Chapter 39 Esther
Esther
How to Identify the Princess: Step one—kidnap both girls. Step two—hope the right one doesn’t bite you.
The sharp, chemical bite of ammonia speared up Esther’s nose, ripping her from unconsciousness. Her lungs seized as she choked on the pungent sting. The air tasted metallic and wet, thick with mold and old stone.
Esther blinked hard, trying to force clarity. Her head throbbed dully, as if stuffed with cotton and struck with a hammer. Every breath scraped as it entered, shallow and panicked.
The stone beneath her back was damp and unforgiving. Cold seeped into her spine, into her bones, settling with intimate persistence. Somewhere, water dripped steadily, each echoing plink measuring time she did not have.
She cataloged herself instinctively: bruised ribs, burning wrists, no obvious bleeding—Lucy alive.
Magic—
Esther reached inward and met nothing but resistance. The absence made her stomach lurch, like missing a step on a staircase.
Beside her, Lucy gagged violently, the sound bouncing off dripping brick.
“Finally awake?” a sultry voice purred, smooth as velvet stretched over a blade.
Esther forced her heavy head upward. Her vision swam, then sharpened on a breathtaking woman: chocolate-brown hair cascading like polished silk, a tight black dress hugging her figure, fabric gleaming like oil in torchlight.
But it was the grin—sharp, predatory—that made Esther’s stomach twist. She recoiled instinctively, but the movement jolted iron against bone.
Her wrists were shackled to the frigid, sweating brick wall; cold seeping into her skin.
Lucy snarled beside her, thrashing like a furious animal. The chains clattered so harshly that Esther’s teeth ached. Lucy’s wrists were already red and swollen.
“Such crude behavior,” the woman laughed. “I am Princess Zaria of Draewyn.”
A chill slid down Esther’s spine. Her heartbeat stuttered—not for herself, but for Lucy, for Valedara, for every refugee who needed her alive.
She tried to summon magic—just a spark—but the chamber swallowed it whole. The runes carved into the stone hummed, pulling the magic from her like a leech. Esther gasped, as if breathing through cloth while someone pressed against her chest.
The markings crawled along the walls in deliberate patterns, etched deep enough to look ancient—and maintained. Someone had re-cut them recently. The lines glimmered faintly as they drained her magic with methodical hunger.
Esther had seen wards like these once before, in a sealed wing of the Valedaran archives. Designed not to kill, the text had said. Designed to contain.
That knowledge chilled her far more than the chains.
“What do you want with us?” she growled, forcing steel into her voice.
The heavy door groaned open, cold air swirling in. Hinges screamed like something dying, scraping down her spine.
“Your Majesty,” Zaria said, bowing. “I present to you the princess of Valedara.”
Esther’s breath hitched.
The man who entered carried authority like poison—thick, suffocating. His boots thudded with deliberate weight, each strike vibrating through her chains.
“Have you determined which one is the princess?” he asked. His gaze dragged over them like a butcher evaluating cuts of meat.
“Not yet,” Zaria replied.
He seized Lucy by the throat so quickly the torches flickered, examining her like livestock.
“Both have brown eyes and blonde hair,” he sneered. “One would think a princess would be easier to pick out. But both these girls are painfully mediocre.”
“I am not mediocre!” Lucy lunged and bit him—hard enough that Esther heard the crunch.
Pain flared across Esther’s chest—not from the slap, but from the fury surging through her. She strained instinctively against her chains, iron biting into her wrists.
Lucy did not cry.
She did not beg.
She bared her teeth and drew blood.
Pride bloomed sharp and dangerous in Esther’s heart. Whatever happened next, Lucy would not go quietly. Neither would she.
“You insolent pest!” he roared, striking her. The slap cracked through the chamber, the walls seeming to recoil.
“Your Majesty,” Zaria soothed, “leave them to me. I’ll send a messenger when I’ve broken them thoroughly.”
“Very well.” He rubbed the bite mark and cast one last contemptuous look. “Mediocre.”
The door slammed like a tomb, locks sliding into place with brutal finality. Silence settled—dense, icy, absolute.
Zaria remained facing the door, shoulders rising and falling in an irritated sigh, as though the king were the true burden.
Then she turned.
Her wicked grin brightened into something almost theatrically cruel.
“Well,” she said, clapping her hands, “now that it’s just us… we can have some fun, can’t we?”
Esther’s pulse thundered. Lucy growled.
“Oh, wonderful spirit,” Zaria cooed. “But we won’t have to resort to that.”
She cracked the door open again, peering out. Sparks hissed from the torches, briefly illuminating her thoughtful frown. Then she shut it gently.
The second it clicked, her entire act disintegrated.
The shift was abrupt, leaving Esther reeling. One moment, Zaria was a blade wrapped in silk. The next, she was frantic, focused—movements precise, nothing to do with cruelty. Her hands shook slightly as she inspected Esther, eyes darting not with hunger, but calculation.
This woman wasn’t unstable.
She was compartmentalized.
And that realization was somehow worse.
Monsters were predictable. People like this were not.
She darted to Esther, malice gone as if wiped clean.
“You’re not harmed, are you?” she whispered urgently.
“I told them not to be rough with you, but they electrocuted you. I’ll send them to the brig later.”
Her fingers brushed Esther’s jaw, warm and feather-light—checking, not threatening.
“I’m… fine?” Esther murmured, dizzy with confusion.
Lucy kicked uselessly, rattling her chains.
“Stop struggling, you’ll hurt yourself!” Zaria scolded. “Calm down.”
“Calm down?” Lucy shrieked—until Zaria stuffed a rag in her mouth.
“I’m sorry, but you’re giving me a headache, and I need to explain things to Princess Esther.”
Princess. The word hit like a stone dropped in Esther’s chest.
Zaria turned back to her with surprising tenderness.
“You look just like your mother.”
Esther’s throat tightened.
“Let me guess—my mother left a message for me with you?”
“You’re very astute,” Zaria said warmly.
Lucy mumbled furiously through her gag.
“What? No, I didn’t give myself away,” Esther told her.
“She already knew who I was.”
Lucy made a pointed noise.
“Well, I guess I did—but my mom has this whole building-an-army-of-supporters-after-she-died thing—”
Zaria burst into laughter.
“You two are ridiculous. How are you understanding what she says?”
“We’ve been together a long time,” Esther said.
“She basically has twin telepathy—aw, don’t get mushy on me, Lucy—fine, I’ll ask. She wants to know why we should trust you.”
Zaria’s expression softened into something heartfelt.
"Simple. Your mother left me with her memory to show you.”
She lifted her sleeve and offered her bare wrist.
“This is what she left for you.”
A faint gold glow bled beneath her skin—then erupted outward, a tidal wave of light and heat. It slammed into Esther’s chest, wrenching a scream from her throat.
Esther’s pulse thundered in her ears.
Every instinct screamed at her to pull back, brace herself, run—all useless impulses bound and bleeding against iron and stone. Her magic stirred weakly in response, recognizing the gold glow with aching familiarity.
Mother.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t just memory.
It was an inheritance.
The world vanished.
She fell.