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SAPHIRA
The Inner Keep, Castle Renatus
From the moment Saphira exited The Grand Hall of the Ancients, a wave of servants swept over her, preparing her for the wedding. They fitted her into a dress of white silk satin with a bodice brocaded in ivory and gold thread. Emblems of the rose and rowan tree decorated the train and skirt, all trimmed with lace and orange blossom.
They took out the pink pearls Ginny had threaded in Saphira’s pale lavender hair, and then brushed her hair through with almond oil and rowanberries. They re-braided her hair so not a single strand fell freely, and they threaded in beads of purple pearls, with a headband of amethyst and crystalith, set in white gold.
Above: Saphira is finally alone, thinking about the wedding
As the servants went to replace Saphira’s crystalith studs with hanging gold and sapphire earrings, she stopped them, saying, “These were…a gift, from my mother. I don’t take them off—ever.”
The servants backed away, exchanging wary glances as if the Duke himself were watching.
The sun hung heavy in the sky, spreading faint streaks of orange across the pale blue. Saphira had half-expected a servant to come rushing into the room to announce the wedding had been cancelled, that it had been some sort of sick joke—or that the Ashen Knight had changed his mind and wanted Celestine instead.
Finally dressed and alone for a moment, Saphira stood in front of the mirror and exhaled. She held her hand up to eye level and saw only the faintest shade of black left on the end of her fingertip. It would be healed well before sunset. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“I never thought I’d leave this place,” Saphira said, looking out the window. She saw the sun setting and swallowed, feeling her mouth turn dry. “I'll be a wife. A mother.” She looked herself directly, seeing the gold flecks shine amongst the deep, striking purple of her eyes, and breathed, “I'll be free.”
Without knocking, Celestine swept into the chambers. She wore a dress of lavender silk, interspersed with beads of white pearl and gold, and the faint whiff of rowanberries and orange blossom clung to her skin. Her pale violet eyes could not hide the tinges of red where tears had come.
“They measured me for that dress in Lux. I asked for the orange blossom detail.” Celestine’s full red lips pressed into a tight smile as she ran her fingers over the off-cuts of lace strewn on the tapestried walnut seat.
“We can trade places…" Saphira’s expression softened. "Or we could ask the blacksmith to stand in—with a veil, no one would know—although, he is a tad fatter and hairier than me.” Her voice softened, “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“I know—and that’s why I can’t stay mad at you." Celestine deflated slightly as she sat.
“I don’t want this to come between us, Celeste. I don’t care how much Father punishes me—if you love Lord Nocturne, I won’t walk down that aisle.”
Celestine burst into tears. Saphira held her close.
“I don’t love him, Saph. Not him.”
“Another?”
Celestine nodded mutely.
“But if you love someone else, why were you set on marrying Lord Nocturne?”
“Because at Firestone, I would have been free... to be with whom I choose,” Celestine said, her expression heavy with sorrow. “What matters is who holds my heart. As long as I’m under Crassus’ thumb, I’ll never be free. Nocturne knows this.”
“Then why did he pick me?” Saphira shook her head.
"You’re going to be miserable, Saph." Celestine replied bitterly, "Not just because you can hardly speak the language. Mountain folk are stubborn, unwelcoming to outsiders. Life there is hard.”
“I’d rather have a hard life than no life at all.” Saphira’s fingers hovered over her braided hair. “Maybe Lord Nocturne…” she bit her lip. “Do you think he could love…?”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Celestine tilted her head, her vividly plum-purple hair catching the firelight. "To him, marriage is a contract; love is a liability.”
“That sounds...lonely,” Saphira murmured.
"He’ll treat you with respect, but he won’t give you his heart.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"How do you know so much about him?" Saphira’s purple eyes searched Celestine’s expression, but her sister’s courtly mask betrayed no secrets. “So, is this all a game he’s playing with Father?”
Celestine studied her for a long moment. “Will this be your first time?”
“I would have told you if I had—” Her voice dropped to a mortified whisper. “I’m not married, so how could I?” Her voice softened. “I…know what to expect. I’ve heard the court ladies talk about their husbands. And… if that’s the price I pay for freedom, then I’ll endure it.”
Celestine raised an eyebrow.
Saphira wrapped her arms around herself, an ache forming in her stomach. “I've heard that it hurts. That I’m to lie still. That if I’m lucky, he will finish quickly.” Her voice faltered. “That I should pray he finds a courtesan.”
“You should enjoy it too. A man who cares about you will make sure you do.” She leaned in conspiratorially. "If you’re to survive a marriage to a man like Nocturne, you’ll have to learn how to control him.”
Saphira stared at her younger sister, half in horror, half in fascination. "I want love... not that."
“Nocturne won't love. But he won’t be cruel. And if he does—” her expression darkened, “—I’ll make him regret it.”
“You’d destroy a man who has killed seven spawnlords?” A small, sceptical laugh escaped Saphira.
“I’d destroy anyone for you.” Celestine glanced over her shoulder. "This... will help,” She reached into the folds of her dress and produced a small glass vial. “My wedding present. Dab a little on yourself… down there! Whatever he does, it will make it feel good... and no pain."
Feeling her cheeks burn, Saphira tucked the vial away.
“Nocturne is playing a game. He knows you're destined for someone more… noble.”
“How will I get married again if I’m not—” she whispered, her cheeks growing cold, “—a maid?”
“If your maidenhead is the price he pays for executing Golgog, Crassus would call that a good deal,” Celestine said coldly, then she softened her voice. “You’ll marry again. Men don’t know the difference.” Celestine smoothed Saphira’s wedding dress. “A drop of lamb’s blood on the sheets will fool them into thinking they’re your first.”
Saphira pushed her sister’s hand aside. “I’m not going to lie—”
“Do you really think Crassus will let you leave?” She paused. “You’re clever, Saph, and you know Crassus’ mind better than—” Celestine’s voice cracked. “He loves you, Saph, as much as Crassus can love anyone. He’s never going to let you go.”
A demanding knock resounded on the walnut door.
Duke Crassus strode forward, the tip of his cane—a preserved dragon’s claw set in mahogany—tapping sharply against the marble floor. His pale blonde hair gleamed beneath the crystalline glow of his pure crystalith coronet, the delicate structure catching the light like frozen dragon fire. His porcelain skin remained untouched by age, and his steel-blue eyes, cold and calculating, swept the room, his expression unreadable.
He paused, letting his gaze rake over both his daughters with the scrutiny of a jeweller inspecting deeply flawed gems. “Celestine, my petal, if you must cry, do it sparingly. No man likes a Lady with swollen eyes.”
Celestine's lip curled in frustration, but she bit it back, refusing to show any more emotion.
“A wife is not meant to invite lust, Saphira. You should know better than to dress like a courtesan.”
Saphira’s heart sank at his words. She pressed her lips together, feeling the burn of shame creeping up her neck.
Behind him, a servant carried an enormous hanging bouquet and presented it to Saphira. As she held the flowers, an unsettled feeling ascended from her stomach and constricted her throat. Interspersed amongst the rowanberries were sickly sweet-smelling mountain daisies—a beautiful flower, but nothing close to the traditional white wedding roses. The daisies were highlighted with white river lilies—the flower of death.
“There are no purple flowers,” Saphira murmured.
“You’re mumbling, girl,” Crassus dismissed, turning to Celestine to command, “Escort Saphira and stay close, be sure to show my generosity to the peasants. I’ll be waiting in the cathedral.”
“The purple of our House… it’s not represented in my bouquet,” Saphira said louder, a note of distress ringing out in her voice. “Where is it, father?”
“It’s near the end of summer, Saph,” Celestine dismissed, her gaze shifting to Crassus, “All the best flowers have dried up.”
“Mother had orchids and aster in her bouquet." A lump rose in Saphira’s throat. "It was hot when she wed.”
Above: Saphira questions Crassus' flower choice, while Celestine tries to intervene
The Duke’s expression fell. Gripping his dragon’s claw cane, he stepped to Saphira and, with his face an inch from her own, he pressed the dragon’s claw into her shoulder and hissed, “You will not speak the name of the dead in this castle, you impudent—”
“Your Grace—!” Celestine exclaimed, grasping her father’s arm and redirecting his cane away from her sister, “—is the consummation to happen in the guest’s chambers? I would like to burn sage and lavender along with the rowanberry. Perhaps some frankincense—they wouldn’t have any of that in the mountains.”
“Frankincense will not cover the stench of ichor that clings to him.” Crassus’s nose twitched. “The Ashen Knight is on his way. I will meet you at the altar." He tapped the dragon’s claw cane on the doorframe, saying, "Whatever you do, Saphira, don't disgrace my legacy tonight."
“As you command, Your Grace,” Saphira said, in a quiet, worn-out voice.
As her father’s heavy footsteps faded down the hallway, Saphira rubbed the red mark left by the cane. She turned to her sister, saying, “Well, he’s in a delightful mood.”
“Are you crazy?” Celestine hissed, “Why would you mention her?”
“I wish Mother were here. She would know how to handle him.”
“I forgot her face years ago," Celestine said coldly.
Saphira clutched the delicate bouquet of daisies, the sickly, cloying scent of the flowers clawing at her senses. She barely noticed the flowers, her mind a tangle of memories. She tried to call up her mother’s face, but all she had were fragments, distorted and tainted by time and other people's recollections. The one memory that remained crystal clear, however, was the cave. The blood on the walls. Her mother’s helpless sobs echoed in the dark.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing the vision back into the recesses of her mind. Not now, she told herself. Not ever.
Saphira glanced at the mirror, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw her reflection flicker—her mother's face in her place. She blinked, and the illusion vanished. It’s time to go. I can leave this in the past.
With deliberate slowness, Saphira moved away from the mirror, her steps echoing hollowly through the cool, stone hallway. Distantly, she could hear the wedding bells ringing.