Song vibe: Black Swan – BTS

  __________

  NOCTURNE

  Castellum Luminaris, Lux

  Nocturne could hear the candles. The soft hiss of flame. The shuffle of silk and damask. The scrape of a quill being set down.

  Across the table, King Edwin rose. “To vote on the legitimacy of Lord Nocturne and Lady Saphira’s union,” he said. “Is Lady Saphira to be recognised as Countess of Firestone?”

  The words hung in the air, heavy as judgment. Dust motes drifted through the shafts of morning light, glimmering over the oak table like falling ash.

  Wouter’s hand rose first—swift, decisive, the strike of loyalty.

  Brielle followed, every inch of her movement deliberate, her gloved hand slicing through the stillness. Then Edwin—his hand lifting with quiet authority, sealing his faction’s stance.

  Three votes. Edwin’s inner circle.

  Slowly, Luther’s hand came next. Reluctant. Weighted.

  Four. Nocturne’s pulse beat hard against his throat. Four in favour. Five unmoved. The balance hangs by a thread.

  His gaze found Aaliyah across the table. Come on.

  Her eyes flicked toward him, then dropped. Shame coloured her cheeks as she turned away.

  Tsek. Aaliyah. We only need one more.

  Lorenzo folded his arms, stone-faced. Crassus’ lips curled faintly as his fingers drummed the dragon’s claw of his cane. A faint smile—a promise of ruin.

  Then Valdislav stirred. His eyes widened, as if he had seen a wraith.

  Nocturne followed his line of sight.

  Diego’s hand was raised. The glint of the ring caught the light—gold on brown skin, a small defiance that turned the tide of a kingdom.

  Five.

  For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

  The silence cracked like ice beneath weight. Nocturne exhaled, the air leaving him in a trembling rush. For the first time in weeks, his lungs remembered how to draw breath.

  Five in favour. Four against. His chest ached. Almighty… we won.

  Above: Diego casts the winning vote.

  Edwin’s voice broke the silence. “The Conclave has decided: Lady Saphira is recognised as the lawful wife of Lord Nocturne, Count of Firestone—under his protection and authority. What the Almighty has joined, let none separate.”

  The declaration echoed through the hall, solemn as a prayer.

  “I will accept the council’s decision—” Crassus inclined his head, the gesture smooth as oil. “—if I am granted the right to send envoys to ascertain her wellbeing.”

  Nocturne’s jaw tightened. He drew breath to object, but Edwin’s look cut him off—a warning cloaked in diplomacy.

  “Permission granted,” the king said evenly. “Your envoys will be received within my borders. Lord Nocturne will ensure their satisfaction.”

  And I won’t leave them alone with you, Saphira.

  Crassus dipped his head again and turned, his cane striking the marble in measured rhythm as he departed. Lorenzo followed at his heels, murmuring questions. Vladislav lingered only long enough to offer his arm to Aaliyah. She accepted—stiffly—and though her expression remained poised, Nocturne saw the faint rise of gooseflesh along her arm where the Hyland duke’s hand rested.

  The doors slammed shut behind them.

  As Nocturne turned to leave, a firm hand caught his forearm. Diego.

  Diego extended his spare hand, firm and sure. “You make enemies fast, Count—but the right kind.”

  “And you make friends at impossible moments.” Nocturne allowed a faint smile.

  “We’ll call it even then,” Diego said. His expression softened. “Hold on to her, Nocturne. The world doesn’t forgive men like us when we lose what’s precious. We never get a second chance.”

  “Then I’ll make sure it never comes to that.”

  “Good.” Diego patted his chest pocket, where paper crinkled softly. “For what it’s worth—whatever I read, I’ve already forgotten.”

  For a moment, the two men regarded each other—one weary, one unshaken, both bound by secrets neither would name.

  Outside, the bells of Lux began to toll, their echo rolling through the marble corridors like the slow heartbeat of a kingdom.

  The corridor stretched before him—long, bright, endless. A servant stepped into his path, bowing low. “A message for you, my lord. From the Beaumont Estate. A silvark from Firestone. Marked your eyes only.”

  Nocturne’s pulse slowed. “Show me.”

  He pushed through the reception doors. The chamber smelled of ink and lavender wax. A woman in the king’s livery stood waiting, her eyes lowered. She held out a folded letter sealed with Firestone’s crest—his crest.

  “Give me the room,” he commanded.

  He broke the seal in the silence and saw Lysander’s handwriting—quick, urgent, slanted from haste.

  _____________

  Quintus imprisoned. We found the missing gold and vials of our blood. The Duke’s dragon’s claw cane killed your son. Crassus planned it all. Be warned.

  —Lye

  _____________

  The words blurred.

  For a moment, there was no sound. He drew no breath. His heartbeat slowed.

  Then the world snapped back—the creak of the floorboards, the faint hiss of the hearth, the distant echo of church bells outside.

  The dragon’s claw cane. The weapon that inflicted a wound that wouldn't heal.

  He saw it again—the glint of ancient dragon scales, the flourish of it in Crassus’s hand, the way Saphira cried out in pain, the blood seeping through her dress. The memory split open like a wound.

  He knew. Nocturne’s head spun. He knew what it would do to her. To our child.

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  I thought it was me. My corrupted seed. Then I took her into Horrocks. Nocturne’s fingers tightened around the parchment until it tore. His hands had gone cold—blood draining to ice.

  But it was him.

  Crassus killed my son.

  The words formed without sound. His mouth moved; no breath came. A low ringing filled his ears, sharp and rising, like steel being drawn from its sheath.

  Something in him broke—cleanly, quietly—the part he had kept locked behind iron.

  Then, the temperature dropped.

  He felt it before he heard it: the slow, deliberate rhythm of a cane striking marble, walking down the hallway. Each tap was precise, venomous—the measured gait of a man who had never feared consequence.

  “Lord Nocturne,” came that familiar, serpentine voice. “Or should I call you my son-in-law?”

  Nocturne turned. The rage that had been boiling now crystallised into something cold, exact. He still held the note—Lysander’s words crushed in his fist.

  Crassus' steel blue eyes pierced him with contempt. His ageless face still bore a disturbing smirk. The duke shut the door behind him.

  “Let's make a deal, man to man. I'll give you—”

  “Did you know?” The question was soft, almost tender.

  Crassus blinked once, slow as deceit. “What are you talking —”

  “Did you know when you stabbed my wife?”

  Sneering, Crassus raised the cane and pointed it at Nocturne's chest. “Your mage pulled her from the walls; you dragged her through spawn-infested lands; you—”

  The crack was sharp, final.

  The cane broke cleanly across Nocturne’s knee with a sound like a bone giving way. Splinters skittered across the marble.

  The room narrowed to just them—their breath, their heartbeat, and their silence.

  “Did you know?” Nocturne asked again.

  Crassus faltered—only for a fraction of a moment, but it was enough. His pulse quickened. His eyes betrayed him.

  That’s all I need.

  He killed Asher.

  “You think you can intimidate me, knight?” Crassus chuckled. “I came here to bargain, you're just Edwin's thug. Know this: I’ll have my daughter back. Any child you put in her won’t be safe—oh yes, you’ll never—”

  Nocturne moved every bit a warrior and husband. The broken half of the cane spun in his hand, the dragon’s claw turning point-first. He drove the claw under the ribs, feeling the give of flesh, the shudder as air fled Crassus’s lungs.

  No scream—just a wet gasp, a dying rattle.

  Nocturne caught him as he fell, one arm around his back, the other pressing the claw deeper, steady. Their foreheads almost touched.

  “Look at me,” he whispered.

  Above: “Look at me,” he whispered.

  Crassus’s pupils flared, swallowing the grey. Surprise flared—then anger. The light drained slowly, like an ember losing heat.

  Blood spread down Nocturne’s sleeve, warm and slick, pooling on the marble between their boots.

  “The pits take you,” Nocturne whispered.

  The duke’s weight collapsed against him, limp. Nocturne lowered him to the floor. Then, he pulled out the claw.

  The blood reached outward, thin red veins tracing through the cracks of the stone until they caught the light and shimmered back at him—his reflection stained scarlet.

  It’s done.

  Saphira is safe. There’s justice for my son.

  His breathing was steady—too steady. He had expected fire—rage, relief, something righteous. Instead, there was only quiet in his soul—a vast, echoing, endless quiet.

  Let them find the body. The Almighty will be my judge.

  He wiped his hands on his cloak and stripped it off, the gesture calm, mechanical. There was no triumph, no relief—only a hollow ache.

  He strode through the halls, the echo of his boots ringing sharper than it should have. Blood had dried beneath his sleeve, the stench of death thick in Nocturne's nostrils.

  Outside Edwin’s private chambers, Brielle and Wouter stepped aside, murmuring to each other. Their eyes flicked over him—curious, uneasy—and then away, as though they had glimpsed something they wished they had not.

  Nocturne entered.

  The king stood by the window, one hand resting on the sill, the other curled loosely around a glass. The afternoon sunlight struck the room, lighting the king in a golden halo.

  Edwin turned. His gaze drifted to the stain on Nocturne’s sleeve. “There’s blood on you,” he said—lightly, almost amused. “Did a servant look at you the wrong way again?”

  Nocturne’s mouth felt dry. “I killed Crassus.”

  For a heartbeat, Edwin stilled—then gave a short laugh. “Yes, you did—his pride won’t recover. The Hyland alliance is gone. That move with the love letter—brilliant manoeuvre."

  He poured whiskey into two glasses, the sound of liquid against crystal unnervingly loud in the quiet. “To victories both spoken and unspoken.” He handed one to Nocturne and clinked the rim of his own against it. “Keep your wits, my friend. He'll turn to underhanded tactics; Crassus doesn’t lose gracefully."

  He's already lost, and now, in the pits of hell.

  “I’m ready for whatever comes next.” Nocturne took a measured sip. The burn steadied him.

  “And you have what you wanted. Freedom. Your wife." Edwin smiled faintly—polite, inscrutable. "I’ll see to the rest.”

  “Until you come knocking again,” Nocturne said, voice low. He set the glass down, the sound deliberate. “No more orders. No more spawnlords.”

  “You’re retiring, then?” Edwin’s brow lifted.

  “No.” Nocturne looked at his own hands—the faint red beneath his nails. “I’m returning home. And if anyone tries to take me from there, they’ll have to do it by the sword.”

  And I mean every word, Edwin. I did what every father and husband would have done.

  Edwin studied him for a long moment, the light catching the faintest glimmer of suspicion in his brown eyes. Then he smiled. “Understood. Though I’ll always favour diplomacy over violence.”

  “Then you’d best perfect your diplomacy,” Nocturne murmured. “Because when that fails, I won’t be your sword.”

  In the silence, Nocturne shifted, feeling a strange object pressed against his hip—a weight that had not been there before. His hand slipped into his pocket and found it: the dragon’s claw, tucked away. He did not remember keeping it; he did not remember discarding it. The scales were still damp, Crassus’s blood seeping through the cloth and into the dark weave of his coat.

  A sharp knock broke the moment.

  They’ve found the body. Nocturne’s chest eased with relief. Whatever happens, I hold my head up high.

  “Your Majesty,” came a voice through the door, “Duke Diego requests an audience.”

  “Ah. The price of a new allegiance.” Edwin’s lips curved. His mirth faded as he glanced at Nocturne. “Next time I give you an order, follow it to the letter.”

  “Edwin,” Nocturne said, his voice hollow. “I’m out. No more special favours."

  “As you wish." The king set his glass down, his tone like silk over steel. "Go—celebrate your victory. I’ll handle the rest.”

  “No.” Nocturne turned, the light cutting across his face, hollowing his features. “I’m going home.”

  He did not wait for the king’s permission.

  He walked the corridors like a wraith, steps hollow against the stone. His body moved, but his mind lagged behind, snagged on blood and silence.

  The hallway seemed to lengthen with every stride—walls stretching, torches smearing into lines of gold. Each footfall echoed twice. Servants passed, their faces pale blurs, mouths opening soundlessly as he went by.

  His mind spun, the thoughts coming fast.

  Will they call it justice or revenge?

  His thoughts collided, tangling and warring, spiralling beyond his control.

  Will Edwin shield me—or feed me to the Renatii lords?

  I could be executed for this. Nocturne swallowed, his mouth dry. I did what I did. I’ll pay the price.

  He stopped and braced a hand against the cold stone, breath thin, pulse pounding so hard it hurt. Through the nearest window, the city of Lux unfurled below—sunlight flashing off polished carriages and the slow tide of people in the streets.

  A movement caught his eye.

  One carriage stood apart, black lacquer glinting under the noon light. A foot on the step.

  Crassus.

  Perfect posture. Unhurried. Breathing.

  He turned his head—and looked up. Their eyes met across the impossible distance.

  The duke smiled. Too smooth. Too young. The skin of his face stretched wrong, the expression sitting on him like a mask still wet with paint.

  In his hand—held high like a jest—one half of a broken cane.

  Nocturne’s heartbeat slammed in his chest. His hand shot to his pocket, grasping the dragon's claw.

  I killed you.

  He felt a cold dread rise from his gut—the feeling of needing to vomit.

  Above: Crassus is alive.

  Crassus tilted his head, almost playful, before stepping into the carriage. As the door shut, the horses lurched forward, wheels cutting through dust and sunlight.

  And then he was gone.

  The square below blurred. Dust lifted, catching the light in swirling clouds. The sound of the carriage faded—first hooves, then wheels, then nothing. Only the pulse in Nocturne’s ears remained.

  He’s alive?

  His breath caught. The world tilted.

  How? I felt the life leave him. The weight collapse in my arms. The blood pooling on the marble. I saw his eyes dim. I’ve killed enough men to know how to do it properly…

  He pressed his forehead to the glass, searching the street again, but there was only air—empty, shimmering, mocking.

  He held the cane. The one I broke. I hold the claw now. It was real, not an illusion.

  The thought thundered in his head. The corridor wavered; Nocturne gripped the sill tighter.

  “What in all seven hells…” His voice barely reached his own ears.

  He turned from the window, the world still spinning, and forced himself to breathe.

  If he’s alive, then what did I kill?

  What in the pits is Duke Crassus?

  His hand tightened over the claw, feeling the blood—real and thick—under his thumb.

  I need to get to Firestone. Now.

  Somewhere below, a bell tolled again—the same sound that had marked his victory. Only now, it sounded like a warning.

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