Chapter 48 Esther
Esther
How to Get Married: hope for a peaceful ceremony and prepare for chaos.
Weeks later, the palace gardens bloomed out of season—like they had forgotten how to obey the calendar.
Roses, lilies, and wildflowers spilled over stone borders in a riot of color.
Vines curled up trellises in soft green spirals.
Tiny golden motes drifted in the air when the breeze shifted, the last echoes of Estella’s magic woven through the soil.
If Esther listened closely, she could almost hear her mother humming along with the rustling leaves.
It felt like the garden itself had dressed up for her wedding.
Esther refused extravagance.
“No gold fountains,” she told the planners as they hovered nervously around their sketches. “No silk carpets or diamond chandeliers.”
Their quills stuttered to a stop.
“What do you want, Your Majesty?” one asked hesitantly.
Esther looked out over the garden, where staff and volunteers hurried about. Orcs argued cheerfully with bakers about oven space. Children chased each other between the hedges. Lanterns were being strung from tree to tree.
“A wedding everyone can attend,” she said. “Food for the people. No waste. I want them to feel like they’re celebrating with us, not watching from a distance.”
Relief and confusion mingled on the planners’ faces, but they bowed and hurried away to adjust their plans.
And so they placed long wooden tables instead of gilded ones, with simple lanterns strung overhead. White cloths fluttered in the breeze. Clay cups and mismatched plates lined the surfaces, already waiting for whatever dishes the guests would bring.
Children ran barefoot between the benches.
Farmers brought their best breads and preserves.
Orcs roasted entire boars in pits at the far end of the garden, smoke curling in the air.
Knights tuned their old instruments, testing strings and valves as if their armor had always come with sheet music.
Esther watched it all come together and felt her heart swell almost painfully.
This was not the kind of wedding she had been raised to expect.
It was better.
It was hers.
“Why is there bleating?” she asked aloud.
Lyssara, standing beside her with her arms folded, sighed deeply. “Because Vorrik.”
Esther turned.
Vorrik strode into the garden like he was entering a battlefield, proudly carrying a fluffy white goat in his arms. The goat wore a flower crown and what looked suspiciously like tiny leather shoes.
“Vorrik,” Esther said slowly. “Why do you have a goat?”
He grinned, tusks flashing. “This is the wedding goat.”
The goat bleated, tried to bite his tie, and then twisted to headbutt Lyssara in the hip. The little bells on its shoes jingled with violent enthusiasm.
Lyssara hissed and rubbed her side. “If that creature touches me again, I will turn it into a very festive stew.”
“You roast my goat,” Vorrik replied gravely, “you roast a family heirloom.”
Lucy popped into view from behind a stack of pastry boxes, eyes bright with delight. “Why is it wearing shoes?”
“These are ceremonial hoof covers,” Vorrik said, scandalized.
The goat stomped, bells ringing again.
Sylva, standing a few steps away, went rigid.
“No,” he said quietly. “Absolutely not. Remove it.”
The goat rotated its head, locked eyes with Sylva, and let out a challenging bleat.
Sylva instinctively stepped behind Lucy. “Keep it away from me.”
“You are taller,” Lucy said, amused. “Why am I your shield?”
“Because you are sturdier in spirit,” he muttered.
Lucy’s smile turned smug. “I’ll accept that.”
Esther pressed her fingers against her mouth to hide her laugh. Her nerves hummed under her skin, but the absurdity helped.
The Baroness swept into the garden at that moment, skirts flaring, hair impeccably arranged. She took three elegant steps, caught the edge of a stone, stumbled, flailed, and then straightened as if nothing had happened.
“No one saw that,” she announced.
“We all saw that,” Lucy said.
The Baroness chose not to hear her. She pushed forward, eyes shining as she looked Esther over.
“Esther, darling, you look radiant—and also vaguely like you might faint,” she said. “Excellent. Bridal perfection. Let me see the dress again.”
Esther glanced down. Her dress was simple, cream, soft, and light, the fabric flowing when she moved. Golden thread traced phoenix feathers along the hem and bodice, climbing like flames that chose to rise instead of consume.
“It is perfect,” the Baroness said firmly. “Understated, symbolic, flattering. Your mother would be proud.”
Esther’s chest ached in a good, painful way. “I hope so.”
The Baroness’s expression softened. She reached out and adjusted a loose piece of hair beside Esther’s face.
“She would be more than proud,” she said. “She would be unbearable about it.”
Lucy stepped close and clasped her hands. “I would like to formally report that you are the prettiest person in the garden and I am offended.”
“You look beautiful too,” Esther said.
“I know,” Lucy replied.
A familiar quiet presence drifted in at the fringe of the chaos.
Basil had arrived.
He wore formal robes that still somehow made him look like he should be holding a stack of books. His eyes were sharp, taking in the arrangement of runes in the garden beds and the subtle glow of protective magic around the gathering area.
“Basil,” the Baroness said, seizing his sleeve. “Tell me you handled all the magical safeguards. If anyone sets themselves on fire trying to light a lantern, I will simply lie down and never rise again.”
“I have layered protections over the entire area,” Basil said. “No uncontrolled fire, no stray lightning, no accidental explosive bursts.”
Lucy raised a hand. “What about controlled chaos? Asking for a friend.”
“If that friend is you,” Basil said, “there is no spell strong enough.”
Lucy gasped. “Was that… a joke?”
His mouth twitched. “An observation.”
Sylva stepped closer, holding a small velvet pouch in his hand.
“Esther,” he said. “I brought something for you.”
She turned toward him, curious. “You did?”
He opened the pouch and poured a few smooth, pale stones into his palm. They glowed faintly in the sunlight.
“Moonstones,” he said. “For clarity. For protection. Us foxes give them at important thresholds. New journeys. New oaths.”
Esther’s eyes stung. “They are beautiful.”
He hesitated, then offered one. “Keep it with you. Just in case Lucy’s bad decisions spill over.”
“Excuse me,” Lucy said. “My decisions are excellent.”
“Your results are questionable,” Sylva replied.
Lucy elbowed him lightly. “You’re being sweet. Don’t ruin it.”
“I am not being sweet,” he said. His tail betrayed him by flicking in a pleased rhythm.
Esther closed her fingers around the stone, feeling its cool weight settle against her palm.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He dipped his head once and stepped back.
For a moment, the noise of the garden faded. Esther looked around at the people bustling through the space—knights stringing lanterns, children sneaking early sweets, orcs arguing lovingly over seasoning, the Baroness lecturing a table arrangement as if it had offended her honor.
This was her life now.
Not the lonely, quiet halls she had once wandered.
Not the frightened, suffocating version of the palace she had grown up in.
Alive. Messy. Loud. Hers.
Her heart raced.
“Lucy,” she whispered. “What if I trip? What if I forget my vows? What if I say the wrong thing? What if Nythir changes his mind halfway through the ceremony and just runs into the forest and becomes a hermit or something?”
“Esther,” Lucy said, taking her shoulders.
“Deep breath. Again. There. Good. One: if you trip, I will also trip so they think it’s a performance.
Two: your vows are simple and you wrote them.
Three: if Nythir runs away, Sylva will track him, Vorrik will tackle him, Lyssara will drag him back, and I will throw cake at him until he repents. ”
Esther huffed a laugh. “That is not comforting.”
“It should be,” Lucy said. “You are terrifyingly loved.”
From the other side of the garden, a small commotion rose. The ceremonial officiant had arrived and, according to whispers, had already walked into a low-hanging branch, apologized to it, and then tried to bless a squirrel.
The squirrel had not been impressed.
Basil rubbed his temples. “I am beginning to regret agreeing to work with living people.”
“You say that every day,” the Baroness replied.
“Yes,” Basil said. “And I am always correct.”
Before Esther could spiral any further, the noise around her shifted. A ripple of awareness passed through the gathered guests. Musicians readied their instruments. Children were shushed. Lanterns burned a little brighter.
Her father was approaching.
King Arcturus walked across the garden in formal robes. They were not heavy with jewels or ostentatious gold. They were well-made and dignified, with phoenix feathers subtly embroidered into the sleeves. His crown sat steady on his head, but his eyes were anything but calm.
They were bright. Wet at the corners.
He stopped in front of her and just looked at her.
For a long, full moment, he did not speak. His gaze traced her face, her dress, the phoenix feathers that matched his. Something in his expression crumpled and rebuilt itself all at once.
“You take after her,” he said hoarsely.
“My magic?” Esther asked.
“Your stubbornness,” he said. Then he smiled—small and aching. “And your way of making everything look brighter simply by standing in it.”
Her throat closed around a rush of feelings she could not name fast enough.
“I always thought,” she said quietly, “that you did not want me in the middle of things. That you wanted me hidden away.”
“I wanted you safe,” he said. “I did not know how to do that without locking you in a box. I was wrong. And when you were gone, I realized that all my careful distance did nothing. I had already lost you, and I had never properly held you.”