Chapter 46 Esther
Esther
How to Harvest: gather grain, gather donations, and gather the horrified expressions of wealthy nobles realizing generosity is now mandatory.
Esther had only three days after her return to usurp the Harvest Ball and Festival completely.
The leaves were browned at the edges. The air was cool—crisp enough to sting her lungs when she stepped onto the balcony. The city below seemed to breathe with her—slower now, but steadier.
Fewer smoke plumes from burned homes.
More lanterns in windows.
More lines outside bakeries—not because there was nothing, but because there was finally something worth lining up for.
The Harvest Festival banners had already begun to appear on the streets. Traditionally, they meant one thing:
A week of feasting for the nobility.
A single night of opulence in the palace ballroom.
And the faint, bitter hope that some scraps would trickle down to the people.
Esther stared at the banners and felt her jaw tighten.
Not this year.
Not anymore.
The council chamber smelled of ink and old arguments.
Esther sat at the head of the table—not on the raised throne, but in a plain chair beside it. Her father had insisted on the throne. She had insisted on the table.
“We have always held the Harvest Ball in the palace,” one noble droned, flipping through his notes. “Invitations, performances, a seven-course meal—”
“For nobility,” Esther said.
He faltered. “Well. Yes. That is how it is done.”
“How it was done,” Esther corrected.
Murmurs rippled around the table.
King Arcturus sat to her right, watching quietly, letting her speak. Lupin hovered beside Arietta on the other side of the room, trying to look supportive and mostly looking like he wanted to faint.
Esther folded her hands on the table. “This year, the Harvest Festival will be held in the city. In the lower plazas and market streets. No ballroom. No private feast.”
Several nobles blanched.
“The people have barely survived raids and famine,” she continued, voice firm. “We are rebuilding. We cannot celebrate while pretending they don’t exist.”
“That’s not how this works,” a countess said tightly. “The Harvest Ball is a tradition.”
“So is ignoring starving children,” Esther said. “We’re ending at least one of those.”
A few councilors drew back as if she’d slapped them.
Her father’s mouth twitched—the ghost of a proud smile he quickly hid behind his hand.
Esther continued before they could regroup.
“We will use what we already budgeted for the Harvest Ball—but instead of crystal chandeliers, we’re funding food, shelter repairs, and winter supplies.
The festival will be open to everyone. Free meals at the crown’s expense, funded in part by a new initiative. ”
There it was—the word that would cause trouble.
“Initiative?” one baron repeated suspiciously.
“A Harvest Tithe,” Esther said. “Every noble house in good standing with the crown will contribute—food, coin, or materials—proportionate to their estates.”
Gasps, sharp as snapping twigs.
“You can’t force us to—” someone began.
“You’re right,” Esther said pleasantly. “I can’t force you to care about the people whose labor built your estates and keeps your tables full.”
A few lowered their gaze.
She let the silence stretch, then added calmly, “But I can decide which families are in good standing with the crown. Which families receive future trade licenses. Which families receive palace contracts and legal protections. Which families receive invitations to coronations, weddings, and state banquets.”
Baroness Levon, seated further down the table, smiled slowly like a cat watching a canary walk into a room unescorted.
“So to remain in the crown’s favor,” Esther finished, “you must demonstrate that you care about more than your own vaults. Publicly. Generously. Consistently.”
“That sounds like extortion,” grumbled one noble.
“That sounds like accountability,” the Baroness said sweetly. “And an excellent opportunity to improve your reputations. Just imagine your names on plaques, darling. ‘House So-and-So: Hero of the Hungry.’”
Several nobles perked up at that.
“House reputations have been strained of late,” another muttered. “An association with the rebuilding efforts would help…”
Esther fought the urge to roll her eyes. If they wouldn’t move for compassion, she’d drag them by vanity.
Arietta leaned toward Lupin and whispered—not quietly enough—“Your sister is terrifying. I like her.”
Lupin made a faint squeaking noise.
King Arcturus cleared his throat. “I support the crown princess in this,” he said. “We let things rot for too long. It is time our Harvest Festival reflected what we want this kingdom to be—not what it used to be.”
That took the last of the fight out of the room.
Slowly, hesitantly, nobles began to nod.
The Baroness patted her gloves and sat forward. “I will organize the ledgers,” she said. “We’ll list each house’s contribution publicly, of course. It would be a shame if someone forgot and saw their name under ‘Absent.’”
A chill of social terror swept the nobility.
Esther allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
“Good,” she said. “Then let’s begin planning the biggest Harvest Festival Valedara has ever seen.”
They took over the war room for festival planning.
Lucy pinned color-coded scraps of parchment to a massive map of the city, humming off-key. Sylva stood beside her, arms folded, tail twitching as he watched her plan chaos like a general.
“This plaza for the food stalls,” Lucy said, jabbing at the map. “This street for games. The orphanage can run the pie stand. The refugees can sell whatever crafts or skills they have. Oh! And a stage here for performances.”
“Performances?” Sylva asked warily.
“Music. Storytelling. Maybe a goat juggling act if Vorrik gets too excited,” Lucy said.
Sylva grimaced. “I will not protect the city from goat-based incidents.”
“You say that now,” she said cheerfully.
Lyssara leaned over the table, tracing patrol routes with a fingertip. “We’ll need guards at every entry point. And runners between districts. If someone tries to use the crowd as cover for theft or worse…”
“We’ll catch them,” Sylva finished, nodding. “I’ll set up vantage points.”
“If you climb on a roof and glare down at people,” Lucy said, “half the city will propose marriage and the other half will assume they’re being judged by an angry forest deity.”
Sylva opened his mouth, then shut it again, unsure how to argue with that.
Arietta sauntered in, followed by a lumbering Vorrik carrying a crate of festival games.
“We bring Kraggmar traditions,” she announced. “Stone-lifting competition. Tug-of-war. Wrestling pit.”
“And one event where you chase a greased boar,” Vorrik added enthusiastically.
“That’s a Vorrik-specific creation,” Arietta sighed.
“No,” Esther said.
He looked offended. “But it’s good for community.”
“I am drawing the line at greased livestock,” she said. “We compromised on the goat.”
Lucy perked up. “There’s a goat?”
“Later,” Esther said quickly.
Basil sat in a corner with four ledgers and six ink pots, muttering to himself as he calculated supply lists.
“We require… twelve additional grain shipments. Expanded soup cauldrons. Reinforced tables. And seven extra healers if we allow arm wrestling near sharp objects.”
“We’re not allowing sharp objects,” Esther said.
Basil flipped a page. “Then four extra healers.”
The Baroness glided in like she was arriving at a ball instead of a logistics meeting. She no longer wore the extravagant silks she had once been so proud of—her garments were more practical now, though still brightly colored.
“I have spoken to half the noble houses already,” she said. “Most of them are tripping over themselves to be seen as generous. The rest will follow when they realize jewelry donations are going out of fashion and philanthropy is the new trend.”
“That was fast,” Esther said.
The Baroness smiled. “Fear and fashion are powerful tools, dear. You simply gave me both.”
Esther looked around the room.
Her people.
Her chaos.
Her impossible, miraculous second chance to do something real.
For the first time, her magic felt… steady. Heavy in her bones, but not like a burden. Like fuel.
“This isn’t just about one festival,” she said quietly.
Everyone fell silent.
Esther’s gaze dropped to the map. “This is our first promise—that as long as the crown stands, no one in Valedara will be forgotten. Harvest is not just for those who already have plenty. It’s for those who almost lost everything.”
“Refugees, orphans, the outer villages,” Lucy said softly.
Esther nodded. “If the nobles want to stand beside the throne, they stand beside them.”
Sylva’s voice was low. “And if they don’t?”
“Then they can enjoy their harvest from far, far away,” Esther said. “Without our protection. Or our name.”
Basil, of all people, smiled—small and sharp.
“I look forward,” he said, “to updating the registries.”
The day of the Harvest Festival arrived crisp and bright.
Banners fluttered from every balcony, not just the wealthy districts. Everything was hastily thrown together—but beautiful.
The central plaza thrummed with life.
Refugees from burned border villages ran food stalls, serving stews and flatbreads made from recipes no one in Valedara had tasted before.
Orphans handed out hot rolls from baskets bigger than they were.
Nobles—actual titled nobles—ladled soup side by side with blacksmiths and dockworkers, their silks protected by aprons they clearly didn’t know how to tie.
Music drifted on the air—fiddles, drums, a flute someone had rescued from a pawn shop.
Children shrieked with laughter as they bobbed for apples. Vorrik refereed a wrestling pit with more enthusiasm than sense.
“This is chaos,” Lupin muttered, standing beside Esther at the edge of the plaza.
“It’s beautiful,” Esther said.
He glanced at her. “You’re really not going to let us hide in the palace this year, are you?”
“Nope.”