Chapter 38 Nythir
Nythir
How to start a rescue mission: stab first, hope for the best.
The explosion ripped the world open. The room shuddered violently; the lantern fell, and dust rained from the ceiling. Nythir jolted upright on instinct—then froze.
Esther’s bracelet lay on the pillow beside him.
But Esther was gone.
She had left him on her own two legs. She was the only person he ever dropped his guard around. If anyone had so much as breathed outside that door, he would have noticed.
The knowledge landed like a blade between his ribs.
She had trusted him. Trusted him enough to walk away without waking him, to believe he would understand her silence when he found it.
Nythir pressed his palm hard against his chest, breath coming too fast, too shallow.
He should have woken sooner. Should have known. Should have felt the shift in the air the moment she made her decision.
He had promised himself he would never cage her.
And in keeping that vow, he had left her unguarded.
Guilt coiled hot and sharp beneath his skin. Love had not failed her. He had.
His lungs caved inward. He scrambled out of bed, grabbed the bracelet, and tore into the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the front door.
His mind raced with questions and worry. She wanted him—so why had she left? Why could he not sense her, no matter how far he stretched his wards?
The silence was wrong. Not absence—wrongness.
Nythir had always felt her before he saw her. A warmth at the edge of his awareness. A familiar pull, like gravity remembering its source. Even when she was frightened. Even when she hid.
Now there was nothing.
The emptiness clawed at him, panic blooming cold and fast. He poured more power into the wards, teeth clenched, vision blurring at the edges. Nothing answered.
His magic recoiled, unsettled, as if it too recognized that this was not how things were supposed to be.
The street was chaos—smoke, shouting, running figures lit by flickering spellfire.
“Essie!” he shouted, voice cracking. No answer.
He ran through the streets, sending out his magic to find any lingering spark of hers. The longer her magic did not respond, the more frantic he became.
“Halt!”
He spun, dodging a splice of magic that tore through the air.
A man he did not recognize. And next to him—Sylva.
An acquaintance. Barely. A name from a guild board. Someone Nythir had passed in silence more times than he had spoken to.
But the look Sylva gave him now was lethal.
“He is cloaked in Esther’s magic!” the man said, summoning a sword made of wind.
“And… impossible! Queen Estella's magic?”
Nythir sized up the aura knight, aware of the familiar faces—ones that could trick Essie into leaving his side and into their trap.
He grasped his dagger, waiting for them to attack first.
Sylva charged. Steel flashed—dual blades unsheathed, gleaming in the dim light.
“Where is Esther—and Lucy?!” Sylva snarled.
Nythir threw up a shield just in time. Sylva’s first strike hit it hard enough to rattle teeth—the next sliced low, followed by a high cut in a perfectly trained rhythm.
“That’s what I should be asking you!” Nythir shouted, struggling to hold the barrier.
Sylva continued his assault, each slash chipping away at his shield. Sylva roared, “Tell me where she is!”
“I don’t know!”
Sylva froze mid-step, ears twitching.
“You believe that,” he growled. “But that doesn’t mean you’re innocent.”
He lunged again.
For a split second—barely long enough to register—Nythir understood. Not the attack. The fear behind it.
Sylva fought like someone protecting something precious, not like someone seeking victory. Every strike was desperate, defensive, fueled by the same terror roaring through Nythir’s veins.
Lucy.
The realization did not soften Nythir’s movements or slow his blade, but it shifted something sharp and dangerous into something colder.
They were not enemies.
They were mirrors.
Nythir dodged, flipping back with impeccable coordination. His feet barely touched the ground before he launched sideways, dagger drawn in the same motion. Quiet. Efficient. Deadly.
Sylva’s blades collided with Nythir’s shield, cracking its surface.
“You expect me to ignore the fact that Estella’s magic—dead queen magic—is on you?” Sylva spat.
“Or that Lucy’s trail vanishes at the exact same spot as the princess’s?”
“That princess is mine to protect,” Nythir shot back, deflecting a slash and countering with a force pulse that shoved Sylva two steps back.
“And I’ve never seen this Lucy person you are so obsessed with.”
Sylva’s jaw clenched.
“You believe everything you’re saying,” he said, voice shaking. “Which means someone’s playing all of us.”
“Then stop trying to kill me!” Nythir shouted.
Sylva attacked harder, blades whirling like a storm. Nythir ducked under a swing, slid beneath Sylva’s arm with surprising fluidity, and slashed upward. Their weapons clashed.
Steel sparks. Magic cracks. Panic echoed in every motion.
The stranger—Basil—shouted something, but neither heard him.
This was not just a fight. It was desperation.
Fear.
Love.
And the belief that the other man held the missing pieces.
Then—Boom!
A shadow dropped between them. A massive goliath sword slammed into the street, cracking cobblestones apart.
Both men staggered back.
Sable stood with her hand on the hilt, expression flat and unimpressed.
“Okay,” she said loudly. “Everyone who wants to continue breathing—stop.”
Everyone froze.
“Good,” Sable continued. “Luna sent a letter. She also told me to break up any fights. So—” she tapped the cracked ground with her boot, “—mission accomplished.”
Footsteps pounded toward them. The older teens from the orphanage arrived first, breathless and holding makeshift weapons—pitchforks, broom handles, kitchen knives.
Behind them came more: refugees—people with torn cloaks and worn boots.
And each of them wore something faintly glowing:
A gold-tinted earring
A ring warm with magic
A bracelet humming softly
Basil’s eyes widened.
“Those… those are all Estella's blessings,” he whispered. “But why?”
“The Queen saved all of us. In return, we promised to act when our relics awakened.”
“How many people did Estella tie into her plan?”
“A lot,” Sable said nonchalantly, like she wasn’t standing in the middle of a battle zone.
“I was also told to give you this letter from Queen Estella to—someone, I guess. Luna didn’t specify.”
Nythir and Sylva snatched it at the same time, glaring at each other.
“Let go,” Sylva growled, baring his teeth.
“No.”
“Enough!” a woman screeched, whacking them in the head with a purse and seizing the letter.
“Irene! I told you to stay inside!” the aura knight shouted, rushing to guard her.
“Not when my children are involved!” she snapped, whacking him again.
Nythir instinctively knew her—the Baroness, feared and respected in equal measure.
She tore the letter open, scanned it, and then shoved it at the aura knight. Sylva read it over his shoulder, then passed it to Nythir.
Dear Basil, Irene, and the man my child loves,
I have done all I could to prepare for this moment. I could not live for my beloved child, so I beg you: save my girl and my kingdom in my stead. March to Draewyn Dominion. The others will be there.
I leave the rest to you.
“Nythir!” Lyssara yelled, running through the smoke. “Are you okay? Where’s Essie?”
“Why do you look ready to kill someone?” Vorrik asked, hiding behind Lyssara.
“Because we are going to kill someone.”
“Who?” Lyssara asked cautiously, nodding to Sable.
“At dawn, we end a kingdom.”