Song vibe: Jimin – Lie

  __________

  SAPHIRA

  Lady's Chambers, Firestone

  The same hands that had trembled in the dungeon fastened moonstone buttons of her green gown. The mirror offered back a stranger—composed, immaculate, only twenty, yet already the Lady of Firestone in full control. But Quintus' screams still echoed in Saphira’s ears.

  Beneath her oak vanity, Dusty stirred—ears pricked, tail twitching as if she sensed Saphira’s distress. A growl vibrated low in her throat.

  “Calm,” Saphira murmured. Like a ritual, her hands brushed over the keep's keys at her waist, the belt knife, and lastly, the steel piercing in her ear. “We’ve faced worse than afternoon tea.”

  A knock at the door broke her reverie.

  “My Lady,” Verity said softly, stepping in with an empty tray. "Lady Marigold is on her way with Astra and Gorda."

  “Thank you, Verity.” Saphira drew a breath. “Are you sure you won’t join us?"

  “I’m of working rank,” Verity replied. “You don’t need me in there—you’ve got bite.”

  “I learned from the best. Wait…” Saphira’s gaze caught on Verity’s sleeve—tiny red flecks on the cuff. “You’ve got blood on you.”

  “I see.” Verity folded her hands behind her back, unfazed. “I sent word to Lady Gorda that her uncle has taken ill, quarantined until I can be sure it isn’t the Whispering Curse.” A wicked glint lit her emerald eyes. “It’ll take me three weeks to be certain.”

  “Three weeks?” Saphira raised an eyebrow. “Nocturne will be home by then.”

  “What a coincidence.” Verity flicked her copper hair over her shoulder. “Best of luck, Lady Saph.”

  With Dusty padding after her, Saphira left the Lady’s quarters for the adjoining Drawing Room. Chairs and tables had been dragged from other wings, a painting salvaged, the space now gleaming thanks to Maxine and Livia’s tireless scrubbing.

  “I thought you’d appreciate some colour.” Maxine arranged a vase of hellebores and snowdrops. “I'll show the ladies in now."

  As she left, Saphira exhaled. If Ginny were here, she thought, she’d have them trained in half the time—and laughing while they did it.

  Livia plucked a hellebore from the vase. “For your hair, my Lady.” She tucked it into Saphira’s braid with a grin. “Forget jewels—flowers suit you better. Lord Nocturne should have you painted like this, with Dusty on your lap.”

  “She’s already too big!” Saphira laughed, leaning under the table to scratch under Dusty’s chin. “Livia... I know you’ve been sneaking her snacks, you soft-hearted traitor.”

  A quiet knock sounded at the door.

  Lady Astra sat in her wheelchair, pushed by Rell. At the threshold, the chair was left behind; with a firm hand on Rell’s arm and the other on Maxine’s, Astra rose and hobbled to her seat. Age had hollowed her cheeks, and her long braid had thinned to silver thread, yet her posture still carried the pride of command.

  “Seventy-five and the winters are crueller each year,” she croaked, easing herself down. “Soon I’ll be confined to my mountain. If you take any advice from this old woman, eat healthy—gout is a silent thief of joy.”

  Marigold curtsied gracefully, one hand pressing lightly against her abdomen, guarding the tenderness of recent birth. “Between pregnancies and newborns, I’ve nearly been bound to Brightwood for half a decade. Such is a woman’s lot in life.”

  Gorda arrived last. The fabric strained slightly across her bodice; jewels glittered at her throat, drawing the eye from the fading bloom of her beauty. A faint sweetness trailed her in—too heavy for perfume, gone before Saphira could name it.

  Maxine pulled out her chair, and she sat with a heavy thud—perhaps heavier than she intended.

  As the ladies settled, Dusty’s nose twitched. Her ears flattened; a low growl rumbled through the room.

  “She is no lap cat,” Astra remarked with a disapproving tsk. “You’d do well to release her back into the wild before she grows too fond of humans.”

  “Hush, darling,” Saphira murmured, her hand smoothing Dusty’s fur. “I’m sorry, she’s usually quite agreeable. Rell?”

  The nineteen-year-old squire stepped into the room. “Yes, m’lady?”

  “Would you please take Dusty to rest?”

  He nodded, lifting the hell leopard effortlessly, taking care not to touch her stitches. As he turned to leave, he glanced back—Saphira met his eyes, her expression composed but her meaning clear: stay alert.

  “Tea?” she said lightly once the door closed, signalling Livia to pour. She turned to Astra. “Saffron and ginger do wonders for gout. If you like, I can ask Verity to prepare a special blend for you.”

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  “Celery seed and nettle leaf,” Gorda interjected smoothly. “Foreign spices are lovely, of course—but our air prefers what it knows.”

  “It’s really no trouble—”

  “Such thoughtfulness, Lady Saphira.” Gorda smiled faintly as she stirred her tea, the spoon clinking softly. “Though sometimes the simplest herbs—our own—serve us best. We mountain folk are stubborn that way.”

  Above: Lady Gorda Sunfire drinks her tea.

  Saphira smiled, her voice light, almost teasing. “A fresh perspective is always useful. I recall you carried foxglove at the sending-off ceremony—” she paused, purple eyes bright. My mother’s tale. And a not-so-subtle barb at Gorda.

  “—in Renatus, they say the fae gift foxes with foxglove to wear, to help them steal without a sound.”

  Gorda stiffened.

  Livia said you shared wine with Nocturne at last year’s Sowing Festival—a symbol of courting. Don't try to steal my husband, Lady Gorda.

  Astra nodded sagely; Marigold’s brows lifted, catching the undertone of the insult.

  “You have an eye for flowers,” Gorda remarked, looking at the ceramic vases. “Though I might have chosen something less… potent than hellebores. It would break my heart if one of Lady Marigold’s little ones touched the wrong bloom.”

  “You’re well-versed in herbalism, Lady Gorda,” Saphira observed, still smiling. “It’s clear I have much to learn still.”

  “Lady Gorda,” Marigold broke in gently, “try the biscuits—they’re delicious.”

  Saphira's gaze lingered on Gorda as she broke a biscuit, smiling.

  “Ladies, I must tell you that the plans for the Sowing Festival have changed," Saphira explained, indicating for Maxine to hand out the lists. "We won’t be opening the gates to the public. These are the approved invitees from your clans.”

  Astra pulled a monocle from her pocket and scanned the page. Her white brows twitched. “Most… unusual. Then the rumours must be true.” Her cloudy eyes lifted, strangely luminous. “An attack in the night—danger grips Firestone.”

  The words struck deeper than they should have. A faint chill rippled through Saphira’s chest—doubt, grief, a sickening sense of inevitability.

  “We all know of the Renatii threat.” Gorda’s voice wavered. “We saw the letters Duke Crassus sent—our Lord, accused of kidnapping and... defiling. Toubling and—”

  “—and false,” Marigold finished sharply.

  “I saw it in a vision,” Astra wheezed prophetically, "Death is coming, wearing the face of a friend."

  The weight of hopelessness pressed against Saphira's chest—grief, not her own—creeping cold through her veins. A voice followed, soft and coaxing: give in.

  She gripped the table’s edge until her knuckles whitened. No, she thought fiercely. These are not my feelings, are they? But how are they inside me?

  The door handle rattled in the adjoining chamber—once, twice—then flung open. Dusty limped into the room, hackles raised, fangs bared in Gorda and Astra’s direction.

  “I’m sorry,” Saphira managed.

  “Hell leopards are bad omens, guardians of the underworld.” Astra’s wrinkled mouth pinched. “I must insist she be removed from the room."

  “She needs me. She stays." Saphira's hand trembled as it smoothed Dusty’s fur. "Hush, darling."

  The moment her hand touched Dusty, the heaviness cracked—the despair receding like a tide. Warmth flooded back into her limbs, and her heartbeat steadied. Dusty’s growl softened to a low, steady rumble, protective—now clearly directed at Gorda.

  Saphira drew a long breath, steadying herself. The air carried a faint trace of foxglove—sweet, bitter—and underneath it a familiar scent. The same scent that had clung to Rell the day he pulled her away from the falling beam. The same scent that always followed August.

  The scent of magic.

  Surely not…Quintus swore on the truthstone that Gorda wasn't involved.

  Her gaze lifted to Gorda.

  The woman crossed her legs, wincing as the motion tugged something beneath her gown—a stiff, guarded movement. For an instant, Saphira glimpsed the edge of a linen bandage under crimson silk. A bite wound?

  Rell fought a mage with a wound. Saphira's hand gripped Dusty's fur. And someone laced my tea with snakeroot. Someone who knows poisons—and flowers. Her hands turned cold. The foxglove for Nocturne. The hellebores in the Great Hall. Those weren’t decorations—they were your game, a sick mockery.

  She steadied her breathing, keeping her smile poised as if nothing had happened. If she can reach me like that once, she’ll try again.

  I need to test her. If she’s who I think she is, she’ll reveal herself in arrogance.

  “Forgive me if I’ve been abrupt today, ladies." Saphira touched her belly, thinking of a lie. "My moon pains began this morning—the first since the loss.”

  Marigold smiled gently; Astra nodded with maternal gravity.

  Above: Lady Astra Yule and Lady Marigold Sunfire drink their tea.

  “There’s… a great deal of pressure,” Saphira went on. “Lord Nocturne spoke of having an heir as soon as possible.” From the corner of her eye, she caught the faint twitch of Gorda’s lips. “I’m still learning your mountain remedies—perhaps you could advise what helps the womb flower?”

  “Verity gave me red clover after my first loss, dear,” Marigold said, squeezing Saphira’s hand. “But let your womb rest awhile. He'll understand the toll.”

  “In my time, we’d sneak to the vila pools and bathe in their waters." Astra croaked a laugh. "Never saw one, of course, but we swore they blessed our wombs for daring.”

  Gorda gave a soft, knowing chuckle.

  “I see it now—how your hair shimmers like a vila’s." Astra’s eyes glimmered. "No wonder the Count was taken with you. Perhaps there’s mountain blood in you after all."

  Saphira kept her tone light, though her mind stayed razor-sharp. Don’t let the talk drift. One more push. Let’s see if Gorda bites—every herbalist knows rue is a powerful contraceptive.

  “Back in Renatus, the ladies used to whisper about a bitter plant with small yellow flowers. I found some growing here—made a tonic, but it seemed too weak.”

  “If it works,” Gorda said sweetly, “then why not make it stronger?”

  "Of course." Saphira tilted her head. “And what else might you recommend?”

  Gorda paused delicately. “If our mountain herbs don’t suit you, perhaps try what the foreign women favour. I hear silphium is much used in Lux.”

  Silphium—an abortifacient. Saphira’s pulse quickened. You can’t help yourself. You love toying with people, proving that I’m just the foreign fool—destroying what good Nocturne and I have built.

  Astra and Marigold nodded absently, too easily. The air thickened again—subtle, suffocating.

  No, Saphira thought, not charm—manipulation. She’s pulling them with magic.

  She knows her poisons. Dusty loathes her. She loathes me. Almighty—if the glove fits...

  “Rell,” she whispered. “Come in here, please.”

  If I’m right, this ends now.