Song vibe: Moonchild – RM

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  SAPHIRA

  The Great Hall, Firestone

  Saphira watched as the festivities dimmed—the drinking slowed, the musicians missed notes, yawns and heavy eyelids began to surface. A dog slept by the hearth; the blacksmith lay slumped over the table, a flagon of ale still clenched in his hand.

  “Still no sign of the facestealer,” Saphira whispered.

  “Stay alert,” Rell murmured back, shifting his weight.

  He had been restless since August and Lysander left—and the longer they were gone, the more his hand drifted toward the blade hidden beneath his coat.

  “Is it good or bad that we haven’t heard from them yet?” Saphira asked. “We can’t keep everyone locked inside. They’ll notice.”

  “Stop whispering,” Felix muttered, clamping a firm hand down on both their shoulders. “Trust them.”

  A sudden pounding echoed from the doors.

  “Let me out!” the carpenter shouted, fists striking wood. “My wife’s with Lady Marigold—I need to—”

  “Stay put,” the guard barked, shoving him back. “The festival isn’t over—”

  The great doors creaked open.

  Rain swept into the hall in a cold breath that made the torches gutter. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Music faltered mid-note, then died altogether. A cup slipped from someone’s fingers and shattered on stone.

  A man near the back gasped. Someone whispered a name, half-disbelieving. Knees struck the floor—one, then another—until the movement spread outward, relief loosening people into shouts, laughter, and muttered recognition.

  Saphira froze. She barely registered Rell stiffening beside her, his weight shifting, the subtle draw of his hand toward the blade hidden beneath his sleeve. Felix’s grip tightened on her shoulder—not pulling her back, not warning her away, only anchoring her where she stood.

  Her fingers rose to the knife hidden in her bodice—then stilled.

  She saw him.

  Above: Nocturne arrives home.

  He stepped fully into the light, black soaked through by rain, cloak heavy against his shoulders, mud clinging thick to his boots. His beard had grown, sharpening his features; wet hair clung darkly to his temples. His umber eyes swept the kneeling hall once—taking in bowed heads and lowered gazes—before fixing on her. He walked forward as the crowd parted for him, people shrinking back, hands pressed to the stone. Someone reached out as he passed. He did not touch them.

  He’s exactly how I remembered him.

  Her heart leapt.

  But… what if it’s not him?

  She glanced sideways at Rell. His jaw was locked, his stare fixed on Nocturne with a coiled stillness.

  "Rell... is that him?"

  "I don’t know," he replied, his skin pale. "If it’s really Nox, he'll understand the distance."

  Nocturne stopped at the foot of the dais and looked up at her. “Saphira,” he said quietly, his voice as she remembered.

  The sound of her name carried across the hall, intimate enough to draw murmurs of approval from the crowd.

  “I’ve returned,” he said. “Instead of surrendering my weapon at the hearth.” His hand went to his side, touching the scabbard—sheathed so she could not tell if it were Shadowrend. He declared, “I give my sword to you—returning victorious.”

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  She bit her lip.

  If this is him—surrendering his weapon to me is a declaration of devotion—refusal would shame us both.

  Nearby, a man muttered, eyes widening at her hesitation. Saphira flinched. But if it’s not him—I’m completely vulnerable.

  She glanced at Rell. He bit down on the piercing at his lip. Beside him, Felix shook his head, motioning for her to stay still.

  “There’s been trouble tonight,” Saphira breathed, glancing around the room. “Please excuse any rudeness, my Lord, but—”

  “Trouble?” Nocturne’s eyes narrowed. “Then you shouldn’t be standing alone. Stay by my side.”

  His hand stretched out.

  Felix shifted half a step forward without drawing steel—just enough that Nocturne would have to pass him to reach her.

  The crowd muttered as Saphira hesitated again.

  Rell’s hand rested on her shoulder, and as he did, the crowd repeated Quintus’ lies in hushed tones.

  “Aurelian,” Nocturne warned, the command in his voice enough to make the squire hesitate. He looked to Saphira and murmured, “My little Vila, it’s me.”

  "Wait," Rell warned, his hand tightening on her.

  Only Nocturne knows that name. Saphira moved a half-step away from Rell, the sheer intimacy of the name pulling her close. He whispered it only when we were alone.

  "Saph..." Rell hissed.

  "My wife." Nocturne lifted his gloved hand, thumb slipping beneath her chin to tilt her face toward his. The pressure was almost perfect. The scar beneath his beard was there. The iron piercings of a warrior, the steel he wore for their marriage. His eyes held hers, steady and unblinking.

  “Nocturne,” she breathed, searching his face.

  Then she saw it—that there was no black pearl in his ear. The quiet marker of his grief. The memory they both wore of their son—gone.

  He would never remove it. Never.

  Her breath caught—she had stepped away from Rell. Her hand pressed flat to her heart, against the bodice, finding the knife hidden.

  "Come," he said, his gloved hand sliding into hers, "Stand where everyone can see us together."

  No more hesitation. Clean and quiet.

  He leaned closer, rain and leather and something hollow beneath filling her senses. Saphira let him come close.

  Then she drew the knife and slid it between his ribs.

  She felt him wince; the blood red and warm on her hand as she pulled the knife out.

  His umber eyes widened in shock as he touched the wound.

  What have I done—?

  Above: Saphira stabs Nocturne.

  Felix swore as he yanked her backward.

  Rell launched forward, slamming into Nocturne and driving him hard into the stone.

  Did I get it wrong? For one, horrible moment, she glanced at her hand and saw the red blood drip on to the stone.

  Then, the red bubbled, turning into black ichor. Men bleed red, not black.

  The facestealer writhed beneath Rell, its face flickering—then settling again into Nocturne’s as it gasped, a wet and choking sound.

  “Guards, arrest her!” The creature yelled in Nocturne’s voice.

  The hall erupted. Gasps tore through the crowd. “The Countess stabbed the Count!” someone cried.

  "I didn't, it's not—"

  Felix stepped in front of her, pulling his blade free, his body a wall between Saphira and the crowd.

  “Traitor!” a man shouted. “Quintus was right!” Hands flew to the hearth, steel ringing out as the crowd fractured—some surging forward, some shrinking back, others frozen in horror.

  “Surrender, Felix!” Orson called, sword drawn, his voice hoarse with disbelief. “She tried to kill him!”

  “It’s not him,” Saphira yelled, her voice failing to cut through the chaos. “Look at him, it's Gorda’s trick!”

  The guards hesitated, caught between blood and their oaths.

  “Rell… it’s me,” the creature hissed in Nocturne’s voice as Rell pinned it, blood slicking his hands. “I’m bleeding out…”

  Rell snarled and drove his elbow down.

  With an almighty shove, the creature heaved him off and rolled clear, boots scraping stone as it came up fast and fluid, already drawing its blade.

  But it was not Shadowrend.

  The sword it wielded was plain steel—well-balanced, well-used—but swung with a familiarity that made Saphira’s stomach tighten.

  “It’s not his Shadowrend—see?” Saphira yelled, but her words fell on deaf ears.

  Rell met it head-on, their blades colliding with a jarring crack that rang through the hall. He pressed forward immediately, brute force and fury driving him, but the creature gave ground easily, turning each blow aside with infuriating precision.

  Felix shifted in front of her as the crowd surged again, steel flashing at the edges of her vision. He did not look back. Every movement of his body was calculated—blocking, redirecting, keeping her pinned safely behind him as shouts and accusations tore the air.

  This is what Gorda wants. Chaos. Blood. Saphira held her belt knife tight. I won't give it to her.

  Rell and the creature circled, boots sliding in blood and spilled ale. Rell struck hard and fast, forcing the creature back toward the hearth, but it slipped his reach repeatedly, matching him blow for blow. Sparks flew as blades scraped.

  Neither yielded. Neither gained ground.

  The creature moved like Nocturne—too much like him. The same economy of motion. The same patience under pressure. It ducked a killing strike and slammed its shoulder into Rell’s chest, sending him skidding back a step. Rell recovered instantly, teeth bared, and drove in again, their swords locking as they strained against one another.

  For a heartbeat, they stood there, muscles shaking, faces inches apart—Rell snarling, the creature smiling with Nocturne’s mouth.

  Saphira watched, breath shallow, knowing with a cold certainty that this could not be won quickly.

  Then the great doors boomed again, wood groaning as they were forced wide. Rain thundered into the hall. Saphira looked past the shouting, past the drawn blades—and saw him.

  Nocturne. My husband.

  He stood framed by the storm, armour slick with rain, hands braced against the doors, the black pearl unmistakable in his ear.

  The hall fell silent.

  Even the facestealer went still.