Song vibe: Butterfly - BTS

  ________

  SAPHIRA

  Sevenson's Farm, Lowlands

  Soon, they saw scattered cottages and chimney smoke rising into the air.

  "People!" Saphira said, hitching her skirts to walk faster.

  “Don't rush ahead." His hand rested on her shoulder, pulling her back. "Approach slowly. Let them see we’re coming." Nocturne’s pace shifted to an unhurried stride as he descended the hill. His umber eyes scanned the terrain with natural caution. “They know we're here.”

  Movement stirred near the barns. Five figures emerged, hastily buckling swords to their belts as they whistled for the dogs. The animals sprang into motion, a flurry of sleek bodies and snarling muzzles racing toward them.

  Saphira pulled her hood low, tucking the telltale strands of her lilac hair beneath the fabric as Nocturne halted ahead of her. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword, his presence exuding authority.

  Above: "Someone's already seen us."

  The dogs stopped short, their snapping jaws and growling protests forming an invisible line of defence. Behind them, the five men approached with measured steps, dirt clinging to their rolled-up sleeves and calloused hands. Their weapons bore scratches from use but were clean, with edges honed sharp. The youngest, barely out of boyhood, spun his half-sword with an air of showmanship.

  Four of the men shared a striking resemblance: sun-kissed skin, messy white-blonde hair, and wary blue eyes that flicked between Saphira and Nocturne. The eldest, whose hair had faded to silver, stood out with a patch over his left eye. He stepped forward, planting his sword point-first into the dirt. “You stand on claimed land. State your business, strangers.”

  Saphira frowned, struggling to parse the man’s thick mountain accent.

  Beside her, Nocturne responded smoothly in clanspeak. “We’re travellers seeking shelter. Our company was separated near Horrocks, and we spent the night in the rough.”

  “Travellers, eh?" The youngest barked a humourless laugh, spinning his blade again. "Ain’t many come through Horrocks alive. Too many nightspawn. You’re either fools or liars.”

  “Do you know who you address?” she demanded in the King’s Common tongue. When the men exchanged puzzled looks, she repeated in broken, exhausted clanspeak, “This is your Lord.”

  “Forgive me, my lord." The elder stiffened, his single blue eye widening in recognition—the other hid well behind an eye patch. He dropped to one knee. "It's been many years. I served in the first division when we ended Vandele. My sons—” He gestured sharply, “—kneel before Count Nocturne of Firestone.”

  The younger men obeyed, mouths open with awe as they sheathed their weapons. Nocturne gave a curt nod, his weight shifting between his feet.

  “My wife, Lady Saphira, needs rest and food.”

  “Your... wife?” the elder repeated. Turning to his sons, he barked, “Run ahead. Let Tullia and the girls know we have guests—and get those spawnrotting dogs to shut up!”

  As the sons ran ahead, the elder gestured for the pair to follow him. “I am Sir Dacian Sevensons,” he said, glancing at Nocturne. “Do you remember knighting me?”

  Nocturne’s lips twitched. “Sir Dacian?” he said, scratching his beard. “You led the charge at Vandele’s feeding pits. Lost an eye for your trouble. But back then, you were Dacian Foursons.”

  “Aye—and a sharp-tongued Yule wife gave me three more sons since,” Dacian chuckled, flashing a gap-toothed grin. “Don't let Tullia scare you.” He nodded toward the winding road below. “My youngest spotted the Blades on Haven Highway this morning—heading to Firestone.”

  “Good.” Nocturne glanced at Saphira, offering a rare wink that softened his usual edge. “Looks like the Almighty’s smiled on you since Vandele.”

  “That He has,” Dacian said proudly. “Seven sons—four married. Twenty grandchildren now. Livia’s eighteen—cleans, sews, cooks like a dream. Perhaps you’d take her to Firestone?”

  “Take it up with my castellan—Quintus Sunfire,” Nocturne replied, brisk but not unkind.

  “I’ve written,” Dacian said, smile tightening. “No reply."

  The cottages came into view, their stone walls and thatched roofs arranged neatly. Small children darted around their feet, brandishing sticks as imaginary swords and pelting each other with clumps of balled-up weeds. Their high-pitched voices carried over the low hum of daily work, peppered with questions and eager exclamations as they pointed at Nocturne and Saphira.

  Older teens lingered on the outskirts, their eyes suspicious as they whispered amongst themselves. She heard the words camp wife and adjusted her hood to hide her lilac hair.

  “Ignore them." Nocturne leaned closer, his voice low enough for her ears alone. "You’ll be resting by a warm fire soon enough.” His words, though gruff, carried a note of reassurance that softened her resolve.

  Children chased hens across the muddy yard, while a sleek orange cat dozed on the porch, flicking its tail at the commotion.

  Tullia waited in the doorway, her fire-red hair escaping in unruly tendrils from a loose braid. She wore a dirtied apron over a new woollen dress and balanced a one-year-old boy with strawberry-blonde curls on her hip. At her feet, a redheaded boy whacked the porch timber with a stick, the hollow thuds echoing off the stone walls of the cottage.

  “Jules, I told you to stop that!” Tullia snapped, cuffing the boy lightly on the back of his head. She shifted the baby on her hip and curtsied stiffly as Nocturne and Saphira approached. “Lord Nocturne, Lady Saphira—it’s an honour.”

  Nocturne waved a dismissive hand. “No formalities. Treat us as family.”

  Tullia let out a breath of relief. “Great, because this little brat won’t stay contained for long. Make yourselves comfortable inside.”

  Inside the cottage, the absence of rowanberries struck Saphira immediately. The space smelled of smoked meat, simmering broth, and the earthy tang of sweat, a stark contrast to the peppery scent in every Renatii home. An open hearth burned in the centre of the hall, its warmth radiating across the wide wooden table that dominated the room. Around it, women of all ages busied themselves—acknowledging them with polite nods, hands never pausing in their work.

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  Nocturne unbuckled his belt to hand the sword and scabbard to Jules. The boy carried them to the hearth with great solemnity, as if bearing treasure. The older sons followed, laying their weapons by the fire in a growing pile.

  Jules turned to Saphira expectantly, his hands outstretched. She patted her cloak with a soft smile. “I don’t need a weapon when I’m with him," she said, a note of pride in her voice.

  Tullia raised a thin red eyebrow as she added her dagger to the pile.

  “Tullia,” Dacian warned gently, placing his sword on the pile.

  What kind of ritual is this? Saphira thought, unable to shake the feeling that she had committed a faux pas.

  “I welcome you to my home." Dacian declared, "Place your weapons at my hearth, for I vow before the Almighty to protect you. Your cup shall spill over, and your plate will be full. Rest peacefully under the safety of my roof.”

  Nocturne’s response flowed like a well-rehearsed script. “We vow before the Almighty that we come in peace, with open hands and hearts. We accept your protection and offer our blessing on you for taking us in as guests.”

  Saphira observed the ritual with quiet astonishment. The mountain folk take the law of hospitality seriously. This is far more than I expected. A shadow of an old fear crept into her thoughts. In Renatus, they whispered that my father once killed a guest in their sleep.

  The women swiftly cleared their work from the table, making space for the men to sit. Dacian settled into the head chair, gesturing for Nocturne to join him at his right hand. The older sons crowded close to the knight, leaving Saphira at the far end near the kitchen. She noticed more children filing in from the yard—ranging from five years old to their late teens—adding to the growing cacophony.

  One of the older girls, close to Saphira’s age, approached with a shy smile. Her pale blonde hair, braided with fresh spring flowers, framed her freckled nose and round blue eyes. “I’m Livia,” she declared. “Papa wants me to work at Firestone—but I’d rather paint. Can I get you a beer?"

  “Water, please,” Saphira murmured, as her hand drifted instinctively to her belly.

  From the kitchen, the women emerged carrying mugs and pitchers of beer. Unlike the customs in Renatus, the men—ranked by importance—were not served first. Instead, each woman attended to her husband and children before turning their attention to Saphira and Nocturne, offering gestures of welcome and hospitality.

  While the men eagerly questioned Nocturne about his exploits, Saphira closed her eyes, savouring the respite from the biting wind and hard ground. The bench beneath her was cold, but better than a cave floor. A small body pressed into her side, and when she opened her eyes, Jules beamed up at her, curling close like a contented cat.

  “We don’t often get visitors,” Livia said, her blue eyes bright. “Are you heading to Firestone? Papa thinks I should go there to work, but I know it’s just because Granpapa told him that I’m to be married off. But I’m only eighteen—too young to marry. I’d much rather paint.”

  “Me too,” Saphira laughed, “Though I’m twenty, and in my home, most girls are married by then.”

  “Mama says I’m not realistic—but I’d say yes to Lord Nocturne in a heartbeat. Your family must be very important to marry you to a Count."

  Warmth and a flicker of pride coursed through Saphira. Across the table, Nocturne caught her eye, offering a subtle, unreadable smile. “Yes,” she replied, her voice soft. “I’m very lucky.” Relaxed, she reached up and pulled back her hood, revealing her distinctive lilac braids.

  Livia’s blue eyes widened. Her mother, passing by, gave her a sharp nudge, prompting the girl to lower her gaze with a blush. Around the table, the men averted their eyes, feigning ignorance of Saphira’s striking hair. A wave of regret washed over her. I should’ve kept the hood on.

  Jules tugged her braid. “Why’s your hair purple?”

  Smiling, Saphira tousled his red locks and countered, “Why is your hair red?”

  “It’s not red—it’s blonde…strawberry blonde!”

  Tullia, setting a baby into a nearby crib, chuckled. “Fire-red as any Yule, you little rascal. And mind your manners around a Lady!” She turned to stir the pot over the hearth, her brow furrowing. “We were all wondering when the Lord would take a…” She paused, saying with a strange inflection, “…wife. The Sunfire heiress has been telling everyone she’s promised to you.”

  Nocturne shuddered. “Gorda?”

  “Gorda the Beauty,” Tullia scoffed, stirring her pot harder than necessary. “Thirty-eight, still thinks she’ll bear Lord Nocturne's heirs."

  Nocturne straightened, his voice firm. “Lady Saphira is my wife. Lawfully."

  “My apologies.” Tullia returned to her pot, tasting the broth with a satisfied nod. “If I may speak plainly, my Lord, you picked wisely. Where is your lady from?”

  Before Nocturne could answer, Saphira said, “Renatus.”

  The spoon clattered into the pot. Dacian’s arms slipped from the table, and Jules scrambled underfoot to hide behind his brother.

  Leaning forward, Nocturne growled, “She is sworn to me and carries my child.”

  Tullia’s severe expression softened, her eyes wide with surprise. “My Lady! You should have said something sooner. You’re so small—barely showing. The babe must be only three moons along.”

  With a faint smile, Nocturne corrected, “Five moons.”

  Livia gasped with dramatic flair, “But your belly is so flat!”

  “I... I had to bind it,” Saphira confessed, cheeks blazing hot. “To keep myself from showing.”

  “You poor thing!” Tullia exclaimed. “But…why?"

  The question hung in the air, earning sharp whispers and elbows from the other women. Saphira hesitated but answered, “My father didn’t approve of the match because...”

  “He mistrusts us clansfolk,” Nocturne interjected smoothly.

  Shifting uncomfortably, Saphira glanced down at her muddy boots, their leather saturated from days of travel. The stench of sweat and grime clung to her, and her back ached. She caught Nocturne’s gaze; he nodded, his expression steadfast.

  Tullia gripped her spoon so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Nightspawn corrupt everything they touch. You—of all people—should know better.”

  “Tullia!” Dacian barked, slamming his hand on the table. “Mind your tongue. You speak to our Lord!” His tone softened as he addressed Nocturne. “Next time, avoid the caves, even if the longer path is harder.”

  “We had little choice,” Nocturne explained.

  Tullia's hand shook as she ladled broth into a wooden bowl. She made a show of walking straight to Saphira and setting the first meal before her. Tullia shoved the spoon into Saphira’s hand and commanded, “Eat.”

  Saphira gripped the spoon and made nervous eye contact with her husband. He’s not Renatii, he doesn’t understand the insult, Saphira thought, a wife should never eat before her husband.

  Nocturne raised his eyebrow expectantly; everyone else stared hungrily.

  Saphira dipped the wooden spoon into the steaming broth, its aroma rich with the essence of chicken, potatoes, and carrots. She sipped carefully, the warmth spreading through her chilled body. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she sighed softly. “It's wonderful."

  “See?” Tullia snapped, spinning toward the men with a sharp glare. “That’s how you show appreciation for a woman’s toil!” She grabbed another bowl, her red curls bouncing as she ladled out the hearty broth.

  As bowls were distributed, Saphira dipped a chunk of bread into her broth, savouring the simple, hearty meal. For the first time in days, her stomach felt truly full.

  Between mouthfuls, Nocturne addressed Dacian.“We need to catch up with the Blades. I require your two fastest mounts.”

  Dacian nodded. “Aye… Leave soon, and you’ll catch up to them before Firestone. My mare’s steady—a fine choice for your lady. Then there’s Honey, just out of her filly years. She’s spirited, but fast as lightning if you can manage her.”

  “I’ve experience with spirited females,” Nocturne laughed dryly.

  As the men laughed, a wave of despondency hit Saphira. I can’t take another day in the saddle, she thought.

  Dacian brushed breadcrumbs from his tunic and looked to his eldest son. “Roux, ready the horses. Tullia, pack food and water.”

  “I will do no such thing." Tullia froze mid-step, her sharp green eyes narrowing dangerously. “Look at her! You’ve starved her, dragged her through the wilds, slept her in the rough, and now you want to shove her on a horse for a two-day ride? No idea, the lot of you.”

  “Woman!” Dacian growled, his fists tightening. His hand rose.

  Saphira tensed, waiting for Dacian’s hand to chastise his wife.

  Dacian’s fist relaxed as he pointed to the door, saying, “That damned Yule temper of yours—out. Go cool your head.”

  Tullia's eyes widened as she looked at Nocturne. The red on her cheeks spread down to her neck as she rushed from the home.

  “Forgive her temper." Dacian cleared his throat, his voice steady but tinged with pride. "Nightspawn killed her first husband. She was taken in a raid but escaped—evaded Vandele’s spawnlings for two days in the mountains before we found her.”

  “Your wife is resourceful and wise." Nocturne approved, "She says mine must rest, and I trust her judgment. We’ll stay the night.”

  “You honour me." Dacian offered, "My own bed will be yours.”

  “The barn will suffice,” Nocturne replied.

  "I insist."

  Saphira watched the flames crackle, her spoon cooling in her hand. The voices faded, replaced by the rhythmic breath of children napping near the fire, the clatter of bowls, and Nocturne’s murmured reply to Dacian across the table.

  Her shoulders eased. Her breath slowed. And the thought hit her, Yes… I’m safe.