Song vibe: Don't leave me – BTS

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  SAPHIRA

  The Apothecary, Firestone Castle

  Saphira lost count of how many times she woke in the dark, heart pounding, the last traces of tears and a nightmare clinging to her skin.

  For two days, Nocturne did not leave her side. Whenever she woke, he was there—his hand around hers, his eyes heavy but steady, bringing bone broth, and reading out loud when she was awake. She could not remember what books he read to her—only that he was there, his low, steady voice a constant comfort.

  When she could stand without swaying, he took her to bury Asher. He had already chosen the place—a quiet hollow beneath an old oak, overlooking the hills of Firestone. The ground was frozen, but he had dug it himself. As they laid their son to rest, a single shaft of sunlight broke through the grey, warming the cliffside. The whole ceremony passed in a soft, muffled blur.

  “I’m sorry for everything, Saphira,” Nocturne whispered, his voice rough. His grief was contained, almost disciplined—but she felt it, trembling through the way his hands enclosed hers. “I wish we could’ve seen our son grow up—together.”

  His words broke something in her. But he had held her while she cradled their son one last time. Wiped away her tears as he covered the small grave. Carried her back to the Apothecary when her legs gave way.

  She brushed the dirt from her skirts as she sat by the sunlit window. What a beautiful place for Asher to rest, when the snow melts, I'll come often to lay flowers. The thought surprised her, a small seed of colour in a week of grey.

  Life went on, though grief stayed close beside her, nestled next to her heart. She remained in the Apothecary, though she longed to move elsewhere. Verity refused—“just in case something else happens.” August lingered too, inventing excuses to stop by each day, his pale gaze cool and assessing.

  What happened to me after I fell unconscious? she wondered, fingers brushing the sore wound on her shoulder. I feel… different.

  She did not dare to ask. Her heart pained her enough to take any more.

  She worked beside Verity—cutting herbs, hanging flowers to dry, distilling oils until her hands smelled of lavender and rosemary. The scent of orange blossoms made her pause, thinking of Celestine, of Ginny and Helena, before she bent back to busying her hands with work.

  By the week’s end, the grief dulled to a constant ache. Nocturne often brought her small things—a stick of charcoal, a worn leather book, sweet tea—but his visits grew shorter, often broken by Quintus’s urgent interruptions, long nights of closed-door meetings with the Mountain Knights, of whispers from the servants.

  Saphira kept her head down and her hair wrapped, braided in cloth strips and tied up. Where is my place in Firestone? I feel like a guest overstaying their welcome.

  The days passed by, blending into each other, bringing a slow and heavy exhaustion.

  The pale green sap of hellebores irritated Saphira’s fingers as she sliced through the thick roots, peeling away their dark outer skin to reveal the creamy flesh beneath. She dropped the prepared roots into a glazed earthen bowl, the juice stinging where it caught on the raw edges of her nails. She had not seen Nocturne since dawn, when he had quietly slipped into the apothecary and tucked her back into bed. He's got a busy day. Her heart had sunk as she rolled over and drifted back to sleep. He's the Lord of Firestone, I understand.

  Then her quiet was interrupted by a warm voice.

  “Lady Saphira. I’m Lady Marigold, Felix’s wife. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Saphira turned—and the sight struck her like a sudden winter wind. A heavily pregnant woman stood in the doorway, flaxen blonde hair catching the light, hands resting instinctively over the curve of her belly.

  For a heartbeat, Saphira forgot how to breathe.

  Marigold's expression gentled, not pitying—simply kind. She set a linen parcel on the desk, fingers smoothing the cloth as though giving Saphira time to gather herself.

  “Felix mentioned you may need some new dresses,” she said softly. “I came to drop these off. They no longer fit me."

  Saphira inclined her head, composure sliding back into place like armour.

  “That’s thoughtful of you. The Count has been… occupied. Firestone leaves him little time for domestic concerns.” She paused, eyes lowering briefly to the folded linen. “Or for me.”

  The admission slipped out before she could catch it. Marigold's lips pursed. "I see. I'll—"

  “Ah, Marri,” Verity called from across the apothecary, then glanced between them, reading the air too quickly. “Let’s… take you to another room.”

  “The check-up can wait,” Marigold declared, straightening with surprising resolve. “I’ve got something more urgent to sort out.”

  She turned on her heel and waddled from the apothecary with the determined momentum of a woman who had decided something was unacceptable and meant to fix it personally.

  Saphira watched her go, uncertain whether to feel relieved or vaguely threatened.

  The room fell quiet again—until the door creaked open a short while later.

  Saphira saw movement out of the corner of her eye and turned.

  Nocturne stood there, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, sweat beading at his temple. His practice sword hung loosely in one hand; the other pressed briefly to his abdomen, a faint grimace flickering before it vanished. When his gaze met hers, it was cool and unreadable.

  Behind him, Felix lingered in the corridor, one broad shoulder braced against the stone as if he had merely happened to escort the Count this way. His expression was mild, almost apologetic, as he said, "Verity, come. Marigold is waiting for you in the guest wing."

  The door closed with a quiet click.

  His gaze caught on her Renatii dress hanging over the chair, and for a heartbeat, his expression tightened, as if with memory, before smoothing into his usual composure.

  “Are you hungry?” Nocturne asked softly, speaking in Renatii, her mother tongue.

  Saphira nodded.

  “Good,” he replied, his eyes lingering on her sap-stained hands. “Looks like we both need to wash up. I’ll come back for you in an hour.”

  I guess that’s his version of a dinner invite. Saphira thought, finishing her work before the sap could harden. Her gaze dropped to the plain grey gown Verity had dressed her in, a serviceable, modest garment, but joyless. She peeled it away and reached for the dress of thick green wool she had worn from Renatus.

  The fabric was heavier than she remembered, carrying the faint scent of cedar soap. One of the few tangible pieces of my homeland. Her fingers lingered at the seams, tracing the familiar weave—until the memory caught: this was the dress she had worn when she lost Asher. The wool felt colder against her skin. I don't even want to touch this again.

  Slowly, she opened the parcel Marigold left on the table. She selected the warmest dress, one of wool dyed a deep green. Though slightly loose around her bust, the dress fit perfectly otherwise.

  Nocturne returned soon after, wearing a fresh black linen shirt, the cuffs rolled neatly to his forearms. His hair was still damp from a wash, tied in a warrior’s knot, a few strands falling loose to catch the torchlight—he looked as though he had rushed to be here before the water had dried. Stress wrinkled his face, and the shadows under his eyes remained.

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  “Follow me,” he said, “To my Solar.”

  He moved through the corridors beside her with an easy, deliberate stride—silent, only nodding once to the guards they passed.

  As they walked, Saphira saw how neglected the interior remained—even with the Lord at home. Far too few servants, far too much decay. She glanced at Nocturne, his jaw set tight as he walked. He's a busy man, she reminded herself.

  Halfway to the Lord’s Wing, Quintus appeared from a side passage, a sealed letter in hand. He stepped directly into Nocturne’s path. “My Lord—” His gaze flicked to Saphira. “—and my Lady.” The polite dip of his head didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s a matter that cannot wait.”

  “I’ve already said—no interruptions.” Nocturne’s voice was calm, but the edge in it made the air between them sharpen.

  “I know, my Lord.” Quintus’s tone turned silken, dangerous in its civility. He turned the letter over between his fingers. “But this is from Lux, another Silvark sent. Thought you’d want to see it before your...dinner.”

  Saphira felt the heat climb into her cheeks, aware of how out of place she must look beside Nocturne in her borrowed gown and braided wraps. Quintus’s gaze flicked over her once more, as if measuring just how far she fell short.

  Nocturne stopped just long enough to fix him with a level, unreadable look. The silence stretched until Quintus shifted his weight, the faintest sign of retreat.

  “Later,” Nocturne decided, brushing past Quintus. Without another glance back, he resumed walking, his pace unchanged, the set of his shoulders telling Saphira this interruption had been neither rare nor welcome.

  They climbed the last flight of stairs to the Lord’s Wing, the air cooler here, tinged with the faint scent of beeswax and the smoke from the great hearth below. Nocturne opened a tall oak door and stepped aside for her to enter.

  Saphira gathered her skirt to step over the threshold. I’ve never been in a Lord’s Solar before…and certainly not alone with a man.

  The Solar was warm from the fire burning in the corner hearth, the light spilling over shelves of books, a rack of well-kept weapons, and a table set for two. A silver dish of roasted pheasant steamed between them, flanked by fresh bread and a jug of spiced wine. Beeswax candles burned low, their light catching in the polished goblets.

  “You… had this set for us?” She hesitated, searching the room for a servant to help them sit, to serve the food.

  Nocturne closed the door behind them, his gaze lingering on her. “A quiet meal. Just us.”

  He drew her chair back with a confidence that made it clear he had done it thousands of times before. When she hesitated, he gave the faintest nod toward the seat, before taking his own.

  She looked around the Solar, It’s so strange eating without servants in attendance—not even Helena as a chaperone. No one is watching, listening.

  He reached over and filled her plate—more meat than she could ever eat, plenty of roasted vegetables and fresh bread.

  “Eat,” he said simply, sliding the plate toward her.

  Her hands hovered over the silver cutlery.

  “I’m not trying to poison you,” he said, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth—the same one he had worn at the wedding feast when he made the same joke. He tore his bread roll with his fingers and popped a piece in his mouth. “There. Now you can eat.”

  In Renatus, a husband must eat before the wife. Here, everything is different: the language, the rules, the people. Saphira smiled faintly, cutting a roasted potato. He's trying...for me. That's all that matters.

  For a while, they ate in companionable silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Slowly, the tightness in her chest eased. He told her a brief story about today’s sparring with Rell—between them, they had managed to break three practice swords. She found herself smiling despite the heaviness in her chest, the sound of her own laugh startling her.

  Nocturne’s gaze stayed on her at the sound, a warmth flickering in his umber eyes. Without a word, he refilled her cup and drew the final tray closer.

  Strawberry and custard tarts waited.

  Above: A small gift.

  “I had Orson make them,” Nocturne murmured, looking away as he sipped his wine.

  A lump rose in Saphira's throat. He remembered from our wedding feast… how much I love these.

  Saphira’s first tear fell before she could stop it, then another, until her vision blurred completely. She set down her fork, pressing her hands to her face.

  Nocturne froze for a moment, his hand still around his wine cup. Then he set it down slowly and stood, the scrape of his chair loud in the quiet room. He moved to her side, unsure, his gaze flicking over the untouched food before resting on her bowed head. He slid her plate away so it would not tip under her trembling hands.

  When he finally touched her, it was a light, almost uncertain brush of his fingers over her shoulder. “Saphira…” he began, voice low.

  “I’m sorry, I’m ruining—”

  "Hush.” He drew in a slow breath, lowering himself into the chair beside hers, resting his hand on the space between her shoulder blades.

  When the tears subsided, Saphira bit her lip, running her finger over her dessert fork. “It just feels wrong. Eating something nice. Enjoying things. When he never even got to take his first breath.”

  “What you feel… we all go through it.” His gaze darkened, the same look he wore when his thoughts turned to the spwanpits. “We just said goodbye. Don’t force anything. You’ll feel whole again. Maybe not soon, but one day.” He looked at her a moment longer, something unguarded flickering in his eyes, before his hand squeezed hers. “If it gets too much… tell me.”

  Before he returned to his seat, he slid the plate a little closer to her side of the table, the smallest nudge, as though to remind her it was hers.

  She nibbled at the corner of the tart. The pastry was heavier than she remembered, the custard too thick—Orson was no pastry chef. Still, a small flicker of warmth coursed through her chest as she ate in delicate nibbles. Nocturne sees me.

  When she had finished, he leaned back in his chair, watching her for a long moment. “Come,” he said quietly, rising. “The fire’s better by the lounge.”

  She followed him to the lower chairs set before the hearth, the heat brushing her skirts. Nocturne poured wine for them both and sat opposite, forearms braced on his knees, his gaze sliding to the door—as if measuring the distance.

  “There’s something you need to know.” His thumb traced the rim of his goblet before setting it aside. “In two days, I ride for Lux.”

  Her fingers tightened around the hem of her sleeve. The urge to beg him not to go caught in her throat, to cling on to him, so he would stay by her side. Instead, she closed her eyes as she composed her thoughts. “Lux?" She whispered, "Why?”

  He paused—not uncertain, but weighing his words. “Crassus moved quickly. He’s spread the rumour that I kidnapped you.”

  “Kidnapped?” Her hand rose to the wound on her shoulder, disbelief roughening her voice. “He… tried to kill me. My own father. Everyone saw it.”

  “I know,” Nocturne said, his jaw working, tongue pressing against his cheek. “Crassus has already sent letters—branding me a liar, a lecher, threatening to invade Firestone. Edwin’s calling a Conclave of the Dukes. If Crassus convinces them, our marriage will be struck down… and he’ll have the right to marry you off to the Duke of Hyland.”

  She swallowed, her throat dry. The colour drained from her face. “But isn’t that what Edwin wants? A war with Renatus?”

  “He wanted to stop the marriage alliance between Renatus and Hyland. And he got that—for now.”

  He moved closer, sinking to one knee before her. His hands closed around hers, the warmth of his palms wrapping her cold fingers. His gaze locked to hers. Whatever he saw there—weakness, resolve—made his shoulders ease, just enough to notice.

  “Do you truly want to stay here, Saphira? With me?”

  Her breath caught. Even with the fire’s warmth, winter’s chill seeped into her bones. She tightened her grip on his hands with all the strength she had. “Yes. I want to stay here.”

  His shoulders eased—fractionally. “Good,” he breathed out. He stood, bracing one forearm on the mantel. The orange glow of the fire lighted his sharp features. “Then I don’t care if they declare our union invalid. We made vows. If it comes to it, I’ll take you away—just you and me, riding on Gin—a life away from all this. Vladislav will never touch you.”

  A shiver chased down her spine. He’s unyielding. I should be afraid… but I'm not. I want to be closer.

  “It would help our case if you came to testify,” he went on, his voice low. “But three weeks in the saddle, in the middle of winter, in your condition?” His knuckles tapped lightly against the mantel. “I’m not risking it.”

  “I… can go,” she offered, her voice faltering. Please don’t make me. I can’t face my father again.

  “Never.”

  “So… you’re going alone—” She swallowed hard. “—and leaving me alone."

  “Valentino and Lucian will ride with me. Felix and Lysander will keep Firestone running.” He turned to face her fully, chin lowered, the firelight cutting across his features. “Rell will stay with you. Protect you.”

  She drew in a breath that snagged halfway—protect me… from what? The words almost slipped out, but his gaze was fixed on her with the same quiet finality her father always used when ending a discussion.

  Saphira asked, “And August?”

  His gaze dipped to the wound on her shoulder—and just for a heartbeat, a look of guilt shadowed his expression—before meeting her eyes again. “He’s got a lot to take care of here.” There was nothing in his tone to explain it, but something in her gut tightened. The same strange unease she had felt since waking up in the apothecary, the wound from her father's dragon's claw cane aching..

  Something is different about me, and even Nocturne is avoiding the topic.

  He straightened, the small pause gone, his voice steady. “This is my fight. My vow to keep you here. I’ll stand before them and make it so.” His shoulders settled into their familiar set of command. “And when it’s done, I’ll come back for you.”

  He stepped forward, his shadow stretching long in the firelight, and set both hands on her shoulders. The warmth of his palms sank through the wool of her dress—steady, unmoving—as it had been when they buried Asher. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then his fingers slid lightly under her chin, tipping her face up to meet his gaze. His umber eyes caught the fire’s reflection—unyielding, certain. “You're safe here."

  Above: “You're safe here."

  She did not look away, afraid the moment would break if she moved. Somewhere beyond the Solar, the castle creaked in the winter wind—but here, in the warmth and shadow, she believed him—almost.