Song vibe: Let Go – BTS

  __________

  SAPHIRA

  The Solar, Firestone Castle

  Saphira sat alone in Nocturne’s Solar, stirring honey into her chamomile tea. Her ears stung from the piercing; her lips were still tender from his kiss. She shifted in her seat, and my body is sore from that horrible stone bed!

  She lifted the cup, sipped, then pursed her lips. A strange tang clung to the sweetness; she set the teacup aside. Her gaze drifted to Nocturne’s empty chair across the table.

  Just like that, the little world that was briefly ours—gone. She closed her eyes, willing patience into her bones. Two moons will pass quickly. Make Firestone something he’ll be proud to return to.

  Her eyelids sagged. Her limbs turned heavy, loose. Nocturne woke me too early. I’m not a morning person. She stifled a yawn. I’ll rest—just for a moment, by the fire.

  Head spinning, she stumbled over to the couch and lay down. Darkness claimed her.

  Large hands shook her awake. A rough voice urged her upright.

  “Nocturne—?”

  Her vision oscillated before it steadied on tattooed forearms. “Rell…?” Her tongue felt thick, words clumsy. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Nox can only delay so long!” His breath was quick, urgent, as he pulled her to her feet. “You have to hurry!”

  “What do you mean?” She shivered. The hearth lay cold; sunlight streamed through the high windows. “Let me get my cloak—brush my—”

  “There’s no time. Take mine.” Rell swept the heavy fur from his shoulders and wrapped it around her.

  She stumbled when she tried to follow, her body uncooperative. His arm tightened around her waist, half-guiding, half-carrying her into the stone corridors.

  A servant caught sight of them as they staggered through the hall, eyes widening. Heat rushed to Saphira’s face. She smoothed her tangled hair with one trembling hand and clutched Rell’s cloak tighter around her wrinkled dress.

  Above: Rell's kind act as a servant catches sight.

  “Easy, Saph, you’ll make people think I dragged you from bed,” he teased, though his grip on her hand never slackened as he paced down the stairs.

  “I only…” she winced as she massaged her throbbing temples. “I closed my eyes for a moment.”

  The towering stone doors opened to reveal the courtyard of Firestone Keep in all its bustle. People from Hart Mountain had gathered, their voices rising in excited chatter, their clothes vibrant in the frosty winter’s day. They held flags of ash grey and garlands of mountain flowers and greenery, and they lined the pathway past the gatehouse, and down the mountain path.

  The Ashen Blades mounted their horses in the courtyard, women and children pressing in with last embraces, farewells whispered against cheeks.

  Rell’s height and broad shoulders cut a path through the throng. People nodded to him with respect, parting at his approach. But their eyes lingered on her, pressing closer, blocking. They cast suspicious looks at her lilac hair and shook their heads at Rell's ill-fitting cloak over her shoulders.

  She shrank back instinctively, shoulders curling in.

  Rell’s hand closed firmly over hers, pulling her in front of him, shielding her as they broke through to the front.

  Nocturne sat astride Gin, black armour stark against the white of winter. When his eyes found hers, the steel shifted to something almost tender in his gaze. His knights flanked him: Valentino with his effortless charm, Lucian with that dangerous beauty that drew gazes his way.

  “There you are!” Verity seized Saphira’s hand from Rell’s grip. She pressed three sprigs bound with purple ribbon into her palm—rowan for protection, thyme for courage, hawthorne for the heart. The stems slipped against her damp skin.

  “Do you remember?” Verity murmured low. “The Lady, and two most senior women of the Yule and Sunfire clans. You three give the flowers, tie the ribbon, and send them off. The Countess stands in the centre to give her token to the Count.”

  Tie it to Nocturne's arm. Say the words, Saphira told herself. I can do this.

  But as she lifted her gaze, her steps faltered.

  Three women already stood before the Ashen Blades, ribbons in hand. The central space was already taken. Lady Gorda, the unmarried heiress to the Sunfire Clan, stood broad-shouldered and smiling, daring anyone to move her. Gorda's once-slender frame had thickened, her gown straining where it used to flatter, though the tilt of her chin still carried the echo of the beauty she had once been. Behind her, Quintus stood, both as her uncle and castellan.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Saphira’s stomach dropped. This is my moment. Why is Lady Gorda in the place of highest honour?

  “Lady Saphira!” Livia Sevenson caught her arm with a girlish smile. “They said you weren’t coming. Lady Gorda asked me to step in—to keep the three places filled. I was to give mine to Sir Valentino.” Her eyes never left the knight in question, dreamy with infatuation.

  “And I to my kinsman, Lucian,” said Lady Astra of Yule, her pale hair gleaming like silver. Rising from her wheelchair, she inclined her head with serene grace. “I am pleased you are feeling better, Lady Saphira. It's a blessing to finally meet you. Shall we begin?"

  “I've prepared my token with Lord Nocturne in mind.” Gorda's fingers clenched the ribbon so tightly the stems bent, as if she feared it might be torn from her hand. "Perhaps it would be better for you to find another way to send him off, Lady Saphira."

  Quintus placed a hand on his niece’s shoulder, his thin smile tugging. “The Sunfires have long carried out this duty—as a sign of our clan’s commitment to Firestone. Why change things now?”

  Above: Saphira is unimpressed with Lady Gorda.

  A hollow weakness tugged at Saphira’s legs, threatening to fold them. Is Lady Gorda right? I...don't belong here. I hardly speak the language.

  For one sickening heartbeat, she thought she might fail Nocturne here, in front of them all. Then she stepped forward, forcing her voice steady.

  “Your courtesy is noted, Lady Gorda,” she said, her chest tightening. “But... there is a Countess of Firestone now.”

  “Are you suggesting I step aside?" Gorda’s chin lifted as her smile stretched too wide, sweet as spoiled cream. For a fleeting moment, Saphira thought she glimpsed something else beneath the bravado—a shadow of wounded pride, a woman unwilling to be forgotten. Gorda's voice rose. "You say I should give my place to one who does not understand our traditions?”

  The crowd stirred. From Gin’s saddle, Nocturne’s head turned, drawn by the commotion.

  Saphira met his gaze, her own wavering as if to ask for strength. His eyes held hers—steady, unflinching.

  If you believe I can handle this, then I will, her look answered back. I may be your wife, but I was raised a Duke’s daughter—I'll show you.

  "If you truly cared—" Gorda raised her ribbon “—you should not neglect foxglove. Strength is what a man of the mountains truly seeks.” She smiled. "But it seems you know as much about plants as you do our ways."

  “In excessive dosage, foxglove is a poison,” Saphira replied, finding the steel in her voice as she felt Nocturne's gaze on her. She held up her sprig of hawthorne. "Hawthorne—used to strengthen the heart, not stop it." She smiled. "If you knew anything about plants, you'd know about poisons."

  Gorda flinched, her mouth opening to retort.

  Lady Astra interceded, her voice serene. “Captain Dominic is a Sunfire. He will gladly welcome yours, Lady Gorda. Do get into position quickly—we must begin.”

  The line formed with Saphira at the centre, where she belonged, Astra hobbling to her right, Livia to her left, and Gorda at the very end. Her mouth gaped, then closed with a sour twist.

  At the signal, the knights moved their horses forward. Valentino leaned over to accept Livia’s token; Lucian allowed Astra to tie the flowers to his arm with an easy smile and familiar touch on her arm. With a brittle stiffness, Gorda handed hers to Captain Dominic, her pride still cloaked about her shoulders, wounded, but not defeated.

  Only Saphira remained. She moved to Nocturne, her purple ribbon trembling as she lifted it to his arm. Her fingers brushed the frozen steel of his gauntlet.

  Then he caught her hand, stopping her from tying her knot.

  The courtyard stilled.

  In one motion, Nocturne swung down from Gin, armour ringing against cobblestone. Gasps rippled as he went to one knee before her. He drew Shadowrend, black steel glinting with frost, and held it out, hilt first, in both hands.

  “My Countess,” his voice was rough but carried to every ear, “let your blessing bind my blade instead.”

  Whispers surged. Lucian’s eyes widened; Valentino’s brow arched.

  Above: Nocturne seeks Saphira's blessing.

  As he bowed his head, Saphira’s vision blurred—whether from tears, dizziness, or awe, she could not tell. Her fingers trembled as she wound the ribbon tight around Shadowrend’s hilt. Purple silk against black steel—her mark on the weapon that had cut through countless battles. The knot held fast against the hilt, sealing the blessing.

  When she went to pull away, Nocturne held fast. He lifted her hand to his lips. His lips lingered on her knuckles, warm against her chilled skin. His murmured words came so low only she could hear, “You’re unsteady, pale. Tell me you’re well.”

  “Your Countess—” she whispered back, her hand tightening over his, “—is not so easily broken. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  His grip tightened, his whisper edged with steel, “Just ask, and I’ll spill blood for you.” He rose, towering over her. He sheathed Shadowrend— now bound with her colour—back by his side.

  "I ask only that you return quickly." Saphira dropped into a curtsy. “May you carry the Mountain’s blessing as you leave—and return to hearth and kin, my lord husband.”

  “I will,” he vowed, his gaze locked on hers, the words for her alone.

  He swung back into the saddle, shoulders easing as command settled on him once more. A moment of silence hung, then Lucian’s voice rang out, sharp and bright: “Ride out!”

  The Ashen Blades thundered from the courtyard, ribbons fluttering, steel flashing in the pale light.

  The first notes rose thin and wavering—one voice, then another—until the courtyard swelled with harmony. No drum, no pipe, only human sound. The song curled up the stone walls in a melancholic tide.

  Garlands flew: greens, purples, whites, pinks—mountain blooms hurled high, then breaking apart in the riders’ wake. Petals drifted like snow, catching in manes, clinging to iron greaves, sinking into dust. The hooves crushed them one by one, colour ground into mud beneath the charge. Still, the voices climbed, sorrow threaded with pride, a farewell that struck Saphira with a strange ache. Not my mother tongue.

  A cheer broke the harmony, high and small. She saw the source—a boy perched on Felix’s broad shoulders, waving as the Blades rode past. Nocturne’s mouth curved at the sight, and he leaned down to ruffle the child’s blonde hair. Then, Nocturne turned to face the world beyond Firestone, and his expression hardened into a mask of steel.

  Goodbye, my husband. I promise I'll take care of what you have entrusted to me.