SONG VIBE: Lie - BTS (Jimin)

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  SAPHIRA

  Aula Victoriae, Renatus

  Without breaking eye contact, Nocturne leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “Relax,” he murmured. “We’ve said our vows. You're mine."

  The words steadied her—but Crassus’ stare burned colder, sharper, as if measuring the space between them like distance to a kill.

  Then a noblewoman approached the Duke and curtsied. Crassus’ attention snapped away.

  The pressure in Saphira’s chest eased only fractionally, leaving behind a lingering tremor. Relief washed through her—and only then did her empty stomach betray her with a low, traitorous rumble.

  Nocturne’s mouth curved faintly, though his eyes remained alert as he swirled the wine in his goblet. “You’re hungry,” he said quietly, pulling his arm from her to offer her a plate of pork crackling. “Will you eat?”

  “Hopefully,” she replied, glancing at the untouched plates before them. Roasted quail glazed in honey, sugared dates, soft cheese, and citrus-poached pears sat temptingly close, fragrant, rich, and untouched.

  A wife must not eat before her husband, Saphira reminded herself, pushing the hunger pangs away. I mustn’t make any mistakes. Father is watching.

  “Have a drink,” Nocturne offered, reaching for the decanter.

  Nearby, Valentino shook his head slightly, his brown eyes locked onto Nocturne. The Ashen Knight’s gloved hands tensed as he caught himself, just in time to avoid the faux pas.

  Nocturne signalled for a servant to fill both their goblets.

  Does he not know our customs? Saphira bit her lip. Maybe he doesn't know he needs to eat before me? But if i tell him, would that shame him?

  "So," he said conversationally, "What’s your impression of us Mountain Folk?"

  “Considering you're our neighbours, I've not met many. But you all seem—” Saphira paused, sensing the testing edge to his tone, “—nice.”

  “Nice?” He laughed, the sound almost genuine. “Well, that’s a new one.”

  Saphira’s gaze drifted after Valentino as he rose and passed by her sister. Celestine tilted her head at him expectantly, searching his eyes. Valentino shook his head, a sad, quiet motion, then gave a single nod and walked on.

  What did I just see? Saphira wondered. They look like they know each other.

  Soon, wine flowed freely, filling bellies faster than it could be poured into waiting cups. The Renatii soldiers eyed the Ashen Blades with silent disdain—one hand on their goblets, the other never straying far from the hilts of their swords.

  As the drink loosened tongues and lowered inhibitions, the tension in the hall swelled like a held breath. Saphira sat stiffly, heat prickling beneath her veil. The air was thick and stifling, made worse by the press of bodies and the smell of wine and sweat. Jackets, capes, and shawls had been discarded without care—only the barest minimum of propriety remained.

  She watched in dismay as Sage slipped into a corridor with a serving woman and buried his face in her neck.

  Always so brazen, Saphira grimaced. At least my father is discreet with such... liaisons. She glanced toward her husband. Will he sit there holding his drink the whole time? Her stomach growled again. I hope he’ll eat soon.

  Six-year-old Heath, the youngest of Crassus' bastards, slept at the Duke's table. I remember rocking you to sleep, I'll miss you when I leave, Saphira thought, Poor Lady Peony. If she’d lived, Father would have married her—and you’d be the heir instead of me.

  Beyond the nobility’s tables, the common soldiers of the Ashen Blades were already mingling with the lesser Renatii denizens. The room had begun to divide—not by banners or bloodlines, but by mood. Where the Renatii were stiff-backed and watching, the Ashen Blades were laughing, shouting, pressing close.

  One soldier pulled a buxom serving woman onto his lap, grabbed a meat pie from her tray, and planted a kiss full on her mouth, cheered on by his companions.

  Nocturne waved over one of the Mountain Knights, and he came to their table without pause.

  What’s his name again? Saphira observed the regal features, perfectly symmetrical if not for his moles. He had sharp cheekbones and dark mahogany hair held from his face with a green bandana. She reached for the stone in her pocket, turning it over in her palm. He looks so much like the squire. That’s right. He’s Sir Lucian.

  Above: Lucian talks to the bride and groom.

  “Your mind elsewhere, Lady Saphira?” Lucian chuckled, a dark glint in his teal eyes. “Nocturne, are you certain you’re ready for tonight?”

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  “Nothing’s changed—I’m ready,” Nocturne confirmed.

  There’s an undercurrent to their words, Saphira searched the crowded room for Celestine but could not find her. I wish you were sitting beside me. You're better at all this politicking than me. You'd know what everyone was thinking.

  “Make sure Nocturne doesn’t drink too much tonight." With a mischievous smile, Lucian leaned over the table and whispered to Saphira, "Otherwise, don’t expect much of a performance.”

  Heat surged up Saphira’s neck. Her blush bloomed so quickly that she could not hide it.

  "Speaking from experience, Lucian?”

  “I don’t touch alcohol,” Lucian said, teal eyes still focused on Saphira. “But our Count drinks like a fish. Watch him.”

  Saphira dropped her gaze to her lap, willing her cheeks to cool—but the mood in the hall had shifted. Primrose had seated herself at the table of the Ashen Blades, lavished with attention as one knight poured her a drink and another fed her a tart. Across the room, Renatii knights watched with growing displeasure—their earlier cheer darkening into something harder.

  Where is Daisy? Saphira scanned the hall. She’s usually in the middle of trouble with Primrose.

  “Tell the Blades to behave themselves,” Nocturne said quietly to Lucian, reaching for his glass, then stopping just short. “Not a drop of blood is to be spilled.”

  Lucian nodded once and turned, marching toward the Ashen Blade soldiers, his expressive face now full of calm determination.

  "Don't worry, the Blades will keep in line." Nocturne chuckled, “I wouldn’t count this a wedding feast without three good fistfights.”

  “And what of the food—is it not to your liking? Will you eat soon?”

  “Why are you so eager for me to eat, when you’ve not touched the food yourself?” Humour pulled at his split lip as he leaned in and whispered, “Are you trying to poison me?”

  “A wife must not eat before her husband.” Saphira gritted her teeth.

  Nocturne froze—only for a moment, but it was enough for Saphira to notice. Then, without ceremony or delay, Nocturne grabbed a rib of beef from the silver serving platter. He bit savagely into the meat, letting the juices run down into his beard.

  “There." Wiping his chin with his sleeve, he chuckled, though a dark anger simmered behind his eyes. "Eat your fill, my Lady.”

  Soon, Saphira’s plate overflowed with pastries—almond, strawberry, and plum. Meanwhile, Nocturne’s was piled with roasted duck, broiled chicken, spit-roasted pork, and stewed beef—much to the visible disdain of the Renatii nobles nearby.

  With great restraint, Saphira slipped a strawberry tart beneath her veil and nibbled at one corner. The burst of sweet cream and ripe fruit made her eyes flutter shut. A soft sigh escaped her—brief, involuntary. For a moment, nothing else existed but the warmth, the richness, the quiet ecstasy of that bite.

  She glanced at her husband. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”

  “As have you,” he replied without looking up.

  “It’s hard to eat with a veil on.”

  “Then take it off. You’re married now.”

  “Here?” She let out a small laugh. “Perhaps I should also parade naked in the main courtyard?” She bit her lip and added, “—respectfully, my Lord.”

  Above: Nocturne and Saphira chat at their feast.

  “Respectfully, indeed.” He chuckled. “Will that thing also stay on… tonight?”

  Saphira felt her cheeks warm. She looked away, then murmured, “It is for my husband to remove—when we are finally alone.” A breath caught in her throat. “And I’ll be allowed to wear my hair down.”

  Though no one could see it, a smug smile curled beneath her veil.

  "Then I look forward to that.” He sipped his wine. “Now, how old are you?”

  “Should you not have enquired before we vowed?” Saphira quipped. “I could be an old crone under this veil.”

  "Your voice is much too pretty for that.”

  She felt her chest tighten; she looked up at him, searching his expression as if to root out any jest.

  Without any expression—least not any humour—he leaned back, swirling his drink. His fingers lingered on the stem longer than necessary. “I think I’m nearing thirty summers, but I lost count.”

  Saphira looked down at her hands. “I just turned twenty. Born on the summer solstice.”

  “So, you’ve plenty of time to regret this arrangement.” His voice softened, almost coaxing. “Do you resent me for doing this to you?”

  “Why would I resent you?” she breathed. “I’m nervous, yes. But... I’m excited.” The last word wavered on her tongue, trailing into uncertainty as her gaze slid back to her father.

  Duke Crassus had descended from his dais. The nobility clustered to greet him, but his smile was hollow, mirth absent from the steely blue eyes that scanned the room with calculation.

  A shiver crept up Saphira’s spine. Her heartbeat stuttered into a frantic thrum. Father is coming this way.

  “You will take me away from here.” She reached for Nocturne’s sleeve, her voice trembling. "Won't you?"

  Nocturne hid his reaction with a slow sip of wine. “If that is what you wish.”

  His gaze never left the Duke.

  “We’ll spend the night together.” He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle between them.

  Her mouth went dry, and she reached for a sip of her wine. She could still feel Celestine’s vial tucked away in her dress. With this, Celestine promised it wouldn’t hurt, Saphira reminded herself. He's different to what Celestine described. She felt a warmth spreading on her cheeks as she risked a glance at Nocturne. He's not half as brutish as I expected.

  “But after tonight," he continued, "it’ll be many moons before I return. Hopefully by spring.”

  “Spring?” Her purple eyes widened behind the veil. “I don’t understand. You’re leaving me here?”

  “The Blades ride for the Shadowlands. I won’t risk your life there." He studied her, though the veil made reading her impossible. His brow twitched, just slightly. "I’d have you sent to Firestone tomorrow, but your father won’t allow it. So, yes—you’ll have to wait here. Until I bring Golgog’s head to your father’s hearth.”

  Saphira’s fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet. Her father was halfway across the room.

  “But... it’s too soon.”

  “As the wife of a spawnslayer, you’ll get used to it.” He said it like a man who had never had to explain himself before. Then—perhaps sensing the tension in her silence—his tone shifted into something gentler. “You’ll be the Countess of Firestone. You’ll live in some of the most fertile and beautiful lands on the continent. There are no nightspawn to worry about in my mountains. Our ways are hard, but you’ll learn—and our language will come soon enough, too.”

  “My teachers taught me some clanspeak,” Saphira replied. The main dialect flowed awkwardly, the basic sounds sharing common roots with Renatii, but the phrasing was stiffer, more ancient than her mother tongue.

  Nocturne drew a bemused smile over his lips and prattled away in clanspeak. Saphira bit her lip, understanding almost nothing.

  Nocturne took a long sip from his goblet and said in the Renatii tongue, “You have much to learn.”

  “I’ll study hard while you are away, I promise,” Saphira breathed. “My tutor says I pick up languages quickly. I already speak Hyland and King’s Common—”

  “It’s okay,” Nocturne chuckled, “You don’t need to try to impress me.”

  “Swear it." Bowing her head and whispering so quietly that she could barely be heard, Saphira breathed, "Promise me that I’ll leave this place.”

  “Now?” Nocturne's umber eyes flickered, almost hungry. "Why are you so eager to leave? Afraid your father will find out you're using magic?"

  "Please..." she begged, "Don't tell him. Don't—”

  A shadow loomed over their table. “Lord Nocturne, I trust you’re taking good care of my daughter.”