Song vibe: Burn It – Suga feat. MAX

  __________

  NOCTURNE

  Near Lux, the Shadowlands

  In the Shadowlands, dawn broke sick and colourless, the sky filmed over in grey. Nocturne stood apart from his men, staring into a horizon that gave light without warmth; he saw the withering plants, the stagnate water. Around him, the countless corpses of nightspawn sprawled in grotesque silence.

  He whipped Shadowrend through the air, flinging off the thick layer of ichor.

  At this movement, the crows scattered all at once, beaks slick with gore, wings beating furiously into the ashen sky. Their bodies were twisted—three eyes, bulbous tumours—yet still they lived, watching the living hungrily.

  Tsek, Nocturne swore, looking at the purple ribbon now soaked with ichor, It’s tainted now. Like everything that I touch.

  The nightspawn had attacked just after midnight. The Ashen Blades had fought as one. Now, Nocturne surveyed the fallen and allowed himself a grim smile—only monsters amongst the dead, none of his men.

  Flies crawled over the dead, the buzzing turning into a thick frenzy.

  Above: Nocturne surveys the dead.

  Taking out a rag, Nocturne wiped his blade clean with slow, deliberate strokes, and then sheathed. They has spent two weeks riding hard—fast at first, slowing once the land soured. New shadowlands—not on any map—swallowed more of Edwin’s territory.

  I won't drive it back, Nocturne thought. My place is now by Saphira’s side. But thank the Almighty she isn’t with us. He looked around at the gore, the stench stinging his nostrils. How in hell would I keep my mind on a battlefield, if she were with me?

  “Pile up the corpses and burn them,” Nocturne ordered, nodding at Valentino and Lucian. “Tell the men that we’ll detoxify in Lux. We’re already two days delayed.”

  His two friends nodded and set forward to relay the orders to the captains.

  Alone, Nocturne reached to his breast where parchment crinkled faintly, worn soft from too many readings. His fingers hesitated before pulling it free. He unfolded it anyway. The words were etched in his memory, but still, his eyes devoured them.

  _________________

  My Lord Husband,

  I must confess, I have not written a love letter before, so I hope you will forgive my lack of eloquence.

  It feels too cruel to share a bed with you once more, only to let you ride away at dawn. I still feel the warmth of your arms around me, your scent in my hair, the taste of your lips. Only when I am in your arms again will I sleep soundly.

  As I ponder your return, it is achingly clear that there is much left unsaid and undone. My husband, I blush even to think of these things, and I could never write them down (you would only tease me for it).

  Know this: I long for your return—even now, while you wait for me in your Solar, I already yearn for you. So please, ride swiftly and come home safely. I pray for good tidings upon your journey.

  In the meantime, I remain wholly and completely yours.

  Always,

  Saphira

  ________

  “Lack of eloquence? Almighty, woman,” Nocturne muttered, his mouth curving despite himself. He folded the letter and pressed it back against his chest.

  Their wedding night came rushing back—no longer poisoned by Golgog’s torment; Lucian’s mask had stripped that rot from his subconscious and August's remedies had erased Golgog's imprint in his mind. Memories that once reeked of shame now seared with a fiercer hunger: the feel of her body beneath his, the sounds she made for him alone, her violet eyes wide with trust.

  His hand pressed harder over the pocket, as if he could hold her through the parchment. She yearns for me? She’d run if she knew the hunger in me. The thought cut like fire through his chest. Rein it in. Otherwise, you'll burn white-hot before six weeks are done.

  He swigged from his waterskin, the taste of iron lingering. Hope was a dangerous indulgence, yet he found himself grasping at it more often since Asher’s death—and always because of her.

  “Lucian.”

  The command carried easily across the field. Lucian straightened, humour gone, sheathing his twin blades as he stepped closer. “What is it?”

  Nocturne glanced to where Valentino worked with grim efficiency, the Ashen Blades already dragging the spawn into heaps for the pyre.

  He led Lucian a few paces away, shadows of the dead at their backs.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “That’s ominous,” Lucian said, cocking his head.

  “Saphira.” The single word carried guilt enough to weigh the air. “Go into her dreams with the mask. Cut the nightmares. Do what you did for my memories.”

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  Lucian blinked, brows climbing. “She wasn’t in Golgog’s pit. What haunts her?”

  “My fault,” Nocturne said flatly. “My son was corrupted by my seed. I didn't give enough time between marriage and the shadowlands. Saphira carried him half a year in her womb…” His jaw locked. “Now she has nightmares every night. And she doesn’t even know.”

  The memory gripped him—her body trembling in his arms, eyes shut tight, refusing to wake no matter how he shook her. Come morning, she smiled, oblivious. He flexed his hand, remembering the fragile weight of her against him.

  “Call it instinct,” he muttered. “August said something’s locked in her mind. If he can’t touch it, maybe you can, through dreams. Don’t pry. Just keep the terrors at bay. Then… let me know she’s safe.”

  Lucian frowned. “Women don’t like that sort of meddling. Trust me—I’ve had enough slaps to prove it.”

  “I’m not asking as your Count,” Nocturne said, his gaze hard as stone. “I’m asking as your friend.”

  Above: Lucian considers Nocturne's request.

  Lucian exhaled through his nose, arms folding. “Fye, Nox—just write her another letter. Everyone knows you’ve worn that one thin. Even the men are taking bets on how many more times you’ll read it.” His grin was sharp as a knife. “Fine. I’ll do it. But only to spare us all the spectacle.”

  Nocturne inclined his head, grunting in gratitude.

  Valentino strode back across the field, spear dripping black ichor. He wiped his hands on the half-dead grass, then grinned at them both. “Charming work, wasn’t it? Nothing like a good bit of cleaning up before breakfast. Who’s hungry?”

  "We're down to biscuit rations." Lucian rolled his eyes. “And you reek of entrails.”

  “Better their entrails than my blood,” Valentino shot back, then gestured between them. “What were you two brooding over—love letters or nightmares?”

  Nocturne ignored the jab. His gaze caught on a hut half-buried in ash, its timbers sagging, its roof caved in. A family home, now rotting back into the soil, claimed by the shadowlands. His hand brushed the letter in his pocket. She calls herself wholly mine. Because she's mine, she’ll remain untouched by this corruption.

  “Enough. We work now,” Nocturne commanded.

  When the corpses were piled, he stepped forward, holding a flaming torch. He tossed the stick in, then felt for the threads of magic around it. He was not August—he could not create fire from nothing—but he could make an inferno hot enough to turn the corpses into ash. Fire—a surging, consuming force—fought against him, but he yanked it into submission.

  The pile of corpses burst into flames, spreading a sickly, rotting scent.

  “Ride out,” Nocturne commanded, flexing his hand, feeling the tightness of the blackened flesh through his leather gloves.

  The road ahead wound west, toward Lux, towards fresh water and food, towards enemies.

  Nocturne’s jaw set as he rode, eyes fixed on the blackened treeline, searching for movement. But his mind was back at the Halfway Inn—almost a week ago—where Edwin’s letter of condolence had been waiting.

  I hadn’t spoken a word of our loss beyond Firestone’s walls. Someone is whispering in Firestone. His hands crushed Gin’s reins, rage burning through him. Even a careless tongue puts her in danger. When I find out who talked…

  But it was the other letter waiting that turned fire to ice. A public declaration from Crassus to all nine duchies: accusing me of kidnapping… and raping his own daughter.

  As if sensing Nocturne's cold bloodlust, Gin tossed his head, the bit clinking between the stallion’s teeth.

  And with that lie, Crassus has signed his own death warrant.

  “Dreaming of slitting his throat again?” Valentino’s tone was smooth, his grin quick and cutting. “Forget his lies. Lorenzo’s message was clear—none of the Dukes buy it. Eight spawnlords to your name. Kidnap? Rape?" He laughed. "If you wanted a woman, half their daughters would be queuing.”

  “Those whispers will stain her for life.” Nocturne’s lip curled. “A father, doing that to his own daughter.”

  The silence stretched, heavy with Nocturne’s vow. Valentino shifted in his saddle, gaze sliding ahead to the road.

  Above: Valentino and Nocturne ride in silence.

  Valentino began, quieter than usual. “Listen, Nox. In Lux, I need to find Celestine. I know it risks further provoking Crassus... but I can’t leave her to him.” He added, almost dutifully, “With your leave.”

  Leave or not, Val will search for her. Nocturne grunted. "Search. But if you need to move on her, you talk to me."

  Behind them, Luce spat in the dirt. “You’ll get yourself killed chasing skirts in that viper’s nest.” He kicked Drax forward and continued, “Admit it, Val. If she wanted to contact you, she would have. It’s over this time—for certain.”

  Valentino laughed without mirth. “And yet here I am—still chasing.” He tapped Echo’s flank, the gelding surging forward, but the charming smile did not reach his eyes.

  “Fye, Luce—he knows that."

  Before Lucian could answer, Nocturne rode closer, lowering his voice. “A smuggler I trust sent word. Found Saphira’s maid. Hiding in Lux. Crassus wants her dead for concealing Saphira’s pregnancy. She fled before he could get to her.” His gaze flicked toward Lucian. “I want you to offer Firestone’s protection. I owe Ginny that much.”

  “If it’s not a trap,” Lucian finished.

  “Aye,” Nocturne mumbled.

  Lucian’s hands tightened on Drax's reins, leather creaking in the silent forest. His gaze swept the grey horizon, the dead land crouching around them as though it might lunge at any moment. “Speaking of traps…” His muscles coiled. “Are you ready for the Conclave?”

  Nocturne gave a rigid nod. Eight Dukes and Duchesses will sit in judgment. Eight vultures to pick apart my life. They’ll call it a vote, but it’s a spectacle—my marriage dissected, my reputation dragged further through the pits.

  His grip on the reins bit deep, even through his calloused hands. Gin's ears flicked, as if he too felt the wrongness pressing in from the tree line. A breeze stirred the ash, carrying the sour reek of rot.

  The Conclave will either honour the vows I made... or side with Crassus’ lie that I kidnapped and violated her. But it’s no longer about us. It’s about the Dukes choosing Edwin or Crassus.

  A deformed crow circled overhead, its cry breaking ragged across the stillness.

  “If the Hyland-Renatus alliance holds, Edwin will march. Firestone on the frontline,” he muttered. “Fye, Luce. I’ve got to sway them. But they’ll smell it—the caves still cling to me. Smuggler’s brat.”

  Lucian leaned closer, teal eyes sharp in the dim light. “I can shape their dreams. Not lies—suggestions, influence. Slip past their Syndicates, past their wards. Shall I? We can win.”

  Temptation prickled hot in Nocturne’s chest. For a heartbeat, he let it linger, then forced it down.

  “I won’t sink to Crassus’ level.” His voice steeled. “But if it comes to choosing between Saphira’s ruin and their pride, I’ll use every weapon—even that cursed mask. Let them choke on their own ambition.”

  Lucian’s mouth curved, wolfish. “And Crassus?”

  “He tried to kill Saphira. Now, he lies about me.” Nocturne’s eyes went flat. “I’ll gut him. Slow.”

  The horses shifted, restless, as though they too felt the land watching. Above, the pale sun climbed higher—weak, thin, offering no warmth. The silence pressed deep, broken only by the scrape of hooves on barren stone.

  Even if Saphira begged me not to, I still would, Nocturne thought, Some men are just too dangerous to be left alive. He kicked Gin forward, surging towards Lux. Whether it is tomorrow or in ten years, Crassus will die by my hand.

  Does the map help make things clearer? I know it's not perfect!