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SAPHIRA
The Inner Keep, Castle Renatus
Outside, it was a humid summer’s evening, and the crimson dusk sky bled through the glass windows, the world painted in a sickening shade of red. She muttered under her breath, the words slipping from her lips before she could stop them: “Red skies—blood will be shed tonight.”
Servants flitted about, parting to let her pass, their expressions carefully blank. One of them handed her a pouch of gold coins. The weight of the coins felt like a stone in her hands. The crowds outside were already pressed against the gates, eager for their scraps. She threw the coins, and the people scrambled, shoving in a mad race for the scattered gold.
Saphira and Celestine drove through the courtyard, past the manicured gardens, and toward the Cathedra Aeternum.
Saphira wanted to speak—to say something, anything to distract herself—but her throat was dry, and her mind foggy with dread. All she could do was clutch the bouquet tighter, the stems crushing beneath her fingers. She felt the sweat forming on her brow; it was stifling hot in the carriage, and summer’s humidity made it worse.
The horses slowed as they entered the inner courtyard. Saphira had always hated this part—the way the crowd seemed to watch her every move, their eyes devouring her like vultures waiting.
Saphira could hear their whispers, muffled but sharp, cutting through the humid air. “She looks pale,” one noble murmured. “The Ashen Knight won’t be able to stop Golgog,” another hissed. Saphira tried not to react. She clenched her hands tighter, holding her bouquet over her chest.
As the carriage came to a stop at the foot of the cathedral steps, two Renatii knights assisted Saphira out, their hands cold and firm on her arms. One of them stiffened as his gaze landed on soldiers of the Ashen Blades, who stood to the side, their cold, steely eyes fixed on the procession.
Celestine followed closely behind, adjusting Saphira’s train. She gave Saphira a small, reassuring smile, but the fleeting gesture gave no comfort. Saphira wanted to say a joke, a smile, something to break the heaviness, but nothing came.
With Celestine following, Saphira ascended the steps and entered through the enormous wooden doors.
The Cathedra Aeternum stood on fourteen pillars, which form an arcade of twelve pointed arches on three sides of the nave. The outer pillars had carvings representing the Saints of Renatus slaying legendary elderspawn, and dragons descending. However, on each of the inner pillars were carvings of human faces with greenery all around them, eldenberries and rowan leaves growing out of their mouths, and crystalith stones for eyes. Thousands of candles lit the room, casting ghostly, moving shadows over their ethereal faces.
Above: Saphira walks down the aisle.
Saphira had spent many hours gazing at the ancient art of the cathedral. It had always been a place she was allowed to go without Matron Helena questioning her. The familiarity of the cathedral should have put Saphira at ease, but instead, she felt uncomfortable.
To the left of the cathedral, Saphira’s half-siblings awaited, flanked by the most prominent members of the nobility. Their jewels glittered under the filtered light, a stark contrast to the stoic figures across the aisle. To the right, the Ashen Blades stood like silent sentinels, clad in their battle-worn leathers, their eyes attentive and hands ready.
At the forefront of the gathering were the six Mountain Knights. They stood apart, a commanding presence even amidst the grandeur. Each one was a vision of refined strength, dressed in a blend of courtly attire and sturdy leathers—swords close to their sides.
Even in celebration, they are prepared for battle.
At the altar, her father stood tall, his gaze unwavering.
Nocturne stood beside him, clad in black, his presence effortlessly commanding attention. His fitted doublet, dark as midnight, was tailored to perfection. A single titanium pauldron rested on his shoulder, catching the candlelight with a muted gleam, while a matching vambrace encased his forearm in cold steel. A heavy cloak, black with a whisper of crimson lining, draped over his frame, shifting slightly as he moved. His gloved hand rested on his sword’s hilt, flexing as he saw Saphira.
A gust of wind howled through the cathedral, making the candle flames tremble. The stone creatures carved into the vaulted ceiling seemed to watch her, their crystalith eyes gleaming with unsatisfied hunger. The air smelled of wax and incense, but beneath it lingered something colder, something ancient.
Saphira exhaled slowly and stepped forward.
Then, Daisy’s foot jutted into the aisle, a spiteful tripping hazard.
Seamlessly, Saphira lifted the heavy train of her gown just enough to clear the obstacle. She took a deep breath and continued her walk.
She fixed her stare on the polished marble floor; each step felt heavier than the last, yet carried by the seductive taste of the freedom that awaited her.
Before she reached the altar, she turned and gave her bouquet to Celestine. She kissed her sister on the cheek and whispered, “Is it too late to swap places with the blacksmith?”
Where Daisy failed, Celestine succeeded; she stamped on Saphira’s foot. Saphira suppressed her yelp with a fake sneeze. She looked up to see the disappointment in her father’s steely eyes.
Saphira ascended the steps, took her father’s hand, and kissed his giant crystalith ring.
“Your Grace,” Saphira murmured.
The Duke grasped her hand and indicated for Nocturne to approach.
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With his gloved hand, Nocturne took Saphira’s delicate hand gently in his own, his touch both firm and tender, as if he were holding a fragile flower. His thumb ran over her finger, right over where the blackened flesh had shaded her skin.
Does he... know?
Saphira glanced up, her heart pounding in both fear and anticipation, trying to make sense of the man holding her hand.
The scar that ran along his upper lip emphasised his stoic, almost snarling expression—one that made him look perpetually displeased, even though his umber eyes held a quiet, intense power. His skin was ghostly pale—almost grey—like one who spent too much time in the darkness of the shadowlands. The difference in their sizes was striking—Nocturne was tall and broad-shouldered, towering over her.
He doesn't falter before my father...what type of man is he?
Her father smiled, flashing his white teeth “I, Duke Crassus of Renatus, give my daughter to you, Lord Nocturne, Count of Firestone, in marriage.” He paused, his steely eyes narrowing slightly as they settled on Nocturne. “It is now, in the presence of many witnesses and before the Almighty, that you both make your vows upon truthstones.” His voice dropped lower, each word heavy with warning. “If you speak untruth upon these stones, they will turn red. Red as the blood that will be spilled for your lies. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Saphira and Nocturne replied in unison.
Gregor drew a truthstone from his robe, rolling up his sleeves to reveal decayed black arms. He drew a knife over his forearm, dropping his blood over the truthstone. Then, he pressed the stone into Saphira’s palm, and the damp, sticky warmth of his blood made her stomach churn. Swallowing hard, she held the stone between herself and Nocturne.
Nocturne turned to his six Mountain Knights and gave a small nod as he removed his gloves. “Sir Augustus. Bring the stone.”
Augustus stepped forward, fingers stained black—whether from corruption or ink, Saphira could not tell. His nails were painted with a dark lacquer, likely to mask the creeping signs of his magic use.
Nocturne took his truthstone—wet with the mage’s blood. He placed his hand atop her stone, and she placed her hands on his stone. Their fingers touched, skin against skin. Her breath hitched. His skin is warm. I didn’t expect that.
Above: Saphira and Nocturne swear on the truthstone
“I, Lord Nocturne, Count of Firestone, swear to take you, Lady Saphira of Renatus, under my protection as my wife." His voice remained quiet but unwavering. "In the presence of witnesses and before the Almighty, I vow to give you the first fruits of my labour, the strength of my sword, and to give you children, with the right to be called my heirs. I vow to honour you and shield you, until death sunders us.”
The truthstones darkened, then swirled into a deep cobalt blue.
“The truthstones have shown the truth of his intent.” August's silver-grey eyes flicked to Saphira. “Do you accept his vows, Lady Saphira?”
I didn’t expect it to feel this personal, she thought, as the warmth of his bare skin lingered on hers, This is duty, politics…a business transaction.
She nodded.
“And now, your vows, my lady.” Gregor’s ruined hands flexed at his sides.
“I, Lady Saphira of Renatus, swear to be faithful to you, Lord Nocturne of Firestone, as my lord and husband. In the presence of witnesses and before the Almighty, I vow to honour you and obey you. I vow to give you heirs to continue your line. I pledge to be loyal and faithful to you alone, until death sunders us.”
After a moment of silence, the stones shifted from black to indigo blue.
She breathed a sigh of relief as Nocture accepted her vows with a rough, “I do.”
A basin of bronze, beaten so smoothly it shone like a mirror, was placed before them. Inside, water from an untouched crystalith cave glimmered, untouched by time or impurity. Crassus, his jaw clenched, dipped his hands into the water, his gaze cold as he washed them.
“I give my daughter to you.” The Duke’s words rang hollow, as his gaze flickered over to Nocturne briefly, his expression unreadable. “I hand over to you the responsibility of protecting, providing, and loving her until you are parted by death.”
Nocturne grasped Saphira’s hands, his fingers warm against the icy water as he immersed them. She felt the heat of his skin against the coldness of the liquid. She watched, relieved, as the blood of the mages was slowly washed from their hands, the water turning a shade of red.
“By the shedding of blood, a new creation." Crassus commanded, "Emerge, as husband and wife.”
Nocturne lifted Saphira’s hands from the water, his grip steady, as though to ground her in the moment. Their eyes met briefly, and for the first time, she saw something linger in his gaze—not cold or calculating, but trepidation.
The type of fear that only comes from deep wounds. The realisation hit her, this ceremony isn’t easy for him.
He turned then, his expression hardening once more, and faced the crowd.
The Ashen Blades behind them stood tall, their backs straight, eyes trained forward, hands hovering near their weapons. The audience was silent at first, their eyes fixed on the newlywed couple, waiting for a sign of what would come next. Birch smiled faintly at Saphira, his lips curling in a soft, almost sympathetic gesture, but his brother quickly elbowed him.
The youngest of the Duke’s bastards, Heath, was the first to break the stillness, clapping with tiny hands. Slowly, the rest of the crowd joined in.
Nocturne stood tall and still, his posture unwavering as he held his arm out, palm facing upwards. Saphira hesitated for a moment, then she placed her hand gently on his, and his fingers closed over hers.
They walked down the aisle in measured steps, nodding to the nobles lining the cathedral. Nocturne’s expression remained composed, his gaze cool and impassive. Only when he passed the six mountain knights did his eyes soften, a flicker of warmth before the mask returned.
Outside, the air was thick and stifling, heavy with the dense, humid scent of rain. Clouds loomed overhead, swollen and dark, the kind that swallowed the sky just before a storm broke.
Beyond the thick stone walls, a wave of cheers and applause rolled through the courtyard. But all eyes lingered on the Ashen Knight, a common-born Count marrying a Duke's daughter, a strange mixture of awe and fear for the famed hero.
As the applause grew, Saphira’s heart fluttered. I wonder if I'm the type of woman he wanted. She flinched. There had to be a reason he chose me. What's going on here?
As Saphira took a step down, her heel nearly missed the edge of the step. But before she could falter, Nocturne’s hand was at her waist, steadying her. The sharp, primal scent of him—ash and leather—invaded her senses as his hand brushed the edge of her veil, just for a second, lifting it slightly before he gently set it back in place.
Above: Saphira trips on the steps.
He glanced at her, his expression unreadable, but his grip tightened just enough on her hand. Without another word, they continued down the stairs, the weight of the moment lingering between them.
“Stay in one piece,” he murmured, “We have a wedding feast to get to.”
“It’ll be so hot inside the hall. I’d rather skip it and go straight to bed,” Saphira shot back.
“Straight to bed, hm? You’re eager.”
“What I meant was, I just want to rest. In a bed.” Saphira blinked, her mind racing. “Sleeping. Not that…” She felt her cheeks warm. “Not that I don’t want that. But—” She bit her tongue.
Nocturne’s lips twitched, but his stoic gaze remained unreadable.
“I just want something real." Saphira's voice cracked. "Not all this...pretending.”
Nocturne’s gaze sharpened, the corners of his mouth curving slightly as the scar over his lips twitched. “Hmm.”
Saphira resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands, the weight of his silence making her wish for a quick escape. But she could not escape.
I have a wedding feast to get to, she thought, looking up to her husband—and for a moment, she swore she saw something soften in his grim expression