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SAPHIRA
The Grand Hall of the Ancients, Castle Renatus
When the giant doors slammed open, a blast of hot summer air rushed into the hall. Saphira shivered as the draft slipped beneath her veil, and she quickly adjusted it back into place.
Seven men stood in the entrance, their figures stark against the light from outside. They were not dressed in heavy armour, but there was no mistaking them for courtiers. Their clothing was finely made—dark doublets embroidered with the three red flames of Firestone, cloaks lined for warmth rather than decoration. They all wore belts with swords resting at their hips, their hands resting close to their weapons.
As they walked down the aisle, the hall quieted. People instinctively stepped back, pressing closer to the walls. The knights moved with a calm, deliberate purpose, their presence commanding enough that no one dared block their path.
They came to a stop at the foot of the dais.
Above: Nocturne and the Mountain Knights enter
"Presenting the Mountain Knights of Seven."
"Sir Valentino of Lux." The second tallest of the group stepped forward, his presence commanding the room with a quiet but undeniable authority. His features were sharp and aristocratic, radiating an elegance that seemed almost effortless. Over his leathers, he wore a tailored cloak of silk and wool, and his dark hair was expertly styled, exuding refinement in every detail.
With a sweeping bow brimming with unwavering confidence and grace, Valentino raised his head to reveal his striking brown eyes, flecked with gold. For a brief moment, his eyes met Celestine's, and he winked.
A collective gasp swept through the room, as though his wink had been meant for each woman present. But Saphira shifted uncomfortably. That wink was meant for Celestine only.
Names continued to ring out: Sir Felicius, Sir Lysander, Sir Lucian, and Aurelian, Squire to the Ashen Knight, barely twenty years old. They bowed, smiled, and passed like figures from a painting—handsome, but indistinct in the chaos of the Duke's Court.
"Sir Augustus of the Flaxen Fields."
Saphira's gaze dropped to his hands, where the black stains of magic coloured the flesh of his fingers—an unmistakable mark of a mage. His eyes, a piercing grey, locked onto Crassus, and the impending storm of his gaze simmered. He gave a brief, curt nod before stepping back into the shadows.
He's someone dangerous. Saphira shivered. Someone to avoid.
"Lord Nocturne, Count of Firestone, and Knight of the Ashen Blades, slayer of Krug the Foul, Ammon the Deceiver, Vandele the Undying, Mara the Temptress—"
Saphira glanced at her sister and breathed a sound of astonishment—four spawnlords, she admired, they kill one spawnlord and that's a good career, kill two and you're a hero, three and you're a legend.
The Herald continued, "—Epialos the Dreamstealer, Zagon the Torturer, and Abraxas the Defiler."
Seven spawnlords, Saphira admired, to hear all their names spoken like that is unbelievable.
Standing at the head of the group, Nocturne commanded the space with a presence that could not be ignored. The tallest of the knights, his broad shoulders and imposing stature made him seem like a figure carved from steel, forged in the fires of war. Midnight-black hair framed his handsomely rugged face, a short dark beard covering his cheeks and jawline. He wore a cowl that obscured much of his identity, yet the air around him seemed charged with a palpable danger.
There is something wild about him, Saphira thought. I should look away. He's Celestine's future husband.
"Greetings, Duke Crassus of Renatus." Nocturne bowed curtly.
Saphira squeezed her sister's hand, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face beneath the shadowed hood. Celestine's fingers wrapped around the sleeve of her gown, tugging her back with a warning glance.
"I welcome you and your Knights to my castle, Nocturne, Knight of the Ashen Blades," Crassus declared.
A subtle insult, Saphira thought, her father's tone a calculated blade—one she had heard wielded many times before. Lord Nocturne is the Count of Firestone, a title far more important than his knighthood. Yet, Lord Nocturne insults Father in turn by not removing his cowl.
Nocturne, unperturbed, rested a gloved hand on the hilt of the sword at his side.
"You were made a Count seven years ago, Lord Nocturne; we share a border." Crassus' lips curved into a faint smile that failed to touch the cold steel in his eyes. "And yet, you have not made a formal visit to my court. Why the delay?"
"Your Grace," Nocturne said cooly, "I accept your quest. I will slay the spawnlord called Golgog."
Cheers erupted through the hall, mixed with cries of relief. The sound grated against the Duke's composure; his fingers curled around the dragon's claw on his cane, knuckles whitening.
Nocturne lifted his hand, the gesture effortlessly commanding silence.
"My daughters are exceptional beauties." The Duke gestured idly towards his daughters, his gaze resting on Celestine. "I've heard you have your eye on one daughter in particular..."
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Above: The sisters in their viels.
"Though..." Crassus inquired, with only a slight amount of sarcasm detectible in his tone, "Is your company capable of such a feat?"
Nocturne simply nodded, his gaze trained on the Duke.
Crassus' gloved fingers traced the point of his cane in slow, deliberate circles. "Then we have an arrangement."
Saphira's hands clenched, clutching the fabric of her skirt. Please, just take Celestine. Let her be free!
"However—" Nocturne paused, "—I have a condition."
A ripple of unease swept through the room.
"First, I will wed my prize—" Nocturne paused. "—and I will have my wedding night."
The hall erupted in gasps. The Duke's face darkened, though he forced his teeth into a tight smile.
"A marriage left unconsummated is no marriage," Nocturne growled. "Why the hesitation, your Grace?" He shifted slightly, angling himself to face the crowd. "The Crimson Hunter survived one week in the shadowlands before retreating. The Smiling Knights never reached the spawning lair, overrun by nightspawn." Nocturne turned again to Crassus. "The last sighting of Golgog was a two-day ride from here. Survivors said the spawnlord carried the Obsidian Knight's blade. Simply put, Your Grace, if I cannot succeed, there is no other soul on this continent who can."
Saphira gripped her skirt, bunching the material into her fists. The hall fell so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat in her ears.
Above: Nocturne bargains with Crassus.
Nocturne stepped forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "With such reluctance, perhaps you're not interested in ridding your lands of this pestilence?"
"A spawnslayer should know better than to insinuate that a Duke doesn't care for his people."
"A Duke should know better than to question my skills," Nocturne said. "You are called 'Duke Silver Tongue' for a reason, and I have no intention of being tricked. My offer is clear—take it or leave it." He nodded his head with due respect. "I will take my leave, Your Grace."
Nocturne signalled to his six men, and they turned to leave.
Finally, Saphira felt a surge of happiness. A man who does not cower before my father!
"Stop," Crassus commanded. Slowly, his gaze swept the room, lingering on his soldiers, his council, and finally his daughters. When his eyes returned to Nocturne, there was no disguising the storm raging behind the steely blue. "Wed my daughter. But you will not see a single coin of gold until the beast's head lies before me."
Celestine gripped Saphira's sleeve. Saphira pushed her sister away and leaned closer.
"Agreed—only if you swear on the truthstone."
For a delayed moment, Crassus glared at Nocturne before commanding, "Bring out the stone." He said with a smile, "You go first."
In robes of wisping grey, which billowed around him as if it were smoke, the mage Gregor rose from the front row of the hall. He drew back his sleeves to reveal arms as black as coal up to his forearm—it was not a tattoo, but rather, the decay of corruption. He spilled a drop of his blood onto a black, egg-shaped stone, and presented it to the Knight.
Without hesitation, Nocturne removed his right leather glove and laid the bare hand on the stone. "I vow before the Almighty, that if I am given the daughter of Duke Crassus to wed today, I will devote all my efforts to killing Golgog. And, by the grace of the Almighty, I believe I will succeed"
The inky black stone swirled, turning grey, then a deep blue.
Gregor ascended the dais, with whispers of magic following him. He spilled another drop of blood onto the truthstone and held it up for his master.
Crassus laid his hand on the truthstone and said, "I vow before the Almighty that you will wed the daughter of your choosing, and you will have your bedding ceremony. When you return, the daughter you bed shall be waiting for you." The depths of the black stone morphed, turning a shade of light blue.
"I would like to see my future wife up close."
"If you must." The Duke's words echoed through the hall, his fingers flicking dismissively as he signalled to the guards at the foot of the dais.
Saphira felt her father's piercing gaze sharpen on her, and she instinctively lowered her chin, drawing the folds of her veil closer around her face. I must not seem too curious about him, she thought, her heart quickening. Father would disapprove. Lord Nocturne is a warrior, a man of bloodshed and corruption.
Nocturne's footsteps were slow and deliberate, each stride purposeful as he moved past Daisy and Primrose without so much as a glance. His presence filled the space, pressing in like a gathering storm. The steady thud of his boots against stone was the only sound in the hush that had fallen over the hall.
He was close now, standing above them. The air felt heavier, thick with the scent of ash and leather.
He was not weighed down by armour, only a single pauldron of titanium resting over one shoulder, embossed with a dreadspawn, its monstrous shape crawling up his pauldron with terrifying realism. The rest of him was dressed in reinforced leathers, fitted for both movement and protection. His boots, worn from long rides and rough terrain, did not attempt courtly refinement. A dark cowl shaded his face, and over his jaw, a short beard.
Without a word, Nocturne brushed a garland of rowanberries from his path, his expression tightening slightly at the sharp scent. His shadow fell across the sisters as he halted over them, standing tall and unyielding.
"Stand," he commanded, his voice firm and low.
The room gasped in unison, a hushed silence spreading like wildfire. Before Crassus could issue his command to stop, Saphira's body obeyed the command instinctively. Her hands clenched at her sides as she slowly lifted herself, but she kept her chin lowered, her purple eyes fixed on the worn leather boots that loomed before her. Her body moved automatically, obeying his commands, and then, he said it—
"I can smell the magic on you. Careful"
Saphira's eyes widened. How—?
Before she could respond, he had already turned his back.
Above: Nocturne inspects Saphira.
She exhaled in relief, hardly hearing the words exchanged between her father and Nocturne. Is he going to say something? Why did he notice the scent?
Then, she saw Nocturne spare a glance at her. And for a moment, she thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile.
In the end, Father always wins.
"You are right in saying I have my eye on a certain daughter," Nocturne began, his voice a slow drawl. "As your decree did not specify which daughter... I will have your eldest, Lady Saphira.”
No....Saphira's cheeks felt cold, as if all the blood had drained from her face, leaving behind only the hollow sting of dread coiling in her stomach. Don't do this to me. To Celestine.
"We will return at sundown for the ceremony." Nocturne gave a polite bow to Crassus, nodding once to his entourage. Then, they turned in unison and strode from the hall, the ancient doors slamming shut with a deafening crash.
The coldness within Saphira spread, enveloping her entire body, and she shivered uncontrollably—despite the heat of the room. Her fingers trembled, the enormity of the moment weighing heavily on her.
Celestine's lips remained pressed tight as they waited in silence for Crassus to exit the hall. The sisters followed him in a heavy quiet, and by the time they reached the private chamber, Crassus was already gone.
Without waiting for a response, Celstine spun on her heels and stormed out of the room.
Before Saphira could let her sister's harsh words—or the events—sink in, a pair of gentle hands took her by the shoulders and guided her away.
"Don't fret, Lady Saphira," Matron Helena reassured. "It'll be okay. We'll get you ready for your wedding."