SONG VIBE: Change pt 2 - RM

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  SAPHIRA

  Main Courtyard, Renatus Castle

  Saphira clapped her hands over her ears. The cathedral bells tolled loud and low, making her skull throb. Their peal called the people to sanctuary and the soldiers to war—but she did not flinch.

  He’s here, she breathed. He’s come back for me. Please, Almighty, don't let my father hurt him.

  “I’ll need Saphira on the wall—bring the crystalith necklace,” Crassus barked, already mounting a waiting horse. “No time for a carriage. Throw her on a saddle. And fetch Daisy!”

  A gloved hand gripped Saphira’s arm, dragging her backwards toward the tower. She twisted away, resisting, but the knight did not loosen his hold.

  "I...can't ride," she said, horrified. "I shouldn't."

  "You heard the Duke's orders." Without another word, he hoisted her up and set her in the saddle before him. Her coat flared open in the wind—she yanked it closed over her belly, hands fumbling.

  “I’m sorry, my Lady,” the knight said, settling in front of her on the saddle. “Hold on.”

  She reached for his shoulders, but he gently corrected her: “Around my waist. Tight.”

  Saphira hesitated, then obeyed, wrapping her arms around his middle. Guilt flared. The last man I touched was my husband. What if he sees me like this?

  The knight kicked his heels and the horse surged into a canter. Wind tugged at her veil—Saphira bit down on the edge to keep it in place, even as her eyes stung. Behind them, the inner gates slammed shut, sealing off the keep. They galloped through the city toward the outer wall.

  “Make way, make way!” The knights shouted as their horses cantered through the streets.

  Saphira looked upon Renatus with breathless awe, trying her best to remember every wonderful detail of the outside world—the magnificent fenced mansions, and the overflowing market stalls. As they rode three abreast, veiled women blew kisses to the knights from windows, and children threw flower petals, cheering and waving.

  From the highest windows, painted women hid their faces behind fans, looking down on them with seductive, hungry eyes. As the knights rode past, they beckoned flirtatiously with one finger—a trademark gesture of the pleasure trade. Saphira saw the younger knights blush and the women giggled with their success.

  At the end of the main street, they turned. Here, the houses were smaller, and there were no gardens. Fewer people waved and no flowers were thrown. The women in the windows were not ladies of culture and class, but paid women. They lifted their skirts to show their ankles and beckoned suggestively with one finger. Ignoring the prostitutes, they rode forward, turning into another street which led directly down the hill, and to the outer wall.

  Saphira let go of the Knight with one hand and pinched her nose. The air stunk from the open sewers, splattered as waste was thrown from the windows of the dirty, cramped townhouses, pressing into each other, connected by washing lines. Their procession moved into a single file, slowing to a trot as the people scurried around as frenzied ants, arms full of belongings, diving for safety. They trampled baskets left in the street and almost knocked over an old woman still hobbling to get inside.

  The great outer wall loomed over them—unbroken by invaders for centuries. The knight dismounted his horse and jumped into—what Saphira’s nose could only assume—was human refuse. The knight held Saphira under her armpits, passing her along to another knight, who passed her to another pair of waiting hands, who set her feet on the stone steps leading up the wall.

  Saphira readjusted her clothes and set out walking up the huge staircase. She felt her lungs tighten and her head turn weak. I used to be able to walk up my tower and still burst with energy, Saphira thought, this baby is taking all my strength.

  As soon as Saphira reached the parapet, she faltered, bracing her hands on her knees and doubling over as she fought to steady her ragged breathing. Around her, chaos roared to life—knights jostled past with clanging armour, servants stumbled beneath the weight of weapons and kindling, and runners shouted orders over the tumult. The icy wind sliced through the layers of her coat, the unforgiving frost promising the first fall of winter’s snow. With trembling fingers, she buttoned up her fur-lined coat, the chill sinking deep into her bones.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  At the battlements, Duke Crassus stood tall, his commanding presence a beacon among the chaos. His arms extended as his sons, Sage and Birch, buckled him into his resplendent armour. The ensemble was as regal as it was imposing: gold, silver, and steel intertwined with accents of leather and deep purple velvet. The heraldry of Renatus—a fierce dragon clutching a massive crystalith stone—gleamed on the breastplate and back, its image almost alive in daylight.

  Saphira edged toward the battlements, her heart pounding. Below, the Killing Field stretched out like a vast, empty grave. Merchants, travellers, and guards had vanished, leaving only scattered remnants of their hasty retreat. Beyond the open field, at the edge of the forest, shadows moved among the trees. There, the Ashen Blades waited. Their single banner fluttered in the wind—three crimson flames on a field of grey. The soldiers blended seamlessly into the dim forest, their grey uniforms merging with the barren tree trunks.

  Saphira felt her heart pounding, Is my husband amongst them?

  Suddenly, a firm hand yanked her back from the battlements. Saphira stumbled, startled, and found herself face-to-face with Birch, his expression caught between exasperation and worry.

  “Are you daft?” Birch’s dark blonde hair, unruly from the rush, framed his face, and his hazel eyes full of concern. “You could fall off!”

  “Birch,” Crassus summoned, handing a crossbow to Sage, “Arm yourself and stay at hand!”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” But as Birch turned to obey, he whispered to Saphira, “Whatever’s coming, it’s not your fight.”

  “Your Grace,” Sage said, selecting a bolt for his crossbow, “Should I send a warning shot to let them know we do not cower defenceless behind walls?”

  Crassus regarded his second son with a measured gaze. “Hold fire. But keep your wits sharp, boy.”

  Sage tilted his head, a flicker of disappointment flashing in his expression, but he obeyed, stepping to the battlements with the crossbow resting casually over his shoulder. As Sage passed Saphira, he paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t worry. If the Ashen Knight is out there, I’ll put an arrow through his throat before he even sees you.”

  Saphira stumbled backwards, bumping into Daisy.

  Above: Daisy taunts Saphira.

  Her half-sister let out an exasperated sigh as she pushed Saphira away. Daisy’s loose blonde hair brushed over her back and rippled in the wind—with no veil to cover her rouged pink cheeks and stained red lips. With a sickly-sweet smile, Daisy patted her pregnant stomach and said, “I knew my husband would come back for me and our babe. Father will give me to him, and we won’t have to fight.”

  “He sensed there was a nightspawn here to slay,” Saphira retorted.

  “Silly, sad, Saphira. Always second place, always in her tower—even on her own wedding night.” Daisy grasped Saphira’s forearm and whispered, “Do you want to know what? He knew we had switched places, but he said he’d much rather a woman with experience than a frigid.”

  Saphira paused. Experience? So Daisy admits—she's done this before. But with whom?

  “When this thing comes out, I’ll be the Lady of Firestone, and you’ll still be stuck in your tower," Daisy sneered.

  In perfect clanspeak, Saphira retorted, “Pity no one in Firestone will understand you.”

  “And now you’ve resorted to babbling." Daisy let a cruel laugh. "Fitting.”

  Before Saphira could respond, the chilly air turned icy.

  Gregor swept onto the parapet, with his mages marching behind him, covered in black flowing robes. Various states of decay marked their bodies—every single one had blackened hands, some with blackened necks, others, the corruption had spread so far that it had eaten out their eyes, leaving only hollow, dead holes. The look of a Hylander, Saphira thought, and father wants to marry me off to their Duke. She looked around at the strange men around her, and thought, Would you still fight for my Father if you knew he was allying with Hyland? Would you even care?

  With his own dark eyes, Gregor made eye contact with Saphira, and he smiled in a beckoning sort of way. Saphira shivered, pulling her furs closer to her body. He glided over to her and pulled out a necklace of pure crystalith. The chain was made of crystalith beads the size of blueberries and the oversized crystalith pendant hung off the end like a piece of overripe fruit. Gregor silently handed Saphira the necklace. He melted away into the crowd.

  Saphira hung the necklace around her neck, feeling the weight of the heirloom pull her down.

  A sudden hush fell over the parapet. The clang of armour and the hurried footsteps ceased, the weight of silence settling like a heavy cloak. All that remained was the sound of the wind, sharp and relentless, whipping through the battlements and snapping the purple banners of Renatus with their golden dragons.

  "Lady Saphira, concentrate," Cedar, the eldest of the Duke's bastards, lay a hand on her shoulder. "Steady."

  Saphira had always liked Cedar. He was the eldest of the Duke’s bastards, born to a scullery maid when Crassus was barely more than a reckless boy. By all rights, he should have been forgotten—a stain on the Duke’s name. Instead, he had carved a place for himself with sharp intelligence and silence.

  "You look well, Cedar," she murmured, feeling the chill before the conflcit. "I heard about your triumph at Hanover."

  "The city is safe from nightspawn—" His tone was even, but his eyes flicked toward Crassus, burdened. "—for now. Though who knows for how—"

  Cedar cut himself off, his eyes flicking to movement in the tree line.

  Saphira’s breath caught as the shadows shifted. Her pulse quickened, hammering against her ribs as a lone figure emerged from the dark. Nocturne—he’s here, he’s alive!