SONG VIBE: Lie - BTS (Jimin)

  ________

  SAPHIRA

  Cathedra Aeternum, Renatus

  As they reached the bottom of the steps, even the horse appeared unnerved as it eyed Nocturne's imposing frame. The valet opened the door for them.

  “This is one of your traditions I refuse." Nocturne shook his head. "In the mountains, carriages are for the infirm.”

  "You expect me to...?” Her voice faltered. “In front of everyone? Renatii women, we don’t—”

  Nocturne whistled, his sharp call cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

  His squire, Aurelian stepped forward, leading a midnight black destrier. The horse was a formidable beast, its massive form towering over everyone—muscles like an ox, bones thick and sturdy, its arched neck holding a regal, almost intimidating posture.

  "I'm a woman, in Renatus..." Saphira hesitated. “I’ve... never been in a saddle before.”

  “You’re my wife.” His umber eyes darkened. "Come. Now."

  Before she could protest further, Nocturne swept her up effortlessly. In a single motion, he set her upon the massive horse, her body awkwardly positioned side-on, her legs hanging uncertainly.

  From the steps of the cathedral, gasps of disbelief and horror rang out as the onlookers processed the scene. A Renatii guard rushed forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, but Aurelian moved swiftly to intercept him, holding him back with a silent gesture.

  The moment hung heavy in the air, the eyes of everyone trained on Saphira.

  She let out a small squeak, her fingers scrambling for something to hold onto. She grabbed the stallion’s mane, but the beast only gave an irritated nicker in response. Nocturne’s hand wrapped around hers, firmly guiding it to the saddle. His touch was steady and reassuring, but there was something about the way his fingers brushed against hers that made her skin burn. With little ceremony, he bundled the train of her dress and tossed it over her side, efficient and unbothered.

  He mounted behind her, his presence solid and commanding. One hand grasped the reins, the other settled at her waist. Saphira’s breath caught in her throat as his touch sent a wave of heat through her. Her chest tightened, and she stilled herself, afraid that any movement might disturb the delicate balance.

  I’ve never been held like this before, she thought, feeling his muscles ripple beneath her fingertips. Will he be angry if I move?

  “Relax," Nocturne’s voice, low and calming, whispered in her ear. "I won’t let you fall.”

  “I know." As she spoke, she could feel the heat of his breath against her neck, and it made her shiver.

  His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her body closer into his. The warmth of his chest pressed against her, and Saphira felt her heartbeat quicken, her thoughts momentarily lost in the sensation—her body, pushed into his, and his hands grasping her in a way she had never been touched before.

  The feel of him, Saphira’s breath hitched, He’s solid, commanding, and so impossibly close, it’s overwhelming.

  He urged the stallion forward, parting the crowds as they crossed the inner courtyard to the great feasting hall, Aula Victoriae. As they passed by, the nobles threw rowanberries for protection, lavender for fertility, and rose petals for love. The cheers of celebration did not drown out the mutterings of disapproval and distrust—and the gasps of horror as they saw a Lady riding in a saddle.

  The six Mountain Knights followed behind on foot, eyes sharp and hands resting on their weapons.

  As the stallion walked towards Aula Victoriae, the rhythmic bounce of its steps made it impossible to ignore how every movement pushed their bodies together. She could feel the tension in his body, his hard muscles coiled, holding back.

  "Is something wrong, my Lord?" she asked, her voice soft but unsure.

  “Try to stay still.”

  “I swear," Saphira's voice turned to tease before she could stop it. "Your horse is trying to throw me off. What’s his name, Trouble?”

  "No. Gin," Nocturne replied, his voice laced with subtle amusement.

  "Ah," Saphira said, a mischievous glint in her purple eyes, as she felt her normal self return, "So you do have a sense of humour. They say djinn are pale, but this stallion’s blacker than midnight."

  “He’s not named after the Eldritch folk. It’s Gin.” Nocturne’s voice dropped to a dark whisper as he leaned closer, his voice testing as her body rubbed against him. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing. Careful, two can play your game.”

  “My life has always been someone else’s game." Saphira’s tone softened, and she turned her head slightly, her voice a delicate whisper, filled with more sincerity than she intended. "I’m just trying to survive it.”

  Above: "Two can play your game" — Nocturne

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "Is that why you're practising magic?"

  Her spine stiffened, angling away from him. "I'm not—I don't—"

  "It seems we both have secrets, wife," he chuckled, though a bite remained in his tone. “We’re… here now. Come.”

  The knight dismounted with ease, his movements swift and confident. Without hesitation, Nocturne reached up, lifting Saphira from the saddle smoothly. She barely had time to react before he set her down gently on her feet, just outside the threshold of the wedding feast.

  She staggered slightly, caught off guard by the sudden shift, her fingers brushing against the cold metal of his pauldron as he steadied her. Nocturne’s gaze briefly met hers, a quiet check for any sign of discomfort. Without a word, he released her and took a step back.

  Aula Victoriae stretched out before them, its silence echoing in Saphira’s ears, the heat of the summer oppressive. She took a breath, steadying herself as they were the first guests to enter.

  The celebration had been set up with large banquet tables, overflowing with the bounty of the wedding feast. Saphira’s empty stomach rumbled as she saw stuffed peacocks and roasted boar, served whole, along with gallons of red wine, mead, and beer. Her mouth watered as she saw stewed apples in custard, pear pudding, and strawberry cream tarts.

  Saphira held out her hand with quiet expectation. After a moment, Nocturne grasped it.

  He led her up to the grand table at the head of the room, which overlooked the feast. Duke Crassus sat on the opposite side of the hall, where his goblet was quickly filled with mead. He pushed the drink aside.

  The guests arrived, from most important to least, each bowing to Crassus as they entered. They formed an orderly line to congratulate Saphira and Nocturne, and present their gifts.

  First came crystalith jewellery from the Marquess Sanguinis and his wife. The Count of Wildwillow offered a gilded dagger, drawing a one-sided smile from Nocturne.

  Lord Reed pushed forward, presenting a self-authored book on the history of the Ashen Blades, which elicited a tiny scowl from Nocturne.

  Lady Petronella presented paints in rare shades of cobalt and indigo, which she had acquired during her travels across the Jade Routes. Saphira ran her fingers over the glass pots before the attendants took them away—already imagining them packed and priced in some foreign market stall, her father’s sigil stamped across the lid.

  No doubt, Father will sell everything for a profit, Saphira thought with a sigh. He’s never wasted an opportunity.

  Lingering behind the quarter-giant envoys from the Frostlands, Nocturne’s squire, Aurelian, was the last to arrive. His chocolate-brown eyes drifted absently across the room, vacant and searching, his raven-black hair tousled. He had facial piercings and a tattoo peaked above his collar.

  Saphira gasped. I've never seen a freeman wear tattoos before.

  “Rell,” Nocturne mused, voice low and dry. “The giants more interesting than me?”

  “Oh—sorry.” Aurelian blinked. He stepped forward, his earnest eyes shone with quiet admiration as he offered a small, intricately etched stone, its surface pulsing faintly with light. He hesitated, hand slightly trembling. “For her luck,” he said, biting the lip piercing in his lower lip, unable to make eye contact with Saphira. “She’ll need it.”

  Above: Aurelian presents his gift.

  “I hope you won’t throw away such a humble gift." Nocturne’s hand went under the table, and he slipped the stone onto Saphira’s lap. He waved his squire away, “Rell likes to give… strange things.”

  “It’s perfect,” Saphira breathed, cradling the rock with both hands, feeling the strange, unnatural weight of the stone. She thought of all the adventures it had seen—tumbling down mountainsides, polished in rivers, skipped over lakes.

  Adventures I’ll be able to have soon, Saphira thought hopefully, looking up at her new husband.

  Nocturne, catching her wide-eyed gaze, muttered, “What? It’s just a rock.” He smiled, a pitying kind of sadness in his eyes. “There are far more beautiful treasures on Hart Mountain.”

  Saphira said nothing. She only curled her fingers tighter around the stone.

  Felix led the Mountain Knights into the feasting hall. His sharp, angular features were softened by the grin that spread across his face. He beamed a bright, hopeful smile at the newlyweds, his cheerful presence a contrast to the starkly uncomfortable mood of the celebration.

  Nocturne’s guarded demeanour relaxed, and there was a pause as they exchanged looks of unspoken understanding.

  This goes beyond mere camaraderie, Saphira thought. It’s like they’re all in on some big secret.

  Saphira pushed the thought aside as Valentino and Lysander approached.

  Valentino stepped forward first. His tall, princely frame moved with an air of refinement, his chestnut-brown hair perfectly combed. The golden flecks in his brown eyes sparkled as he extended his hand toward Nocturne, clasping it firmly. He then turned to Saphira and bowed with regal elegance, saying, “On behalf of the Ashen Blades, congratulations, My Lady.”

  Though the words were spoken with sincerity, Saphira saw something stewing behind his brown eyes—a nervousness, a discomfort, as if he would rather be anywhere else.

  "August has been delayed." Valentino bowed to Nocturne. "But the gift will be delivered in time."

  Nocturne nodded.

  The shortest of the knights, Lysander, flashed Saphira a warm, playful smile, his hazel eyes twinkling with genuine interest. His long blonde hair was braided, and like many of the Ashen Blades, he wore many piercings in his ears.

  “Congratulations, Nocturne." With a flourish, Lysander bowed gracefully. "She’s a remarkable woman. You both make quite the pair.”

  Saphira blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in his tone, and a slight blush crept up her neck.

  Above: Lysander introduces himself.

  Lysander’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, warm and kind rather than teasing. “What, my Lady?” he laughed, “Has no one ever complimented you before?” He flicked his hand at Nocturne dismissively. “Don’t expect much from him. He’s not one for words.”

  “Behave yourself, Lye," Nocturne warned, a hint of fondness colouring his tone.

  “I always do.” Lysander winked playfully. “I’m certain we’ll get along wonderfully, Lady Saphira—if we ever get the chance.”

  What does he mean by ‘if’? Saphira managed a nervous smile, aware of all the eyes looking at her. Does he think he’s going to die killing Golgog? Or is there something else happening here?

  Saphira’s stomach tightened as she caught her father’s gaze across the hall.

  Crassus stood amid a cluster of nobles, his posture perfectly composed—yet his hand betrayed him. His fingers were white around the dragon’s claw cane, knuckles strained as though the carved ivory might splinter beneath his grip. The faint gleam of the crystalith caught the torchlight like a watching eye.

  Celestine was right. There’s trouble here.

  The noise of the feast dulled at the edges of her awareness. Laughter blurred into a distant murmur. Silk brushed silk, goblets chimed, servants passed—but beneath it all, something coiled and watchful pressed against her ribs.

  What is he planning?

  Then she felt it.

  Nocturne’s arm slid behind her chair, settling across the back with deliberate ease. His presence closed around her like a drawn blade—quiet, controlled, unmistakably territorial. His gaze locked onto the Duke, unblinking, cutting through the crowded hall as though nothing else existed.

  His hand tightened slightly at her shoulder.

  This isn't a threat. It's an open challenge.