Chapter 43 Esther
Esther
How to End a Kingdom: burn the problem, crown the solution, kiss the boy.
Esther’s knees ached where they pressed into the polished blackstone.
The cold seeped into her bones, into the bruises blooming along her ribs, into the raw strip of skin beneath the ropes binding her wrists.
The dagger’s edge dug into the hollow of her throat, steady as a heartbeat, hungry as a threat waiting to become truth.
She kept her breathing slow. Controlled.
If she breathed too fast, she could feel the blade bite deeper.
If she breathed too shallow, she felt her courage slipping like sand.
Inside her chest, however—
Inside her chest lived a storm.
A furious storm that slammed against her ribs, begging to burn its way out. It snarled every time the Draewyn king yanked her hair. It hissed whenever he breathed his cheap-smoke breath down her neck. It screamed every time she felt her own fear trying to rise higher than her resolve.
She couldn’t let that storm loose.
Not yet.
Not until—
“Stay still, princess,” the king hissed, spittle hitting her cheek. “Your armies should be arriving any moment. Let’s hope they value you alive enough.”
They would.
She knew they would.
And that was exactly why she couldn’t move.
Her magic reached outward like frantic fingers—feeling for the signatures she loved, the ones she trusted.
She felt them.
Nythir’s magic first. A pulse of silver so fierce it made her bones ache. It wasn’t calm, not anymore—it crashed, wild and desperate, like lightning trying to claw its way across the plains.
Then Lucy’s unhinged spark—sharp, reckless, unmistakably Lucy. Basil’s was a trembling hum, frantic but determined. Lyssara’s was a burning coal, simmering with fury. Vorrik’s was a bonfire, crackling with enthusiasm and terrible ideas.
And many others, who she had yet to meet.
Her people.
All of them.
She felt them thundering closer.
Hold on, she told herself. Just hold on—
The throne room doors detonated inward.
Stone exploded. Old tapestries shredded in the blast of magical pressure. Guards were flung backwards like children’s toys tossed aside.
Dust engulfed the room.
She could barely see—shapes in the haze, silhouettes rushing forward—but she could hear.
“Esther!” Lucy called.
“Nythir—stop—Ny—wait—Nythir!” Basil coughed. “Irene, do not go first—Irene—stop—” Basil’s voice became more forlorn with each word.
“For Queen Estella!” the Baroness wailed.
“Vorrik, put that man down!” Lyssara shouted.
Esther blinked against the sting of debris as the dust parted just enough to reveal them—her mismatched army, her impossible, ridiculous collection of allies.
Kraggmar orcs barreled through the haze.
Valedaran knights cut down guards at her flanks, led by her father and brother.
The Baroness glowed like a judgmental star, swinging her purse with righteous fury.
Basil ran after her with the energy of a man watching his entire life unravel.
Sable strode forward like the final page of a prophecy no one wanted to read.
Sylva moved low and lethal, tail lashing, eyes glinting.
Lyssara’s feral snarl echoed off the walls.
Vorrik swung a halberd backward—backward, why backward?—with catastrophic confidence.
Farmers and refugees stormed behind them, wielding brooms and iron pans like weapons forged for gods.
But leading them—
At the very front—
Was Nythir.
Silver magic coursed up his arms like molten starlight, bright enough to cut through the chaos. His eyes locked onto her with such fierce, unbearable desperation that her breath caught.
He looked like he was breaking.
The Draewyn king jerked her closer, pressing the dagger harder until pain flared and warm blood slid down her neck.
“Stay back!” he roared. “Valedara bows or this girl dies!”
The Valedaran knights froze. Even the orcs hesitated. Even Lucy made a strangled noise of helpless fury.
Her father stumbled into view at the doorway, horror carved so deeply into his expression she barely recognized him.
Lupin’s voice cracked. “Esther—no—”
The Draewyn king dragged her upright by the ropes, blade biting deeper. “Drop your weapons or lose your precious princess.”
Esther felt the panic ripple through the room like a tremor. The soldiers. The civilians. Her friends. Her family.
And Nythir—
Nythir stepped forward with magic erupting around him like a star going nova.
“Let. Her. Go.”
He didn’t shout it.
He breathed it—like a prayer breaking apart in his throat.
His voice trembled.
His hands shook.
His eyes—those steady, gentle eyes—were full of terror.
He was unraveling.
And for a heartbeat, seeing the fear in him—fear for her—almost broke her resolve.
I can’t lose you.
His magic said it.
His shaking breath said it.
The tremor in his stance said it.
The Draewyn king snarled. “Bow, or she bleeds.”
Esther closed her eyes.
And the world inside her changed.
She saw flashes behind her eyelids—her mother’s handwriting, her mother’s voice stitched into memory.
She saw the children in the plaza clutching stale bread.
The refugees from Kraggmar who whispered thanks as if she’d given them worlds, not crumbs.
The burned homes. The dying fields. The people who’d smiled at her with hope that made her chest ache.
If she did nothing—
Draewyn would crush Valedara.
More children would starve.
More homes would burn.
More innocents would die.
And this man—this cruel, power-hungry, small-hearted king—would keep killing until someone stopped him.
Her fear dissolved into something sharper.
She didn’t want to kill him.
She didn’t want blood on her hands.
She didn’t want to become something monstrous.
But—
It’s him or my people.
It’s him or Lucy and Basil and the Baroness and Lyssara and Vorrik.
It’s him or Nythir.
It’s him or me.
Her eyes opened.
“No,” she whispered.
The word did not tremble.
That surprised her.
Everything around her was chaos—shouting, clashing steel, the roar of magic straining against stone—yet inside, something had gone utterly still. Esther felt the moment settle into place, heavy and irrevocable, like a door closing behind her.
She thought of her mother then. Not the queen. Not the legend.
The woman kneeling in orphanage dirt, hands glowing softly as she healed without asking permission.
People first, Estella had taught her without words.
Esther drew a breath.
And chose.
It wasn’t defiance.
It wasn’t bravery.
It was a truth she chose.
Her magic bloomed.
Heat surged beneath her skin—gold, molten, ancient. It gathered behind her ribs, swelling like a sun being forged inside her chest. It flooded into her lungs until she could barely breathe without glowing.
She didn’t pull her hands free.
She didn’t need to.
She exhaled.
Fire.
Golden flames erupted from her palms, her bound wrists, her hair—an inferno blasting outward in a perfect, controlled torrent.
The Draewyn king didn’t even have time to scream.
One breath.
One flare of magic.
And he was ash.
His blade clattered to the floor.
His grip collapsed.
His body crumbled like a burnt page.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Not shocked.
Not stunned.
Obedient.
Esther felt the space where the king had stood—a hollow absence where oppressive certainty had once pressed down on every breath. The weight in the room shifted, recalibrating around her presence instead.
Her magic receded slightly, not extinguished, but settled—like fire banked low, waiting.
No one spoke.
No one needed to.
Esther stood alone in the center of the scorch mark, panting, hands still glowing faintly gold. Her throat stung, her heartbeat shook, but she was standing.
She had killed a king.
She didn’t regret it.
But it carved something deep inside her.
The room seemed to vibrate with the impossible—fear, awe, a collective breath held.
Her father and brother were statues.
Lucy looked ready to both cry and cheer.
Sylva blinked like he hadn’t expected her to go nuclear before breakfast.
The Baroness clutched her pearls, muttering, “My stars.”
Basil looked halfway between horrified and proud.
And Nythir—
Nythir stared at her like she had pulled the sun from the sky and held it between her hands.
Something fierce lived in his gaze. Something fragile. Something she wanted to fall into and never climb out of.
The weight of what she’d done settled in her bones.
She had saved them.
All of them.
And she had crossed a line that she could never return from.
A beat passed.
Then—
Lucy burst through the dust like a feral gremlin. She took in the smear of ash, the charred rolling head, and gasped with unrestrained delight.
“That’s what you get!” she shrieked, running up to punt the charred head like a soccer ball.
It hit a pillar. Wobbled. Fell.
Lucy threw her arms up. “I told you I wasn’t dying without kissing a man!”
Sylva froze. “What—”
Lucy grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him like she was conquering a kingdom.
Sylva dropped his daggers. A Kraggmar orc cheered. A Valedaran knight fainted. Even the Baroness merely blinked and whispered, “Well then.”
Esther almost laughed.
But she was already looking at him.
Nythir.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t move.
He simply opened his arms.
Her breath shattered.
Her duty cracked.
Her composure crumbled.
Her strength flooded out of her in a single heartbeat.
She ran.
Nythir caught her mid-stride, arms wrapping around her with a force that said he had nearly lost her and would never risk it again.
She buried her face in his chest, inhaling the scent of smoke and silver magic and home.
His hands shook as he lifted her. His breath broke when he pressed his lips to her temple.
He kissed her like he was choosing life.
She kissed him back like she was choosing her future.
“Absolutely not!” King Arcturus shrieked.
“Esther—stop kissing that strange elf!” Lupin howled.
But Esther only kissed him harder.
Because for the first time in her life—
She was choosing her own story.