Song vibe: Singularity – BTS

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  SAPHIRA

  The Lady’s Solar, Firestone

  The nervous chatter of Firestone’s women filled the lady’s solar, the space temporarily surrendered to perfume, makeup and last-minute stitches in silk.

  Livia stood behind Saphira, braiding fresh bluebells into her lilac hair, filling the room with her cheerful chatter.

  Saphira only smiled along, hardly registering her words.

  Silk is my armour. A smile is my weapon. Over her dress of apricot silk, Saphira buckled her belt knife. But just in case—clean and quiet, just like Nocturne said.

  Marigold sat beside her, resplendent in a sun-yellow frock. Maxine, her hands careful and reverent, tightened the laces of her dress.

  “Hold still,” Verity commanded, placing her finger under Saphira’s chin. She ran a sweet-tasting paste over Saphira’s lips, dyeing them a pinkish red. “This will stain till the morning.”

  The final touches were applied: lavender on her wrists, rouge, kohl, a borrowed necklace of silver and diamond around her neck—and lastly, sleeves of flowing apricot silk to Marigold’s old dress. She studied herself in the mirror.

  The girl who had once stood sweating in a wedding dress beneath summer heat was gone. In her place stood a woman—a countess—shoulders squared, purple eyes clear.

  Winter is over. It's spring now.

  Her fingers rose to her ear. Her mother’s crystalith earrings caught the light. The black pearl—Asher’s—rested against her skin. Last, she adjusted the steel loop Nocturne had given her.

  Will you like what you come home to? Will you see a cleaner keep—and a wiser wife? Or only fresh problems dressed in ceremony?

  “You look… like a vila,” Livia whispered.

  “Vila?” Verity snorted. “She looks every inch the Lady of Firestone. I dare anyone to question her now.”

  “You wear the dress well,” Marigold said quietly. “If only Lord Nocturne were here to see it.”

  Saphira turned, meeting her gaze. “He will—soon enough.”

  “Are you certain you don’t want something finer, my lady?" Maxine knelt and eased well-worn leather slippers onto Saphira’s feet. "I have beaded silk—”

  “The last thing I want tonight is sore feet,” Saphira said, lifting her skirts to step into the shoes. “Go on. Let Lysander know I’m coming.”

  “Nocturne chose well." Marigold squeezed her hand—weak with recovery, but resolute. “He’ll be proud of you.”

  “Thank you—for everything you’ve given.” Saphira squeezed back. “Tonight, there will be justice for Lady Astra.”

  Saphira swept through the halls with her ladies ranked behind her, silk swishing over polished stone.

  Marigold’s name was announced first.

  Felix waited at the bottom of the grand staircase, hand already extended, his grin softening as Marigold entered. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to narrow to the two of them.

  The Lord of Sunfire was almost unrecognisable in lordly attire. Dark velvet fitted Felix's broad shoulders, gold thread glinting at his cuffs. His curls had been combed and oiled back; his smile confident. He bent to kiss Marigold’s hand, and they took their place beside the stone chair by the hearth.

  Then, Saphira swept down the stairs.

  Above: Lysander introduces Saphira to the Sowing Festival.

  Lysander waited, offering his hand for the final step. Rings flashed on his fingers as he moved, and only the top half of his blonde hair was bound in silver thread. His pearl-grey tunic was cut close and slit for movement—nothing to betray what he carried beneath.

  Almighty—he looks like a fae prince. Saphira shook her head. Good. Let him draw their eyes. Those who watch me too carefully are suspect.

  “Stunning, my lady,” he murmured as their hands brushed.

  She bit her lip, smiling as she passed through the crowd. “Is everything going smoothly?”

  “Hush. We’re your eyes and ears,” Lysander said lightly. “Your job is to keep everyone looking where we want them to.”

  The judgement chair of Firestone awaited her—Nocturne’s chair. She settled into the cold, unyielding stone for the first time.

  Above: Saphira sits on Nocturne's judgment chair. Felix and Marigold support her.

  Her voice carried. “Welcome to Firestone’s Sowing Festival. As Countess of Firestone, I extend Lord Nocturne’s hospitality and protection. Lay your weapons at our hearth." She unclipped the knife at her belt and placed it down at the hearth. "Eat, drink, and make merry in peace, for no harm shall befall you while I draw breath. This I vow before the Almighty.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The reply came as one—a mountain tradition, spoken in the mountain tongue—now almost familiar to Saphira.

  “We come in peace. We accept your protection. May the Almighty bless you.”

  One by one, guests were called, and their blades were surrendered at the hearth.

  Everyone in this hall is unarmed, she reminded herself. Except for the people I trust.

  Rell bowed and offered his main weapon, his expression solemn enough to pass. His sleeves were buttoned to the wrist, slave tattoos hidden beneath leather—his steel lay concealed. He winked at her, quick and wicked, and she knew he was enjoying every second of the lie.

  The blades they're offering are all fakes—the real ones are hidden in the side chamber, ready if we need them.

  Her gaze swept the room, catching August lingering at the edge of the hall—present, permitted, but never invited in. The mage stood apart by instinct as much as custom, his Syndicate a quiet perimeter none of the mountain folk acknowledged. He nodded—no sign of Gorda.

  Lysander’s warning look found her, as if to say: look natural.

  She smoothed her expression and rose as Rell joined her, ascending the dais where the feast awaited.

  An empty seat—Nocturne’s—remained between her and Felix. He reached across and touched the armrest of her chair. “Eat,” he said, over the noise of the hall.

  She nodded and cut her meat with the blunted knife. She chewed slowly, washing the food down with low-fermented ale.

  “Saph.” Rell’s hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. “A pigeon just arrived. For you.”

  “Not a silvark?” She unfolded the note, heart already quickening.

  I’m at the Halfway Inn. It’s the night before the full moon. I’ll be back soon—your faithful husband.

  “It’s Nocturne,” she breathed. “Sent yesterday. He was at the Halfway Inn.”

  Rell’s eyes sharpened. “Then he could arrive at Firestone at any moment.”

  “Thank the Almighty.” She pressed the note to her heart. “Let’s hope this is settled before he returns. I won’t have him ride into chaos.”

  Her gaze lifted, scanning the hall once more.

  The lute player struck a brighter chord. Laughter rose. Ale was sipped politely. Then, the drummer set a steady beat.

  Casting a longing look at Nocturne’s empty seat, she placed her hand in Felix’s, the next highest-ranked lord. Behind her, Lysander swept Marigold onto the floor with an easy grin, already spinning her with expert grace.

  Above: Felix and Saphira lead the first dance.

  Felix led Saphira to the centre with quiet confidence.

  No formal steps—this isn't Renatus, Saphira reminded, just follow my partner, and he'll follow the music.

  The music began—she curtsied, he bowed.

  “You move like someone who knows they belong here,” Felix murmured.

  She smiled. “You've made me finally believe it.”

  His hand adjusted at her waist—gentle, steady. “Breathe. Everything’s going to plan.”

  “Nothing ever does.”

  Felix moved as if the music were a part of him—each turn clean, each dip sure. The room followed him without realising it had done so, attention drawing to his presence like heat around flame. Saphira let herself trust him, let herself be carried through each confident step.

  "You came to the Mountains, hardly speaking a word of our dialect. Hair hidden away, face behind a veil. You could hardly stay seated in a saddle." Felix let out a teasing chuckle, before his voice softened. "But now, look at you. You’ve come a long way, Saphira. I'm proud of you.”

  When the song ended, he bowed once more.

  “Felix—”

  “No tears—it'll set me off,” he warned, smiling. “Then, I’ll lose all credibility. Now stay alert.” He spun her once more, presenting her to the hall before releasing her. He returned to Marigold without another word.

  We had a plan: Felix first, then Lysander, and Rell last... so where is Lye?

  Saphira searched—and found Lysander cornered by three maidservants. They had not waited to be invited onto the floor; they all grasped for his hand, bickering.

  A disruption. Her gaze swept over the crowd desperately. Is this part of Gorda’s plan?

  Lysander excused himself and pushed past the women, but it was too late—he would not make it across the dancefloor in time.

  “May I?” a quiet voice asked.

  She turned.

  August stood before her, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture composed, expression unreadable. He extended a gloved hand. They stepped into the slow rhythm of the next song. His hand rested lightly on her back as he maintained a respectful space between them.

  Above: August steps in to save the dance.

  “You dance well,” she said at last.

  “They taught us a few civil graces in Hyland—” he replied curtly, “—between the blood magic.”

  She stiffened—then saw the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

  A laugh escaped her. Almighty—his humour really is that dry.

  Her gaze drifted where his attention lingered. Across the floor, Verity danced with the stonemason, her silver skirts flashing as she laughed.

  August watched her for a second too long, his pale eyes softening.

  “She’d say yes,” Saphira murmured. “If you asked.”

  His expression did not change. But his hand tightened—just once—before easing again.

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  They continued in silence, moving with a graceful precision.

  Before the song ended, Rell cut in.

  He caught Saphira’s free hand mid-twirl and hauled her back with the grin of a cat that had just stolen from the butcher. “Thanks, Gramps,” he murmured smoothly over her shoulder. “I'll take it from here.”

  He claimed the floor without missing a beat—quick steps, sharp turns, a swagger that drew sharp glances. His hand on her back was steady but light, daring her to pull away.

  Above: Rell steals the dance.

  “Bold,” Saphira said as he spun her cleanly through a turn. “Stealing a dance.”

  “I’m still a squire,” he shot back, grinning. “Rule don't apply.”

  “Squire?” She laughed. “You’re too experienced, too strong—” then, adding quietly, “—too old.”

  “More like 'too hard to replace'.”

  “When you’re knighted,” she said, letting him guide her through a smooth step, “he’ll still need you. As a brother. An equal.”

  Rell laughed under his breath, sharp and breathless. “I’ll never be his equal.”

  The room blurred—the swirl of skirts, the pulse of music fading until there was only him. Saphira sensed it—the boy beneath the bravado; the weight he carried.

  “He doesn’t need another version of himself,” she said softly. “He needs you.”

  His shoulders loosened, the pressure of his hand gentling. He met her gaze fully—no grin, no deflection.

  Then, before the moment could settle too deeply, he spun her out and snapped her back in, catching her cleanly. Flashy. Deliberate. A few guests laughed, clapped.

  Rell leaned close, voice low. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

  “At dancing?”

  “No.” His grin returned, sharp as ever. “At seeing people.” She felt his hand linger, protective as the music slowed. He released her reluctantly and bowed. “Your moment, Saphricot.” As he stepped back, his voice dropped. “I’ll stay close.”

  Saphira’s fingers closed around the pouch at her belt.

  Seeds.

  Gorda’s ritual. Every year. Without fail.

  Saphira turned toward the dais.

  If she's going to make a move, now would be the moment to strike.

  Let me know which image you liked the most. I couldn't resist; they all looked so suave in their formal attire!