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  ________

  SAPHIRA

  Sevenson Farm, The Lowlands

  When they finished eating, Tullia took Saphira by the arm and led her to the upper parlour. A straw-stuffed mattress, piled with soft goat pelts, offered a small but welcome comfort.

  “Boots,” Tullia said, holding out her hand. “The girls will scrub them. Clothes—off. Toss them down the stairs and I’ll see them washed. Livia will bring you a clean nightdress—you look about the same size.” Her eyes lingered on the large crystalith necklace around Saphira's neck. Tullia pressed her lips together, saying nothing further.

  Saphira hesitated, overwhelmed by her brisk care. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  Tullia softened, brushing a strand of hair from Saphira’s face. “Rest now, girl. You’ve earned it.”

  In the loft, Saphira sat on a worn wooden stool. She took off her father's necklace and set it aside, finally relieving herself of the enormous weight of the family's priceless heirloom. Her fingers hovered near her boot laces, too tired to undo them. She did not notice Nocturne until his shadow fell over her. Without a word, he knelt and reached for her boots.

  “You don’t have to—” she began, but he silenced her with a look.

  He loosened the mud-crusted laces and slid the boot off with surprising gentleness. Then the socks—wet, clinging. Cool air hit her skin and she sighed softly, wiggling her toes.

  A faint wince crossed his face as he saw the red marks on her heels. “They’re swollen,” he said, voice low, edged with concern.

  “It happens in pregnancy,” she muttered, flinching when he brushed a tender spot.

  Saying nothing, he set a bucket of warm water beside her. He dipped a rag, wrung it out, and began to wipe the dirt from her feet—his touch slow and careful.

  Saphira turned her face away, cheeks warm. “You don’t…have to do this.”

  He did not answer. He just wrung out the cloth again, wiped her ankles clean.

  “Dacian will lend us his cart,” he said after a moment. “We’ll go slower—but it’ll be easier.”

  “Thank you.” She hesitated. “Nocturne…what is a camp wife? Why do they think I’m one?”

  His hands paused. The rag hovered above her skin. “It’s a Mountain tradition,” he said shortly. “Don’t worry about it.” He resumed wiping, but tension crept into his shoulders.

  After a moment, he exhaled. “I’ve been too harsh on you.”

  Her gaze dropped to his hands, now drying her feet with a cloth. “I would have given up if you hadn’t pushed me.”

  A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “I would never push a lady—” he paused, “—but I did carry you.”

  She laughed softly, the sound lighting her face. Dipping her fingers into the warm water, she let the heat soak into her bones. “If it were my father,” she said, “he would have left me behind for being a burden.”

  “You’re not a burden." His jaw clenched. "I swore before the Almighty to protect you. I failed—you and the child were in danger. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Before she could reply, he stood, sharp and deliberate, and walked toward the stairs. As he did, he passed Livia. He gave the girl a polite nod and carried onwards.

  Livia appeared at the top of the stairs, balancing a comb, a cup of tea, and a small dish of soap flakes on a tray, and a nightdress in the other.

  “Dandelion and milk thistle,” she said, setting the cup beside Saphira. “It’ll help draw out any corruption. While it cools, let me help you undress. I’ll hang your clothes by the hearth—they’ll be dry by morning.”

  Saphira nodded and turned her back, letting Livia unfasten the buttons down her filthy woollen dress. The damp fabric clung to her skin, but Livia’s nimble fingers worked quickly.

  Now in her underlinens, Saphira stood still as Livia unwound the binding around her belly. As it fell away, she exhaled deeply, unaware she had been holding her breath.

  She caught sight of herself in the polished steel mirror propped against the wall. Her hands drifted to her stomach, now rounding with unmistakable shape. It felt like she was staring at a stranger.

  “You look so pretty pregnant,” Livia said, blue eyes sparkling. “No wonder Lord Nocturne married you.” Her voice dropped to a soft curiosity. “What’s it like… being pregnant at our age?”

  Saphira’s throat tightened. She focused on the faint scent of rowanberries rising as Livia let down her lilac hair. Unbidden, memories surged—Ginny brushing her hair, Celestine braiding it. I’ll never see them again.

  “I’m sorry,” Livia said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. My aunts always say pregnancy is wonderful, but I think they just want me married off soon.”

  “With the right husband,” Saphira said quietly, “it’s bearable.”

  “How will I know if he’s the right one?" Livia hesitated, then bit her lip. "If he loves me?”

  “Love might be too much to hope for." A flicker of bitterness crossed Saphira’s face, but she hid it quickly. "As long as he’s faithful…and kind.” She took the tea into her hands, savouring the warmth. Then, she asked softly, “Livia…what is a camp wife?”

  “It’s…um…well…” She squirmed, avoiding Saphira’s eyes. “A Mountain man has a wife at home, but when he’s out fighting, he has… needs. A camp wife is a—”

  “A prostitute?” Saphira asked flatly.

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  “More than that…” Livia flushed.

  “A courtesan, then?” Saphira pressed. “But why did your family think I was one?”

  “We…just didn’t understand.” Livia fidgeted with her apron. “I'll wash your dress while there’s still light.”

  Saphira watched her dart down the stairs. She picked up the comb and worked it through her tangled hair, pulling free violet strands with slow, deliberate strokes. Her fingers trembled. Don’t cry, Saphira. Don’t think about Celestine.

  From below came the soft hum of Tullia’s voice and the clatter of kitchen work. Outside, men’s voices murmured, hammers thudded. The quiet normalcy of it all felt surreal after everything.

  She closed her eyes, just for a moment. Rest.

  Saphira stirred. Footsteps creaked across the floorboards. She opened one eye.

  Nocturne stood near the bed, setting down a bucket of steaming water. In the pale moonlight, she watched him strip off his leather jerkin, then the damp cotton shirt beneath.

  Her breath caught.

  Scars crisscrossed his back and shoulders, some old, some fresh. A new cut glared red across one shoulder blade; a deep bruise darkened his left forearm.

  The cost of my father’s prideful boon, she thought.

  He untied the warrior knot holding back his dark hair. It fell in inky waves as he plunged his head into the bucket, scrubbing his hair, neck, and beard. Water streamed down his jaw, catching the flickering light of the candle. He squeezed out his hair, then dipped a cloth and ran it over his arms, muscles shifting beneath damp skin.

  Saphira watched—silent, flushed, unsure whether to look away or keep staring.

  “Everyone’s asleep in the barn,” Nocturne murmured as he washed his forearms.

  “I… um…” She startled, clutching the furs tighter. "Was just..."

  “—enjoying the show?” He smirked. “I can hear you watching me. Make yourself useful,” he added, tossing the cloth toward her. “Come, wash my back.”

  “But we’re both…" Her cheeks went red. "We're barely dressed.”

  "What happened to the impatient little vila?” He chuckled.

  “I wonder that too,” she muttered.

  “I won’t peek..." His tone softened, "...if it helps.”

  Saphira shuffled closer, wrapping the furs tightly around her thin dress, eyes flicking to make sure he was not looking. How was I so bold on our wedding night?

  She pressed the cloth to his back, avoiding his wounds. His skin was warm under her fingers. Her heart pounded.

  Above: Saphira washes his back.

  “How long since you last bathed?” she asked.

  “I soaked in the river here—briefly. But in a proper tub? The day of our wedding.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious. I went straight from your tower to the shadowlands. After Golgog was slain, we washed off the spawn blood. That was it.” He paused. “If I’d stopped for a bath, you’d be Duchess of Hyland now.”

  Saphira flinched.

  “Instead,” he said, turning his head slightly, “you’re Countess of Firestone.”

  She exhaled. “You said you wouldn’t peek at me.”

  His umber eyes caught the candlelight. A lock of damp hair fell over his scarred cheek.

  He’s wildly handsome. Her heart thudded. I need more of that oil Celestine gave me. Daisy said I was frigid—I don’t want her to be right.

  “If you're done being shy,” he smirked, leaning back, “start with my chest.” He grasped her wrist and laid her hand against him.

  Her palm lingered on his chest, touching the warm skin and coarse hair. She ran the cloth over him, slow and deliberate, rinsing the last of the sweat away.

  Then, Nocturne’s gaze dropped to her stomach. “Your bump... it looks much bigger.”

  “I… finally took off the binding.”

  “What binding—? Oh.” His brow furrowed. “I want to feel the baby.”

  “I’m ugly, and swollen, and—”

  “Stop,” he said, firm but quiet. “Don’t let the baby hear you say that about yourself."

  Saphira lay back without a word, arms crossing over her belly. A chill ran over her skin.

  He hesitated, reading her tension. Slowly, he ran the backs of his fingers along her forearms in a gentle, disarming motion. His finger traced down her wrist. “This won’t hurt.”

  She stiffened, heart pounding. Does he mean to lay with me? I’m not prepared.

  But he did not touch her in that way. Instead, he closed his eyes—deliberately—and lowered his head to rest against the curve of her stomach.

  Above: Nocturne hears the baby.

  She shivered at the contact. His face pressed lightly to her bump, breath warm through the thin cotton.

  His body stilled.

  Saphira rose on her elbows. “Is something wrong?”

  “I can hear him,” Nocturne murmured. “He’s kicking. His heart’s steady.”

  “He?”

  His jaw clenched. His hands rested reverently on her belly.

  “Why don’t you seem happy?” She watched him, anxiety curling in her chest.

  “I’m still in shock,” he murmured. “With you and the child... I have a future now.”

  “I thought you didn’t want a child.”

  “I do,” he said, voice steady. “But not like this. I didn’t mean to get you with child.”

  Saphira’s breath hitched. “So the place is right, but the person is wrong?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Felix said you must have known what would happen—when you… did that to me.” Her voice cracked. “So why, if you didn’t want this?”

  “I... always wanted to be a father." Nocturne exhaled, running a hand through his wet hair. “I tried. For years. Nothing ever came of it. The shadowlands… what they did to me…” His voice faltered. “I assumed I was infertile.”

  He looked down at her stomach, hands spreading gently over it.

  “When you stood on the wall and told everyone, I didn’t believe it. One night? After years of nothing? It felt like a hoax.” His gaze hardened. “If I had thought there was a single chance of getting you with child, I would have taken every precaution. Not because I don't want this—" his umber gaze bore into hers, resolute. “—but because I never wanted to harm you.”

  “You didn't harm me," she whispered, her fingertips ghosting over his hand. "My father did."

  "Maybe." His lips thinned. “But I still failed you. Something I wanted—desperately—came at your expense. I want this child." He trailed a hand down her bump, rough fingers reverent. "But I’m afraid. Of hurting you. Of corrupting him.”

  Saphira reached down and closed her hand around his. “If his heart is beating,” she whispered, “he’s strong—like his father.”

  “Father,” he repeated, the word catching in his throat. His fingers traced slow circles on the taut skin of her belly, wonder softening his face. He looked up at her. “Felix was right,” he said after a long pause. “I should’ve known better. I'm sorry I was irresponsible."

  “I’m glad it happened,” Saphira said gently. “Because I escaped. And now... we get to share something wonderful.”

  "Then maybe,” he said, his touch lingering, “it was an act of the Almighty.”

  “I always prayed someone would take me away,” she murmured.

  Nocturne did not answer at first. He reached out and lifted the furs.

  “Come here,” he instructed.

  Saphira hesitated, clutching the blanket around her thin nightdress.

  He just waited, gaze unwavering.

  She moved slowly, closer, until he caught her wrist and drew her gently down beside him.

  Above: "Lay still."

  “Lay still,” he murmured, pulling the covers over them both. His arm slid around her waist with quiet confidence, his hand resting low on her belly—firm, protective.

  She stiffened for a breath, then melted into the warmth of him.

  His body was solid behind her, steady. His breath brushed her shoulder. "Now sleep," he whispered.

  She just laid her hand over his and closed her eyes.