Chapter 43 Esther #2
And no king living or dead could stop her now.
The throne room slowly emptied, chaos bleeding into subdued murmurs as soldiers escorted prisoners out and civilians searched for familiar faces.
Lucy was still arguing with Sylva about whether her kiss counted as battlefield valor.
The Baroness lectured a guard on posture.
Basil looked like he aged ten years in the last twenty minutes.
But Esther barely heard any of it.
Nythir hadn’t let go of her.
His grip was not crushing, but desperate—like if he loosened it even slightly, she might vanish again. She felt the tremors in his hands, the hitched breaths he tried to disguise. The way his heartbeat still galloped beneath the thin layer of calm he wore.
She brushed her fingers over the back of his hand. “Nythir,” she murmured. “Look at me.”
It took a moment.
When he lifted his head, she saw a crack in him—thin, hairline, but devastating. His eyes were red-rimmed, the silver still smoldering under the surface of his skin.
He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again.
“I thought—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Essie, I thought I was going to walk into this room and find—”
His throat closed.
Her own heart squeezed painfully. She touched his cheek.
“You didn’t,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
“That’s not—” He shook his head and a single tear slipped free.
He didn’t even seem to notice it. “That’s not enough explanation for what I felt.
For what I—” A strangled exhale slipped from him.
“I’ve lost people before. Too many. I know what it feels like when the world goes quiet.
And I thought—stars, Essie—I thought the quiet was waiting for me on the other side of that door. ”
Esther’s chest twisted.
She had seen many versions of Nythir—gentle, protective, furious, tender—but she had never seen him like this.
Unmasked.
Unsteady.
Barely holding himself together.
He breathed in through his teeth. “When I saw him holding that dagger to you—when I saw blood—I thought…” His voice crumpled. “I thought I was breaking.”
Esther slid her hands up to cup his face fully. “Nythir. You didn’t break.”
“I did.” His breath shuddered. “Inside, I did. But I couldn’t— not in front of you—not while he still had you. I had to stay standing. I had to stay angry. Because if I didn’t…” He shut his eyes like he was frightened of what he’d see. “I don’t know if I would’ve been able to move at all.”
Something inside her softened and shattered all at once.
She pulled him forward until his forehead rested against hers.
“You can break now,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be strong for me anymore.”
His breath caught on a stutter. He bowed his head just slightly, as if his whole body sagged under the weight of relief.
And then, quietly—barely audible—
“Essie, I can’t lose you. Not you. Not ever.”
“You won’t.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, drawing him closer. “I’m here. I’m alive. I’m not going anywhere.”
That was all it took.
His arms tightened around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His breath shook in her hair. His shoulders trembled.
Nythir—strong, calm, composed Nythir—finally broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a silent collapse of fear he had carried alone.
Esther held him, fingers weaving through his hair, breath steady against his cheek. Her magic quieted around him, golden warmth softening the tremors in his chest.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “I’ve got you.”
His breath steadied slowly, the shaking easing.
Esther held him without thinking.
Not like someone afraid of losing him — but like someone who would not let go.
His weight sagged against her, grief and terror finally finding release, and Esther realized with a quiet, startled certainty that she was not being protected anymore.
She was the one holding the world together.
The thought did not frighten her.
It steadied her.
When he finally drew back, his eyes were clearer. Exhausted. Raw. But alive.
“Tell me,” he whispered, “you’re truly all right.”
“I am,” she promised. “Because you came.”
His jaw trembled again, but he breathed out and nodded.
They leaned into each other, forehead to forehead, two survivors holding the pieces of the moment together because they refused to shatter separately.
They hadn’t even reached the hall outside the throne room before her father intercepted her.
“Esther,” King Arcturus said sharply.
His voice had never sounded like that—like a man standing between awe and terror, not sure which one to bow to.
He waved the others back. Even Lupin, who hesitated but obeyed when Esther gave him a soft, reassuring nod.
The king stared at her in silence.
Not at her face.
At her hands.
Still faintly glowing.
Still warm.
Esther curled her fingers. “Father, I—”
He flinched.
Not from fear of her.
From fear of what her actions meant.
He stepped closer with slow, measured movements, as if approaching something fragile and holy all at once.
“You killed him,” he said quietly.
There was no judgment in his tone. Only disbelief. And something heavier.
“I did,” she answered, meeting his gaze without apology.
He drew in a slow breath. “I have seen executions. I have seen war. But what you did…” He looked past her at the scorch mark staining the throne room. “That wasn’t rage. That wasn’t revenge. That was…” His voice crumbled. “That was a queen deciding the future of nations in one heartbeat.”
Her throat tightened. “I didn’t want to. I had to.”
“I know.” His voice cracked.
He stepped closer, searching her face for something—guilt, fear, regret. He found none. Only the shaking aftermath of sacrifice.
“Your mother once said,” he murmured, “that true rulers are forged in fire. I didn’t want that to be true. Not for you. Not for my little girl.”
Esther’s breath trembled. “Father…”
“She would have been proud.” His eyes shone. “And terrified. And in awe. Just as I am.”
Her composure wavered. “I don’t— I don’t know if I’m proud.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said gently. “But you should know this—what you did saved your people. Saved your brother. Saved me. Saved him.” His eyes flicked to Nythir, now standing quietly down the hall. “And it saved a future we didn’t deserve but desperately needed.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
King Arcturus reached up, slowly, cautiously, and brushed it away with a thumb. His hand cupped her face with trembling reverence.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For ever doubting you. For ever underestimating you. For ever being afraid of your power, when it was the only thing that could save us.”
Esther leaned into his palm. “I didn’t want to be this.”
“I know,” he said. “But you are. And gods help me…” His voice softened. “I’ve never been more proud of anything in my life.”
Her chest broke open in quiet grief and relief all at once. She hugged him—something she hadn’t done since childhood—and he held her tightly, fiercely, like a man who had almost lost the last piece of light in his kingdom.
When she finally stepped back, he kissed her forehead.
“Whatever comes next,” he said, “you won’t face it alone.”
She believed him.