Song vibe: Black Swan – BTS

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  SAPHIRA

  Master Chamber, Firestone Castle

  Saphira woke in Nocturne’s bed alone again, body aching, heart racing, hand reaching instinctively for cold sheets. She pulled them close, breathing his scent—comforting and unbearable in equal measure. It feels like being in his arms… and yet he has been gone two weeks. I wish he were here…

  She rolled her shoulder back and winced at the pull over scarred skin. She shivered; a nightmare, one she could not remember the shape of, lingered—as they had almost every night.

  From the rug by the hearth, Dusty trotted over and jumped into bed beside Saphira. Sensing the remnants of the nightmare, Dusty mewled and forced Saphira to pat her.

  “You know Nocturne forbade you from coming into his bed,” Saphira said, kissing her hell leopard between her eyes. “But how can I say ‘no’ to those big eyes?”

  The door to the Lady’s chamber opened quietly; Saphira sat upright. With a puff of black smoke, Dusty melted into the shadows.

  Livia slipped inside, holding a clean dress, a hairbrush, ribbons and makeup. Her pale blonde hair was braided with mountain flowers, and flecks of watercolour paint stained her hands and apron. She helped Saphira into another of Marigold’s old garments—a well-kept, well-loved gown of periwinkle blue that washed out Saphira’s pale skin.

  One day, I’ll wear something that suits me. But for now, Firestone is more important.

  Livia fastened the laces, her fingers working slowly but surely, correcting her mistakes without instruction. Holding a small mirror, Saphira dabbed rose balm over her lips, seeing the sad smile tugging at the corners. Training Livia from scratch has made me realise I didn’t know half of what Ginny did for me. Almighty, I was ungrateful, impatient.

  Above: Livia helps Saphira get ready for the morning.

  “You’ve become quite the maid, Miss Sevenson,” Saphira said, turning the new piercings in her ears, admiring how perfectly Nocturne had punctured the lobes—no redness, no swelling.

  “Had plenty of little brothers and sisters to practise on. The usual braid?” Livia said with a wistful smile, fingers deftly braiding lavender strands, weaving in fresh flowers with each movement. She tilted her head, dreamy as ever. “They say you’re becoming quite the Lady of Firestone.”

  Saphira bit her lip. “And… what else do they say?”

  “Nothing worth repeating,” Livia said sagely, her words wiser than her eighteen years. “The Mountain folk… they’re not easy to please—even we lowanders struggle. But you’re doing so well, m’Lady. I mean it.” She hesitated, cheeks warming, then added in a rush, “To me, you’re brilliant.”

  Brilliant… for a foreigner, Saphira finished silently. Will I ever be more? Or will it all come tumbling down, and they’ll see me for what I am—just a girl playing pretend?

  With the slender hands of an artist, Livia smoothed down a stray lock of lavender hair. “Everyone else sees the castle cleaner, the order beginning, the hope. But I just… I see you looking so tired, m’Lady.” Her voice wavered slightly as she fumbled with the buckle on Saphira’s belt knife, correcting it with a quick blush. “Especially after… after what happened.”

  “Keeping busy helps,” Saphira murmured. “And there’s so much to do.”

  “Then—maybe—I could take a little of it for you?” Livia straightened, cheeks colouring, her words tumbling in a rush. “Would you let me oversee the Great Hall this morning? I’d only… I’d only be helping, I promise. Perhaps I could keep an eye on the paintings, so the men don’t ruin the ones worth keeping.”

  The words of protest died on Saphira’s lips. She nodded with thanks, allowing Livia to finish getting her ready. A breakfast tray waited in Nocturne’s Solar—porridge with cream, fresh fruit, and Verity’s herbal tea. Livia set it all carefully on the table, stoked the fire, and, with an uncoordinated curtsy, she excused herself to see to the laundry.

  After eating, Saphira took her tea to the couch. Beyond the door came the muffled scrape of boots and the low murmur of voices. She glanced up, listening to the change in guard. Rell’s orders, I feel safer for it, but... she sighed ...I thought I would be free in Firestone. She glanced at the walls. And in the stone, August has inscribed more protective wards.

  On the low table, the ledgers waited. She pulled them into her lap, thumbing through Lysander’s neat report. Her frown deepened as she read.

  How is this so? Firestone’s treasury is nearly bare. I've seen the Ashen Blade's contracts... killing a single spawnlord is enough to fund a fief for a decade—and since taking over Firestone, Nocturne has killed five of them. She turned to the raw numbers, trying to make sense of them. Something isn’t adding up...

  She set the ledger down and sipped the cold tea. For now, we have enough gold to see us through summer. Even if my father does not pay the contract for killing Golgog, Aaliyah of Arteaga is balancing the payment for the slaying of Mara the Temptress—with interest owed.

  The Duchess’s name stung Saphira more than she cared to admit. Lady Beaumont; Duchess Aaliyah—why do the ghosts of Nocturne’s past bother me?

  She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the fire on her cheeks. Unbidden, the numbers swam before her eyes. I have meetings with the Sunfire and Yule clan Chiefs. Proposals to draft for the Merchants Guild. And more ideas than I could count. The coffers will recover.

  But...what if I fail? A cold thought ran through her. I told Nocturne he didn’t have to go into another spawnpit if he didn’t want to. She reached again for the ledger, steeling herself for another read. I'll find where all this gold went...

  A careless knock rattled the chamber door. Saphira straightened in Nocturne’s armchair, hurriedly smoothing her periwinkle dress.

  The door creaked, and Rell sauntered in—his arms full of buckets, rags, and a broom far too small for his large frame. He froze when he saw her in the chair. He stammered, “You were…supposed to be out—”

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Squire’s duty—cleaning armour, weapons, fire, all of Nocturne’s things. He wouldn’t trust anyone else in his space—besides you, now.”

  “It's been you cleaning this place?” Saphira winced. Her eyes swept the cluttered shelves, the soot-smudged mantle, the thin film of dust. “That…explains a lot.”

  “It’s okay, isn’t it?” Rell laughed, itching the tattoo on his neck. “I wasn’t born fancy like you or Val.”

  “There’s always room for improvement,” Saphira replied gently.

  Rell looked to the floor, the humour fading. “I… was raised among mercenaries, Saph. Cleaning meant shaking the dust out of your cloak. Armour, weapons, chores… I did it because I had to. No one ever bothered to teach me the rest.”

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  The lightness faltered in her chest. She pictured him as a slave boy, armour heavier than his arms, scrubbing until his hands bled. “Then I’ll teach you—” she said gently, rising from the chair. “—If you want to learn.”

  Rell blinked, startled—then his grin broke boyish, quick as a flame.

  They set to work together. She stripped off the delicate periwinkle silk, wearing only the humble white dress underneath, and a thick apron.

  Dust rose as they swept, and the fire crackled lower. Soon they were laughing—Rell balancing a cup on his head until it toppled, Saphira swatting him with a rag. His laughter rang off the stone, hers answering, bright for the first time in days.

  At last, they paused, breathless, the Solar neater around them. Rell bent to shift the heavy iron holders so she could sweep underneath.

  Then, a sudden scuffle inside the wall. They both froze.

  The panel burst open, and Dusty shoved her whiskered head through, sneezing dust into the chamber.

  “Dusty! You’ve been sneaking in the walls!” Saphira gasped, rushing forward. “I thought it was a nightspawn!”

  Rell crouched, the glint of his eyebrow ring catching the firelight. “Nightspawn? More like ratspawn. Dusty’s already slaughtered enough rodents to keep us safe till spring.”

  “Don’t scare me like that again, darling!” Saphira scooped Dusty up, laughing so hard she almost dropped her.

  They were still laughing when the door swung open.

  Instantly, Dusty disappeared into the shadows, leaving a vaguely black puff of smoke behind.

  Drusilla entered first, crisp as ever, with Orson lumbering behind her, a tray balanced steadily in his scarred hands. The smell of broth and roast roots filled the solar. Both stopped short.

  Their eyes swept the scene—Saphira flushed with laughter, Rell beside her. She stepped away from Rell a heartbeat too late—already seeing the judgment forming behind Drusilla’s eyes.

  “Lunch, my Lady,” Drusilla said at last, her gaze lingering.

  “Thank you." Saphira’s smile faltered. "Please, set it here.”

  Almighty—don’t let them turn this into something ugly. Rell is the first person to make me laugh since—

  Orson limped forward, the leg ruined in Vandele's spawnpit dragging, the shadow over his blinded eye stark in the firelight. He placed the tray down with soldierly precision. She looked closer and remembered how Rell told her of Nocturne’s mercy—how her husband had kept Orson on when others would have discarded him after his wound.

  His meals might be coarse, but he carries the discipline and loyalty of an Ashen Blade still serving.

  Saphira’s irritation at Firestone’s food softened. She inclined her head. “It smells wonderful, Orson. Thank you.”

  For the briefest moment, surprise flickered across his scarred face before he dipped his chin and withdrew. Drusilla followed, but not without a final look—sharp as a pin—before the door closed behind them.

  Nocturne trusts Rell. I will not be the one to make that trust look shameful.

  “What’s that all about?” Rell said innocently, tearing into a hunk of bread.

  “Drusilla is a Sunfire, I’m told.” Saphira paused, unfolding her napkin. Her hands hesitated over her spoon “Tell Orson to have Livia or one of the new hires help bring the food.” Saphira gripped her spoon, determined to brush the slip-up aside. “Come, explain the new guard roster to me..."

  Later, when she descended to the Great Hall with Rell, whispers scurried like mice ahead of her. Servants bent over their work too quickly, eyes sliding sideways at Rell’s shadow close by her side.

  Why do the old servants whisper when I’m around? She glanced at Rell’s easy stride beside her. Do they think I’m too inexperienced to give orders? That I rely on Rell too much? That I can’t stand alone without Nocturne?

  The Great Hall smelled of limewash and wood dust. Scaffolding creaked under hammer blows, ladders scraped stone, and voices carried above the din.

  Saphira stood at the centre—the knife at her belt, the keys of Firestone jangling at her hip—watching the change unfold. For a moment, she let her shoulders ease as the scene unfolded: servants bustled to obey, hauling ropes and timbers beneath the rotting rafters. Dust drifted in pale motes through the light, settling across her shoulders. For the first time, the hall felt alive.

  Above: Saphira observes the progress with Rell.

  “Priceless artefacts, tossed aside like firewood…” Quintus swept past, his voice dripping disdain. Lady Gorda followed in his wake, attempting to hush her uncle.

  Saphira’s head turned, catching the disgruntled barb. Before she could answer, Rell shifted a step forward, blocking Quintus’s way with a lazy grin—half a shield, half a provocation.

  The castellan bustled away, his muttering turning into a wheezing cough. Shooting Saphira a cold glare over her shoulder, Gorda ran after the castellan.

  “Good day, Master Quintus, Lady Gorda,” Rell drawled to their backs, bowing with a flourish so sincere it could only be mockery. Then, low enough for only her to hear, Rell added, “Bet he’s got half those relics stashed under his bed—mould and all.”

  Saphira stifled a laugh, rolling her eyes. Her mirth fading, she watched as Gorda leaned into Drusilla's ear and whispered. She sensed, rather than saw, a darkness pass between them. Nocturne said Lady Gorda wanted to be Countess. I could never imagine Nocturne tolerating such a woman as a wife.

  "Shouldn't Lady Gorda be on Sunfire?" Saphira asked, shifting uncomfortably.

  "Probably," Rell said, "She grew up here, and I guess she can't let go."

  "The servants listen to her," Saphira murmured, watching as Gorda disappeared down the hallway with Drusilla.

  "Only because she's Quintus' niece—and Selwyn's daughter," Rell said. "When Felix takes up his position as heir, that will all change."

  Then, timber groaned overhead.

  A pulley slipped. The great beam swung wide, tearing free from its knot. For a heartbeat, Saphira stood beneath it, breath locked in her throat—then an arm seized her waist and wrenched her hard aside.

  The beam slammed into the flagstones where she had stood. The crash rattled scaffolding and sent a choking rain of dust through the hall.

  Silence followed, thick and stunned.

  Rell’s arm stayed firm at her waist. His hand burned faintly with that familiar thrum of magic, a pulse she had only ever felt from Nocturne. Her palm brushed the ink etched over his collarbone, steadying herself.

  He bit down on the ring through his lip, his ears flushed red as he let go. “Can’t have the Lady of Firestone crushed on my watch.”

  The hall erupted—gasps, orders shouted, scaffolding clattering.

  “M’Lady!” Livia rushed forward, pale. “Are you hurt? Shall I fetch Mistress Verity?”

  “I’m unhurt,” Saphira managed. Her cheeks burned, though whether from shock or from the way her body had craved the scent of magic radiating from Rell, she could not tell. She straightened, brushing dust from her skirts. “Thank the Almighty no one was injured. Work carefully—if it takes longer, so be it. I’ll not have lives risked for haste.”

  Livia bobbed a frantic curtsy, but her blue eyes darted sideways—toward Rell, still close at Saphira’s shoulder. Behind her, a foreman muttered to another, voice too low for her to catch more than, “too close.”

  The words stuck like a thorn. The accident was too close—far too close. Saphira’s gaze lingered on the fallen timber, unease settling deep in her bones. If not for Rell…

  She cast Rell a sideways glance. He bit down on his lip piercing, his ears reddening.

  In Renatus, a man’s hand at my waist meant scandal. Here, it was survival—but do they know the difference?

  Even as she left the Great Hall, the murmurs followed. Servants bent too quickly to their tasks, their voices pitched low, eyes sliding sideways at Rell walking close at her shoulder—every glance an echo of Drusilla’s sharp look in the solar.

  Do they think my reputation is compromised because Rell rescued me? She cast him a worried look over her shoulder. Almighty, Clanspeak is a difficult language. I don't understand their whispers—was he supposed to stand aside and do nothing?

  Even August glared at them wordlessly as they passed, his eyes dead and cold.

  By the time she reached the apothecary, her legs were trembling, her body reminding her of what it had endured and not yet healed.

  Verity set Saphira at the bench without fuss, pressing a steaming cup into her hands. “Raspberry leaf for your health. Nettle strengthens the blood. Oatstraw calms the nerves.” Her mouth quirked. “And the honey covers the taste.”

  “And apparently hides the taste of any snakeroot all too well,” Saphira said, voice dry.

  The healer went very still, lips pressed thin. She did not meet Saphira’s eyes.

  "Have you found anything yet, Verity?" Saphira sipped her tea. "Where did the snakeroot come from?”

  “Nothing yet,” Verity muttered after a pause, her tone clipped. She turned abruptly to Rell. “Trousers off—I need to needle that knee.”

  "Sure thing, Verri." He raised a brow, hand at his belt. “Though you could at least buy me dinner first.”

  Saphira fumbled her cup; Verity flushed scarlet.

  “Your leg, you brute!” Verity snapped, thumping Rell’s shoulder.

  Above: Rell: “Could at least buy me dinner first.”

  “I’ll give you two privacy—before I’m traumatised,” Saphira said with a faint laugh, draining the last of her tea.

  Their squabble echoed through the apothecary, but she barely heard them.

  First, the snakeroot. Now a beam. And always, whispers. She drew her arms around herself, and she walked back to the Solar. All my lists, all my small victories—they feel like scaffolding set against rotten beams, waiting to give way.