Song vibe: ON – BTS

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  SAPHIRA

  The Great Hall, Firestone

  Saphira stood at the head of the festival, her gaze sweeping over the hall. Servants, guards, stewards, mountain folk who had worked these halls longer than she had lived within them; they all watched her expectantly.

  She looked to Felix, standing below her with his hand settled at Marigold’s waist. He nodded once.

  I’ll sell this show.

  “Almighty, we ask you to bless the sowing of the seeds—on Yule, on Sunfire, and on Hart,” Saphira said, her voice carrying easily through the hall. “We ask your blessing on the lowlands, and on all that belongs to our people.”

  The room stilled. Heads bowed. Even the restless shifted their weight and quietened.

  She paused, unclipping the pouch at her belt and lifting the linen bag of seeds high enough for all to see.

  “May the crops we sow be blessed, our seedlings protected, and our harvest plentiful.”

  “Bless our sowing; bless our harvest!” the crowd cried back, the words rising in practised unison.

  Saphira spilled the seeds into her palm and scattered them outward. Laughter rippled as hands reached up—palms colliding, fingers grasping. Rare heirloom seed, seeds of silver, and the single seed of gold flashed as they fell, catching the light—symbols of the Count’s generosity.

  Above: Saphira scatters the seeds.

  Then the scramble slowed.

  A scullery maid—Corvina—stood frozen near the centre of the hall, the golden seed clutched between her fingers. Her dress hung loose on her frame as she lifted her hand high.

  “It’s here! Corvina's got it!” the crowd cried.

  The noise ebbed. The crowd parted instinctively as Corvina hitched up her skirts and made her way forward. Dark circles lingered under her eyes, her movements too slow.

  Saphira caught August’s gaze, where he lingered at the edge of the room. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

  Gorda still hasn't shown herself.

  “Congratulations, Corvina,” Saphira said warmly. “You may request anything from the Count—if it is within my power to grant it, I will.”

  Corvina clutched the seed to her chest. “My grandfather…” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “He went missing nearly two weeks ago from Hart Village. My family asked for Firestone’s help.” Her gaze slid sideways, sharp now, settling on Lysander. “The extra patrols he promised haven’t done anything.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of your grandfather’s disappearance. If there’s—”

  “I don’t want more patrols. Not compensation.” Corvina’s shoulders squared; something hardened in her expression. “What I want is justice. I want those responsible punished.”

  “You don’t need a golden seed to gain justice,” Saphira said, careful now. “Name the culprit, and if they are guilty, they will be held responsible.”

  Corvina’s mouth twisted. She raised her finger and pointed toward the Lord’s Chambers.

  “It’s that cursed night creature that stalks the mountain. I know it killed my grandfather. I want it dead.”

  Dusty. A sinking feeling hit Saphira's stomach. First, the missing livestock, now this accusation. Dusty wouldn't—she couldn't.

  The air in the hall felt tighter—unnaturally heavy. A dull pressure bloomed behind her eyes, pulsing in time with the sudden hush.

  Faces shifted. Murmurs stilled too quickly.

  Then she felt it—the change. Doubt slid through the room, followed by discontent, spreading too smoothly, too evenly.

  These are not normal emotions. They’re moving together.

  She’s here. Gorda’s here.

  Saphira met August’s gaze again and inclined her head toward the door. He slipped from the Great Hall without a sound—to meet up with the syndicate, to locate Gorda—as planned.

  Beside her, Rell edged closer, his presence solid, hands hovering near his concealed blades.

  “Well?” Corvina shrieked, her voice breaking sharply.

  Every eye swung back to Saphira.

  She exhaled slowly, watching the board shift—Lysander moving through the crowd; Felix easing Marigold toward a guard, to be escorted to the Solar.

  “If Dusty has truly taken a human life, then she will be put down." Saphira's words tasted bitter. A tug of sorrow tightened her chest, as if Dusty herself had heard them. “But I see no evidence—and I will not slaughter an innocent life.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “You have my answer,” Saphira said, calm and final. “Bring me evidence, and I will give you justice. Otherwise, ask for something I can give.”

  Tears spilled down Corvina’s cheeks. The crowd pressed forward, voices rising, uncertain and unsettled.

  Before it could crest, Lysander reached Corvina. His hand closed firmly around her shoulder. She tried to wrench away, but he held fast, drawing her into him and guiding her back through the crowd. Her sobs muffled against his chest.

  I don’t like this.

  The pressure behind Saphira’s eyes lingered, low and insistent. The hall had not settled after Corvina’s removal—voices were quieter now, but the unease had nowhere to go.

  Do we let it play out and hope Gorda reveals herself? Or do we cut the festival short?

  She searched the room and met Felix’s gaze across the crowd. He read her instantly and inclined his head once.

  Understood. Let’s make her think we’re caught unaware.

  The serving door creaked open.

  Conversation faltered as a hooded figure entered. Too lean to be Gorda. Too deliberate in their stride. The figure paused, then reached up and drew back the hood.

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  Saphira blinked—once, then again.

  Quintus stood without chains.

  His eyes were sunken deep in his skull, his ruined hand still wrapped in yellowed bandages. Confinement had not diminished him—hatred, honed rather than dulled, blazed from his pale eyes.

  His cell was locked and guarded. Saphira’s jaw tightened. Not to be opened for anyone except the Mountain Knights—and me.

  Rell stepped closer, his presence solid at her side—his breath, his warmth, the only steady thing amid the tightening air. His hands signalled, ordering the guards to apprehend Quintus. For a moment, the guards exchanged confused glances—as if the Lord himself had ordered Quintus' release.

  Her eyes flicked to Felix. He was already shoving his way through the crowd toward his uncle.

  “Quintus Sunfire,” Saphira said evenly, as if addressing an inconvenience. “You are not welcome in this hall.”

  “I’ve come to say one thing—heed my words, Firestone!” Quintus shouted, spit flecking his lips. “An adulteress has no place in our lands!”

  “Get him back into his cell,” Felix barked over the gasps of the crowd.

  “Saph,” Rell warned sharply, though he knew better than to get too close to her.

  The crowd muttered, eyes tracking the space between them.

  She stepped away from him deliberately.

  The rumours about Rell and me have festered.

  The way to win against darkness is to expose it with light—with truth.

  She drew a steadying breath and squared her shoulders. “I have done no wrong—”

  “You’ve no right to sit there,” Quintus spat. “You—”

  “Enough,” Felix growled, reaching him at the same time as the guards.

  “Wait,” Saphira commanded.

  Her voice carried—clear, commanding. The hall stilled.

  “Bring him forward. Let him speak his lies—then toss him back into his cell. I want the people of Firestone to know the truth. I have nothing to hide.”

  Quintus blinked rapidly, his mouth opening, then closing again.

  Good, Saphira thought. You expected fear. Violence. You don’t know how to fight someone who isn’t afraid.

  Four guards moved around Quintus, escorting him to the front of the room. Felix remained closest of all, not taking his eyes off his uncle for a moment.

  The pressure behind Saphira’s eyes flared sharply—the same wrong pull, urging anger, urging blood.

  “The Pact of the Nine has officially recognised my marriage to Lord Nocturne.” She placed her hands on the metal keys at her side. The familiar warmth grounded her. “I am the Countess of Firestone by right and in truth.” She met the eyes of the crowd. “I remain his faithful wife.”

  “Your Renatii vows hold no weight here,” Quintus sneered to the crowd. “In our mountains, you are no wife. You are a foreign woman, bought as a spoil of war. To call you a camp wife is courtesy—you are his plaything. A whore.”

  Saphira felt her cheeks go cold.

  “You little pitspawn—" Rell shifted, hand brushing the hilt of a hidden blade, "—say it again."

  “There!” Quintus crowed. “See how he leaps to defend her—her lover! I caught them rutting in the lord’s bed.” He jabbed a finger toward Felix. “And that one told me never to speak of it!”

  The crowd surged—some in outrage, others in ugly curiosity. The pressure spiked again.

  Hurry, August. Find her. I’m buying you time.

  Saphira did not raise her voice. “All the Mountain Knights vowed to protect me,” she said calmly. “You all heard of the nightmares I suffered. Aurelian had to choose between my privacy and my safety. He honoured his vow.”

  Quintus snarled, but before he could speak again, Saphira continued.

  “Tell me—within the same breath, you claim I am no true wife of Lord Nocturne, yet you call me an adulterer.” Saphira lowered her chin, eyes steady. "Pick your lie, Quintus. I cannot be an adulterer if my vows are invalid.”

  Silence fell.

  Rell’s shoulders eased.

  People began to look not at Quintus—but at one another, murmuring.

  This was not the strike.

  No. This was Gorda's distraction.

  Felix's eyes narrowed to pale slits, the gold in them flaring—not with warmth, but with something feral.

  “Put him back in his cell," he growled.

  The crowd did not surge again. Voices fell unevenly quiet. A step back here. Space opening there. No one quite willing to meet anyone else’s eyes.

  The guards seized Quintus. He twisted in their grip, tugging at his belt.

  “Nephew—” he huffed. “You defend her? A man born and raised in these mountains—”

  Felix stepped closer.

  The movement was unhurried, deliberate.

  Above: Felix confronts Quintus.

  “How many times have you faced a spawnpit, Uncle?”

  Quintus scoffed. “I’ve spent my life defending this castle—”

  “And when,” Felix cut in quietly, “was the last time you killed a nightspawn?”

  Quintus straightened his musty robes, colour rising in his cheeks. “What’s your point?”

  “You speak of our ways,” Felix said, voice low and deadly calm, “but you have little to show for them.” He turned, gesturing toward Saphira—not possessive, not protective, but declarative. “The mountain way is to accept anyone willing to bleed for our lands.”

  He let the words settle.

  “She has bled for us. She defied the Duke of Renatus. She defended herself against foreign syndicates. She faced nightspawn at Horrocks—and lived.”

  Felix turned fully to the crowd now, shoulders squared, no trace of the genial knight they were used to. He stood before them every bit the Chief of the Sunfire Clan.

  “We do not live on an empty continent,” he declared. “We either change and strengthen—or we isolate and die. Lord Nocturne chose this woman.” His jaw set. “And I stake our future with him.”

  Quintus’s composure cracked. “You forget who you are.”

  “And yet,” Lysander said coolly, words as tight as a bowstring, “you act as if you are Lord Nocturne.” His hazel gaze simmered. “Do you respect him so little that you would try to shift Firestone’s power into your own hands while he is gone?”

  “Watch your tongue, boy!” Quintus snarled, face blotching red. “Or are you also sharing her bed—”

  “Silence!”

  Felix’s roar struck the hall like thunder. The crowd fell silent as he closed the remaining distance, towering over Quintus until the older man had to crane his neck to meet his eyes.

  “Another word,” Felix said, voice suddenly calm, “and I will take your whole hand. Understood?”

  Quintus swallowed.

  “If there is guilt,” Felix continued evenly, “we answer to Nocturne—and to Nocturne alone.”

  No one dared move as Quintus was dragged away.

  She stepped forward once more.

  “As you all know,” Saphira said, her voice steady, “Quintus and his allies have sought to subvert me since the moment I arrived.” She let the quiet in the hall stretch. “If they devoted half as much care to Firestone as they do to spreading rumours, this castle would not have been allowed to decay.” She stretched her hand out. "This place is my home. I've cleaned it. Cared for it. I will not be driven out by malicious rumours."

  A soft laugh escaped her. “Now—I believe we were interrupted before dessert. Orson?”

  With a grin, Orson and the kitchen staff emerged, bearing trays of sweets—new delicacies Valentino had taught them, perfected over the last moon.

  The hall resumed its noise—but not its certainty.

  "Rell," Saphira whispered, "Switch the guards in the dungeon. They should've never let Quintus out."

  "Already done," Rell replied, nodding to a guard across the room, who nodded back in confirmation.

  Then, August slipped back into the Great Hall, moving quietly to rejoin them.

  As the crowd drifted toward the food, laughter returning in cautious waves, Saphira drew the knights in close. The clink of cutlery and low conversation gave them cover.

  “We’ve narrowed down her location—she's in the northern quadrant, somewhere between the courtyard and the main gate,” August said under his breath. “My syndicate can track her; if she moves, we’ll know. Her influence is suppressed now."

  Saphira nodded once. “Do we send everyone home and hunt her?”

  “That could be exactly what she wants,” Felix replied. “Panic. Crowded halls. This felt like an opening move, not the strike.”

  “But if they stay,” Saphira pressed, “are they in danger? If they are—”

  “What does Gorda gain from harming servants?” Lysander cut in, calm as ever. “She wants to be Lady of Firestone, not queen of ashes.”

  Saphira’s jaw tightened. “Unless burning everything to the ground is preferable to losing to me.”

  Rell shifted his weight slightly. “If she intended a massacre, she’d have already done it.”

  “I won’t use them as bait." She exhaled slowly. "But if we send everyone away now, it gives weight to Quintus’s poison.”

  Felix studied her. “It’s your call.”

  Saphira looked past them, letting her gaze travel the hall. Verity and Maxine bent together, laughing softly. Livia reached for a fruit tart, sugar dusting her fingers. Faline demonstrated the grip on a silvark to an eager stable boy.

  People who trust Firestone—trust me—to keep them safe.

  “Lysander. You get the most vulnerable out,” Saphira said at last. “Quietly. Bring them into the Solar under guard—tell them Marigold wants dessert with the ladies of Firestone. Make it feel like an honour, not a retreat.”

  Lysander nodded immediately, already thinking through logistics.

  “There’s still one missing piece,” August said. “How Quintus got out of his cell. We need to know who helped—fast. I'll go there at once."

  The shadowed named him the traitor—he was out of the room when Quintus escaped. Saphira paused. I've chosen to trust him... but I'll send Felix too, just in case.

  "Take Felix with you.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Find the breach. Report back immediately. Then we can end this.”

  "And if we encounter Gorda?" Felix asked.

  "Apprehend her. Kill her only if you must," Saphira murmured, exhaling as Lysander rested his hand on her shoulder.

  They moved at once.

  Saphira stayed where she was, watching August and Felix leave.

  I hope I haven't made a huge mistake.

  The hall settled into a fragile calm—music, sugar, laughter—the danger had not passed.

  Only shifted.