Chapter 47 Nythir
Nythir
How to Prepare to Be King: panic quietly, fail publicly, persevere anyway.
Nythir had faced assassins with less dread than this.
He stared at the parchment in front of him, jaw tight, quill hovering uselessly above the page. The words Treaty Ratification Procedures swam slightly, as though they were actively trying to escape his comprehension.
He did not blame them.
“This is a trick,” he muttered.
Lyssara, seated far too comfortably across the table, didn’t even look up from her tea. “It’s a signature.”
“It’s a weapon,” Nythir said flatly. “Why are there three places to initial? Why does one of them require a seal? Why is the seal a phoenix?”
Vorrik leaned back in his chair, boots propped against the wall like a man who had never once worried about governance in his life. “Because kings like cool things.”
“I am not cool,” Nythir said.
Sylva, perched near the window with a dagger he absolutely did not need indoors, glanced over.
“Lie.”
Nythir shot him a look. “I am not.”
Sylva’s ears flicked. “You want to be.”
“I want to survive the week.”
That earned a laugh from Vorrik—a loud one.
The kind that suggested this was the best entertainment he’d had since the war ended.
In the history books, the battle at Draewyn would be written as a groundbreaking war between three nations.
In truth, it had been the strangest culmination of individuals ever led by a woman with a purse.
The room they’d trapped him in was a sunlit study tucked away in the quieter wing of the castle. It smelled faintly of old books, wax polish, and impending doom.
Three days.
Three days until the wedding.
Three days until he would stand beside Esther in front of the entire kingdom and promise to be something he had never trained for, never planned for, and never wanted.
Except that she wanted him there.
Except that she chose him.
That was the problem.
The door opened, and Nythir’s soul withered a little more.
A court tutor entered, arms laden with books and scrolls, expression kind in the way of someone about to ruin his day.
“Lord Nythir,” the man said cheerfully. “Shall we continue?”
Nythir closed his eyes. “Define continue.”
Two hours later, Nythir was certain his soul had left his body.
He had learned: how to bow correctly (apparently there were degrees), which fork to use at a diplomatic table (why were there six?) and that saying the wrong title could technically start a war.
He had also learned that Lyssara found all of this delightful.
“Again,” she said, watching him attempt a formal greeting. “Slower. You’re supposed to look dignified, not like you’re bracing for impact.”
“I am bracing for impact,” he hissed. “If I mess this up, Essie will—”
Sylva cleared his throat.
Nythir froze.
Sylva tilted his head slightly. “Fear.”
Nythir exhaled. “Yes. Obviously.”
“It’s loud.”
“Can you not announce my emotional state to the room?”
“I can,” Sylva said mildly. “I am choosing not to.”
Vorrik leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Say the line again.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“I refuse.”
“‘It is my honor to—’”
Nythir stood abruptly. “I have killed men for less.”
Lyssara smiled sweetly. “You’re doing this because you love her.”
That stopped him cold.
The room quieted, even Sylva’s dagger pausing mid-spin.
Nythir ran a hand through his hair, breath unsteady. “I know.”
“She loves you,” Lyssara continued gently. “Which means she is trusting you with something terrifying. Not power. Presence.”
Vorrik nodded once, uncharacteristically serious. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to stay.”
Nythir swallowed.
That was harder than fighting.
The next lesson involved dancing.
He had foolishly hoped that this would be optional.
The instructor clapped once. “A king must be able to lead his partner.”
Nythir stared at the floor. “She leads me.”
Lyssara coughed to hide a laugh.
Sylva did not hide his.
They placed Nythir in position, corrected his posture, and counted the steps. Left. Right. Turn.
He tripped.
Vorrik applauded.
“Again,” Lyssara said.
He tried again.
This time, he didn’t trip—but he did spin too fast and nearly collided with a side table.
Sylva caught him by the collar.
“Balance,” Sylva said. “Also—panic.”
“I am not panicking.”
Sylva’s ears twitched. “Lie.”
Nythir groaned and pressed his forehead briefly to Sylva’s shoulder. “I would rather face another army.”
“Can arrange,” Vorrik offered.
Lyssara shot him a look.
By the time they released him, dusk had crept into the room, casting everything in gold and shadow. Nythir sagged into a chair, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
He thought of Essie—probably navigating another council conversation with grace and fire, probably handling ten problems at once without breaking stride.
He would stand beside her.
Even if he shook.
Even if he messed up the bow.
Even if he hated every fork at the table.
“I’ll do it,” he said quietly.
Lyssara’s expression softened. “We know.”
“For her,” he added. “And for you. And for this ridiculous kingdom.”
Vorrik grinned. “That’s my future king.”
Sylva tilted his head, considering. “Fear has lessened.”
Nythir huffed a tired laugh. “Give it time.”
As they rose to leave, Nythir glanced back at the abandoned parchment on the table. Treaty Ratification Procedures stared back, smug and unreadable.
He squared his shoulders.
Three days.
He could survive three days.
After all, he was marrying the woman he loved.
And that, terrifyingly, felt worth everything.