around a campfire. They dragged me out of that gray world and tossed me into chaos. Loud, annoying, wonderful chaos. The kind that makes your blood move again.”
Essie’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile.
“But even with them,” Nythir continued, “something was missing. There were fears I did not understand. Emptiness I could not name.”
His voice lowered. He slid his hand along the grass until his pinky brushed against hers.
“Then I met you,” he said, his heart hammering far too fast for someone only sitting. “You brought more color into my life than anything before.”
He stared at their hands, fingers barely touching.
“You confuse me,” he admitted. “You surprise me. You terrify me. And you make every day feel like something new.”
Essie’s breath caught. Her fingers curled, just a little, against his.
“I do not know who I am without you anymore,” he said quietly. “And I do not want to.”
Her eyes filled again, but the tears were softer now, like rain after a storm instead of the storm itself.
“I do not know who I am either,” she whispered.
“That is all right,” he said. “We can find out together.”
He did not say that some paths find you whether you seek them or not.
A fragile silence settled over them. The leaves whispered overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a merchant shouted about a sale on turnips, faint and far away, like another world entirely.
Very carefully, Essie leaned into him, resting her weight against his side. He wrapped an arm around her, steady and warm, holding her like something both precious and strong.
She let out a long, shuddering breath, the kind that feels like finally settling down a burden no one else could see.
“Nythir,” she whispered, “I do not know if I can be anything like my mother.”
“You do not need to be,” he said. “Just be Essie. That is enough.”
This time, he felt it when her body loosened under his arm. She did not say she believed him, but something in her posture shifted, just a little, as if a tight knot had eased.
They stayed like that for a while, listening to the rustle of branches and the distant clatter of the town reassembling itself after their dramatic exit.
“Come,” he murmured at last. “The others are worried.”
Essie hesitated, then nodded. When she unfolded herself and pushed to her feet, her legs wobbled.
Nythir rose with her, ready to catch her if she swayed.
Her hand found his without thought, fingers threading between his like it had always been meant to fit there.
He took it.
And this time, when they walked back toward Greyhollow, he did not let go.