Song vibe: Singularity – BTS

  __________

  SAPHIRA

  Lady's Solar, Lux

  As Saphira’s fingers traced the folds of the parchment, she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

  This is real. I belong to Nocturne; he belongs to me. Now he rides to Firestone—to our home—with haste.

  “What's that smile for, Saph?” Rell asked, running his whetstone over a knife. He held the edge up to the morning light, then offered it hilt-first to Isais. “Here. Happy birthday, kiddo.”

  “Aurelian!” Saphira scolded. “You cannot give a blade to a five-year-old!”

  “Why?” Rell shrugged. “I started younger.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Rell,” Isais said solemnly. He sheathed the blade with exaggerated care—then promptly picked his nose and wiped the evidence on Dusty’s head.

  The hell leopard clicked in irritation, then nudged Isais insistently for chin scratches.

  “Marigold is going to kill me,” Saphira muttered. She passed the note to Rell and gently stroked Charmaine’s fingers. The baby cooed and stretched out in her cradle.

  "Almighty, of course he won. Let's go tell Marigold and the rest," Rell declared.

  Above: Saphira reads Nocturne's note; Rell sharpens Isais' birthday gift.

  “I’ll send a silvark to Sunfire,” Rell said, folding the parchment. “Felix will be relieved. Selwyn and Quintus, on the other hand—nothing’s good enough. Cell's too cold, food's too bland, those spawnrotting—”

  Saphira stamped on his toe and clapped a hand over Isais’ ears.

  Rell laughed. “It’s what uncles are for.”

  They moved through Firestone’s halls together—Rell chasing Isais, Isais chasing Dusty. More than a week had passed since the poisoning, and Marigold remained stable under Verity and August’s care. The tradesmen had returned to their homes to help sow the fields, and Lysander’s questioning had seen a third of the staff dismissed. A hush settled on Firestone that felt intimate rather than empty.

  August put everyone to the truthstone. No one knew anything about Gorda's plans—not the Sunfire wardens, not the servants, not even Selwyn.

  A squeal of laughter broke her thoughts. Rell had Isais upside down, shaking him by the ankles. Pebbles fell from his pockets. “See what happens when you drop your guard! A frost giant takes you!”

  Saphira smiled despite herself, pressing a kiss to Charmaine’s hair. They walked into the main hall, Isais and Rell running laps around the tables, their laughter echoing.

  At the apothecary, Rell opened the doors, declaring, "Here's Mama Sunfire, looking well! Hope Tiny Tyrant has been—"

  "One more terrible nickname and I'll smash your kneecaps," Verity threatened, holding up her pestle, fingers stained with crushed rinnel weed.

  "You're about the right height to reach," Rell shot back, laughing as Isais pushed past him.

  The five-year-old brandished his sharpened knife, yelling, “Mummy, look what Uncle Rell got me!”

  At the sight of the blade, Marigold’s face paled slightly; she reached out and took it from her son with a calm, steady hand. Saphira caught her eye and mouthed I’m sorry.

  Marigold met her gaze—honey-brown to violet—and offered the faintest smile. There was no reproach there, only the quiet understanding of two women who had witnessed a tragedy but chose to trust.

  Verity fluffed Marigold’s pillows and helped her sit upright. Her hand paused briefly on Marigold's head to check her temperature.

  “You’re looking better,” Saphira murmured as she placed Charmaine into Marigold’s arms, lingering a moment to adjust the blanket. “She slept well. The wet nurse said she’s feeding well, too.”

  “Thank you,” Marigold whispered, her voice soft with relief as she drew Charmaine close.

  Though she grew stronger with each passing day, Marigold’s body was still too weak to breastfeed. Felix travelled often between Firestone and Sunfire, laying the foundations of his new home and gently unpicking the years of Selwyn’s rule over the clan.

  Saphira felt his absence keenly—like empty boots no one dared fill. She smoothed a lock of blonde hair back from Marigold’s temple.

  This is the life of a Lady, she thought. Sharing your husband with the cruel mistress of duty.

  “I want a story,” Isais declared sleepily, curling against his mother’s side.

  Above: Marigold is recovering.

  Touching Rell's sleeve, Saphira signalled for them to leave. They walked through the halls in a companionable silence, stopping at an open window.

  Spring air wafted through, bringing on it the sweet scent of freesias and bluebells. Below them, the washerwomen worked, soaping the linen and drying it in the warmth of the sun. From the kitchens came the smell of Orson's rhubarb pie, and from the blacksmith, the rhythmic clang of hammers on steel.

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  Gorda is still out there.

  "Why the sad look, Saphricot? Worried she'll strike again?" Rell murmured, biting down on his lip piercing.

  "I'm more worried she'll disappear forever," Saphira replied.

  "Nox'll be home soon," Rell reassured. "And I want to keep my head attached, so I'll keep you alive before then."

  "Your motivation is inspiring," Saphira laughed.

  They walked to the great hall, and for the first time since leaving Renatus, there was stillness in Saphira's heart—not the hollow quiet of fear or loneliness, but something slower, almost a steady peace.

  For now.

  “Lady Saphira!” Lysander’s voice rang out—bright as ever, though caution lingered in his hazel eyes. He touched her shoulder lightly. “The silvark—Lux, was it—?”

  “Good tidings,” Saphira said before he could finish. “They did it. The Conclave voted in our favour. Nocturne will be home in about two weeks—perhaps sooner, if he rides as he fights.”

  "Seriously?" Lysander’s relief broke into motion. He caught her hand and spun her once, laughing, before bowing low with theatrical grace. “This calls for celebration, my lady.”

  “If it involves rakia, I’m already committed,” Rell said, muscling himself into the conversation. He draped his arm around Lysander’s shoulders and patted his chest. “This one’s a lightweight.”

  “Did someone say rakia?” From one of the long tables, August looked up from his bowl of stew, pale eyes sharp but warm. Draining the rest of his ale, he inclined his head to Saphira. “I never doubted Nox. He always beats bad odds.”

  Saphira’s gaze lifted to the great hall’s polished beams. Garlands of dried hellebores and hydrangeas still hung in careful loops—Gorda’s flowers, arranged to watch a festival that would never happen.

  Lysander sighed wistfully, chin catching the light as he looked up. “Such a waste. The Sowing Festival’s been held here every year since before I could string a bow—the dances, the blessing, the wine…” he exhaled. “I’ll have the servants take them down.”

  “Leave them,” Saphira instructed.

  All three men looked at her.

  She drew Rell and Lysander closer to August’s table. August shifted without comment, making space.

  “You’re either going to love this—or tell me I’ve lost my mind." Saphira rested her fingers briefly on the keys at her belt. "And I need you to be honest.”

  “That’s not how it works," Rell laughed, tattoos rippling as he crossed his arms. "You’re the Lady now. You don’t ask permission—you decide.”

  “Still,” August said, “we reserve the right to look concerned.”

  Saphira leaned in. “Gorda believed—truly believed—that Nocturne might name her Lady. When he returns, the last of that hope dies. If she decides to vanish, we’ll never know who helped her poison Firestone.” Her voice dropped. “So, we don’t cancel the Sowing Festival. We host it. And we let Gorda come to us.”

  “That’s my girl!" Lysander’s hazel eyes lit immediately. "I’ll need my lute—and at least two backup musicians—”

  “Hold,” Rell cut in. “Nox gave you orders. If he meant to lock the castle down—”

  “He never told me to cancel the festival,” Saphira said evenly. “He just ordered that the gates stay locked. No outsiders. But Gorda won’t be able to resist this. Not when I’m performing the blessing, she's been doing that since she was a girl—she won't let me.” Her violet gaze sharpened. “This time, we’ll be ready.”

  August considered her for a long moment. “It’s risky,” he said at last. “And it’s equally risky not to act. If she flees to Renatus, she’ll sell what she knows to Hyland before summer’s out. And I don't want knowledge of her magic leaving these mountains.” He paused. “Unless Nocturne gave a direct counter-order, this falls within your authority."

  "And giving the blessing over the seeds will solidify your place in Firestone," Lysander added. "You arrange the festival. We'll cover security."

  Saphira straightened. “Then it’s settled. On the full moon—ten days—we hold the Sowing Festival. If I were Gorda, I'd use my magic at a distance to manipulate people. Cover any blindspots where she could hide. Lock the kitchen down—test the food for poison before it's served. Double the guard of Selwyn and Quintus."

  "She'll try to distract us," August said. "Any disturbance, anything out of the ordinary, will be treated as an attack. We take no chances."

  "Let's plan more in private." She glanced around the hall. “But for now? I want lilies. A vase in the great hall.”

  “I know just the girl to pick them.” Lysander smiled slowly.

  Saphira’s fingers tightened briefly on the keys.

  Nocturne told me lilies could summon help. He called it his "shadow in Firestone".

  If I’m hunting an assassin and a snake—then I’ll need someone who understands their methods.

  That evening, Saphira settled into Nocturne’s bed, Dusty curled against her side, eyes closed but alert, breath slow and measured. Beneath the door, firelight breathed in a dull amber line, and somewhere beyond the walls came the steady scrape of Rell’s whetstone on steel, followed by a burst of Lysander’s musical laughter.

  They had spent the whole afternoon planning: blindspots in the castle, a tamperproof menu, the order of service measured down to the smallest pause so there could be no unexpected moments—yet August’s contingencies, Rell’s specialised training for the guards, and Lysander’s revised staff roster still waited.

  She set her leather-bound journal on the nightstand, and then blew out the candle. The extra furs did little to soften Nocturne’s bed, nor to warm it; Maxine had tucked stones heated in the fire beneath the blankets, and Livia had dabbed fresh lavender oil at her wrists, a gentle attempt at comfort that could not quite reach her mind.

  Not long now until Nocturne warms this bed with me—to begin our married life for real. I won't have to worry about assassins and poison. He'll be right here, holding me safe.

  The scent of lilies lay thick in the room.

  Saphira did not turn her head. “You’re here,” she said softly, keeping her hand under her pillow, firmly grasping her belt knife.

  Silence answered—long enough that another woman might have doubted herself.

  Then, close enough that the air stirred, a voice spoke. “How may I serve?”

  It was low. Female. Familiar in a way that tightened something beneath Saphira’s ribs.

  She let the sound linger in the dark, weighing it. “I want to know who you are.”

  A pause; not of fear—but calculation.

  “That would be unwise,” the voice replied. “Names invite mistakes. Accidental revelations. If you know my face, then I will depart from Firestone.” A breath, barely audible. “Now, give me my assignment.”

  Saphira’s fingers curled into Dusty’s fur. The hell leopard did not move, the thick muscles under her remained relaxed. Feeling Dusty's calm, Saphira's hand eased off her belt knife.

  Behind the closed door, Rell and Lysander chattered, unaware.

  Above: Saphira speaks to the shadow.

  “You managed to come in here tonight,” Saphira said. “That tells me Firestone still has cracks.”

  “The lady has nothing to fear; my entry tonight was…a once-off. Unique to—how do I phrase this—my skillset."

  “No defence is perfect.” Saphiras. “Find the flaws. Every place a person like you could pass unseen.”

  “I will.”

  “Second,” Saphira continued, her voice steadier, “look at the servants, see what we missed. Anyone who still holds sympathy for Gorda Sunfire—anyone who listens when they should not. Leave the names on the Solar table.”

  Another breath. Closer this time.

  “And lastly,” Saphira said, her voice barely more than a thought, “there may be an attempt on my life during the Sowing Festival.” A pause. “I prefer it fail. I want you to strike first.”

  “It will be done, m’lady.”

  "A lily will be your symbol of trust. Show it to me, and I will know it is you," Saphira said.

  There was the faintest sound of movement—fabric brushing stone—and then the soft creak of the door to the hot springs opening, releasing a curl of mineral-scented mist into the room.

  The scent of lilies faded into the early spring night.

  Beyond the door, Lysander’s laughter faded. There was a soft crinkle of paper as Rell unrolled a scroll.

  At last, Saphira rolled over and pressed her face into Dusty’s flank. “Traitor,” she murmured. “You didn’t even twitch. You knew exactly who she was, didn’t you?"

  Dusty’s eyes opened—round, reflective, catching the firelight until they glowed faintly red.

  Saphira huffed a quiet breath.

  “Fine. Keep your secrets.” Her hand tightened once more in her fur. “I think I know too.”

  She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the walls breathe.

  “But I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  If Dusty trusts them, so do I.

  The tactium pieces are all in place. The trap is set in motion. Gorda Sunfire, we're ready for you.

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