Song vibe: Magic Shop – BTS

  Warning: This chapter contains brief ???

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  SAPHIRA

  The Lord’s Wing, Firestone

  The silence settled in the chamber, broken only by the low crackle of the fire. Saphira sat beside Nocturne on the couch, his arm drawn around her shoulders, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against her skin. He stared out the window for a long moment—long enough that she felt his breath change.

  “In Lux,” he said finally, and closed his eyes, “I killed your father—”

  Saphira’s breath caught—sharp and shallow, like the first step into cold water.

  “—but he didn’t die.” Nocturne’s jaw tightened. “I can’t explain it. I only know what I saw—and what I did.”

  She felt her spine go rigid beneath his arm.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why did you do it?”

  His fingers stilled. Then reverently, he smoothed his index finger over the pink line of her scar.

  “Because when he hurt you with his dragon’s claw cane, he did it knowing it would kill Asher.”

  The warmth drained from her limbs. The healed wound tore open a hole in her memory—her child, her home, her innocence collapsing again, all with a familiar, hollow ache. She folded into him, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

  Nocturne held her head into his chest, firm and unyielding.

  “He approached me in private, after the conclave, to see if I would bargain you away,” Nocturne explained, each word measured. “He was threatening you. Tormenting me. He confessed to killing Asher—and said he’d do it again. That was it.”

  His arm tightened around her.

  “I broke the cane in half,” he confessed, his heart hammering in his chest, “and drove it through his lung. I watched the light fade from his eyes.”

  “So—” she whispered, “—he died?”

  “He did. I held him as he breathed his last.” Nocturne shook his head twice. “But then I saw him—walking out of the castle. Alive.” His hand flexed at her back. “I killed him, Saphira. I’ve killed enough men to know how to do it right.” His voice quietened. “You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  She threaded her fingers through his, soothing herself with the familiar weight of his hand. These hands—capable of unspeakable things, all in the name of keeping me safe. He’s carried this burden—the weight of this horrible truth—alone until now.

  She lifted his wrist and pressed her lips to the skin. I made him the lover’s bind to keep him safe. But this is a wound I can’t protect him from.

  She froze.

  The lover’s bind.

  My lifeforce, given freely to protect his.

  The sob tore out of her, low and raw, her body folding in on itself.

  “I’m sorry,” Nocturne murmured, sitting utterly still. “I should have killed him properly. He won’t touch you again—”

  “It’s not that,” she whispered.

  He stilled completely; his composure helped Saphira steady the tempest inside her.

  “Golgog didn’t kill you because of the lover’s bind I made,” she said, her voice shaking.

  His hands stiffened—recalling the moment when he thought he would die, and then, realising what it meant for Crassus.

  “My lifeblood—given willingly—to protect you." Saphira stroked his wrist. "My mother said in the cave, ‘It won’t work if it’s not voluntary.’ That’s what she meant.”

  She swallowed.

  “You did kill him. Only… my mother made a lover’s bind for Crassus. She sacrificed her life to give Crassus another.”

  “Almighty,” Nocturne breathed.

  He pulled her close. His expression cold, his face stoic—but beneath it all, his heart pounded.

  “When Lucian took me into the dream world, I saw Crassus threaten my mother—her or me,” Saphira whispered. “He would have killed me if she hadn’t sacrificed herself.” She clung to Nocturne, her voice breaking. “The greater the gift, the greater the charm—that’s what she said when she taught me. I gave you hair and blood. My mother gave her whole body.”

  “Just tell me he can be killed.” Nocturne’s grip tightened.

  “I don’t know,” Saphira confessed, her voice barely audible. “They always said that he hadn’t aged a day since my mother died—the truth was right there, locked away in my mind.”

  The morning light warmed the room as birds chirped quietly outside.

  Her mouth twisted. “I hate him, Nox. I really do.”

  “Don’t let it consume you,” he said quietly. He drew back just enough to hold her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Do you want him dead?”

  She wiped her tears away with the palm of her hand. “Don’t make me pass judgment. He’s guilty of killing my mother and our child. That’s all I know.”

  “Then you will have justice.” Nocturne’s expression did not waver. “In this lifetime.”

  When he shifted to rise, she caught his hand. “Can we stay here,” she asked softly, “for a little while longer?”

  His grip tightened, then eased as his thumb brushed over her knuckles. He shifted on the couch and drew her onto his lap, settling her there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  "Do you think your sister, Celestine—?"

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  Saphira shook her head. "Mother never taught her anything. I don't know if she had the power."

  Nocturne nodded. "She's in Fiorenza now, marrying Lorenzo’s son. I doubt that Crassus would give such a valuable power away to Lorenzo."

  She nodded numbly. Celestine. Traded away. Almighty, it's all too much...

  Above: Saphira grieves while Nocturne holds her.

  They stayed like that for a long while, seated together, feeling the warmth of the fire in the hearth. Saphira’s tears came in small, uneven bursts—no longer the tearing sobs from before, but the quiet kind that slipped free when she finally stopped holding them back.

  She cried for the mother she never knew. For the child taken from her. For a husband forced to carry strength when it was slowly wearing him down. Each time her breath hitched, Nocturne held her a little closer, his presence steady, unyielding, anchoring her where words could not.

  Gradually, her breathing slowed.

  “Saphira,” Nocturne said quietly, the word heavy with vow, “I’d tear down the nine dukedoms before I let anything happen to you.”

  “I believe you,” she whispered.

  The realisation settled in her, half in awe, half in fear, I’m not scared of him—only of what he would become if he ever lost me.

  Fresh tears slipped free. Lady Astra’s death. The innocent souls the facestealer had fed upon. The dull, final thud of Selwyn’s body as it struck the ground—a sound not even Nocturne’s hand over her ears had been able to keep out. She shuddered, feeling the weight of it wash over her.

  “There’s just been so much bloodshed lately,” she whispered into his chest. “Does it ever get easier?”

  Nocturne lifted his chin, letting the late morning light catch the hard line of his jaw. He smoothed the stray strands of purple hair from her face, tucking them gently behind her ear.

  “No,” he said after a moment. “You only learn how to carry the weight.”

  She looked up at him, eyes wide.

  “The day bloodshed stops disturbing you is the day you become the monster who causes it," he murmured.

  She swallowed and pressed closer.

  His fingers brushed her cheek, catching another tear. “That’s why I need you, Saph. To stop me from becoming them.”

  Her lower lip trembled. The thought of Nocturne—the stoic, unshakable Ashen Knight—needing me… It’s almost too much to believe.

  “I'll always pull you back from the edge,” she breathed. “Even if you hate me for it.”

  “I'd never. Only myself." His breath left him in a slow exhale of acceptance.

  “But Quintus,” she said softly, “you did it so cleanly—”

  “Hesitation makes for a sloppy kill—but that doesn’t mean I didn’t weigh the cost,” Nocturne said, the edge returning to his voice. “I gave the sentence. I warned him. He chose to insult you. I wasn’t going to stand there and listen.” He exhaled through his nose. “Selwyn, on the other hand…” His grip tightened briefly. “I regret.”

  “It happened so fast,” Saphira whispered. “It doesn’t feel real.”

  “If he had lived, he might have caused trouble later. But I won’t pretend that makes it right—or easier.”

  She studied him. “You’re… starting to sound like August.”

  His mouth curved into half smile.

  The fire shifted, a log collapsing inward with a soft crack. In its glow, the lines of his face eased—not gone, never gone, but less rigid. He brushed his thumb beneath her eye, catching the last trace of damp there, then let his hand linger against her cheek.

  “You shouldn’t have had to see any of it,” he said quietly. “Gorda. Selwyn. Quintus. None of it was meant for you.”

  She leaned into his touch.

  “This world…” He exhaled. “It consumes people. I never wanted it to take you, too.”

  “I was sheltered in Renatus,” she said. “I had no life at all. But you—” A soft, breathless laugh escaped her. “You were the first real choice I made. And now, here—with you—I’m learning what it means to finally be me.” Her mouth curved faintly, tired but sincere. “And I know you’d give your life before something broke me.”

  “Aye, little vila,” he murmured. “You’re beginning to understand me.”

  They stayed like that, her in his lap, head pressed to his chest, the world reduced to just the two of them. When she finally shifted, it was not to pull away but to draw closer—her hand slipping under his shirt, tracing each scar with her finger.

  Nocturne’s finger brushed over her scar—up and down, the gentle rhythm soothing them both.

  Above: Content in each other's arms.

  For a while, nothing else existed. Then, she became aware of the tension in his body as her hand wandered to the scars on his lower abdomen; of the way his hand drifted from her chest, over her throat and to her chin.

  He tilted her face upwards, just enough so that he could look into her eyes.

  His expression was still controlled, but his umber eyes were softer now—dark, intent, entirely on her. She lifted her hand to his jaw, feeling the familiar roughness of his beard, and only then did she lean in.

  Their lips met gently, reconnecting to each other with the sweetest of kisses. She felt the tension leave her body as he held her, each movement unhurried and reassuring, until she relaxed fully into him.

  She kissed him back, deeper this time, her hands slid over his shoulders, and he responded in kind—touch sure, reverent, entirely unafraid of her closeness.

  His hand slipped beneath the silk of her robe.

  “I owe you,” he murmured against her lips, a hint of humour threading his voice, “for this morning.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked softly.

  “I don’t like leaving things unfinished,” he said, brushing a kiss along her mouth. His hand ran up her thigh, teasing, asking. “Especially you.”

  She huffed a quiet laugh. “You might have to accept defeat once in your life. I feel like I’ve been in a saddle all day.”

  “That’s not what I had in mind.” His hand wandered to her hip, across, and then down.

  “Oh, yes? And what did you—” Her breath hitched as his touch slid to the softest part of her. “—Nox, that’s…?”

  “Relax,” he murmured, eyes never leaving her face. “Don’t overthink it.”

  His hand shifted, purposeful and unhurried, and the sound that escaped her startled her—too loud, too honest. She clamped her lips together at once, heat rushing to her cheeks, as if she could somehow take it back.

  “You don’t need to do anything,” he whispered, his hands tender and patient as he worked. “Except let it happen.”

  Later, she lay curled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin. He pulled her robe back over her legs; a faint smirk rested on his lips. Sunlight spilled through the windows as the world had crept back in.

  “It’s noon,” she whispered, tracing idle patterns along the hair on his arm, marvelling at how easy it felt to do so now. “We should get up. Nox… are you even listening?”

  “Mm.” His mouth curved faintly. “Say that again.”

  “Tell you to listen?”

  “No,” he said lazily. “Say my name.”

  “Nox?” She tested it, still amused by how natural it felt on her tongue. Then she groaned softly. “Almighty, we really do need to get up. August burnt down the chapel. The cost of repairs alone—”

  “You promised me,” he said lightly, tightening his arm around her, “one week. At least. You’re not leaving my bed.”

  From beyond their locked door came muffled voices from the Solar—August’s dry humour and Felix's responding laugh—life carrying on, entirely unconcerned with what they had been doing.

  “Nox…” Her face warmed as the implication finally caught up with her. “I might never leave,” she whispered. “How am I meant to go out there? They probably heard me. They’ll all know.”

  “Good,” he rumbled, entirely unbothered. “They’ll know you’re mine.”

  “I can’t ever leave this room.” She dropped back against the couch with a half-laugh. “I can’t ever look them in the eyes.”

  “If you’re refusing to leave—” he murmured, lips brushing hers again, “—then I can think of other ways to pass the time.”

  She shook her head, smiling despite herself.

  “You’re insatiable.”

  “Attentive,” he corrected mildly. “That’s all.”

  “Fine.” She huffed, still flushed, still adjusting to how simple Nocturne made it to be. “I’ll go out there. But you’d better make sure nobody says anything. Not even a glance.”

  He pulled her silk robe over her thighs and promised, “They won’t.”

  Nocturne was dressed and ready before Saphira could even finish combing her hair. He helped her into a yellow dress, sharing a laugh when he threaded the wrong loop, and another when he laced her up too tightly—then unlaced her to try again.

  “You’re doing this on purpose,” she accused.

  “Of course I am,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss on the nape of her neck. His hands moved to retie the lacing.

  “A neat bow, please. Not some warrior’s knot.”

  “You’ll get what you’re given—” Nocturne teased, “—and it’ll be one I can undo easily.”

  She laughed with him, and for the first time, she believed that intimacy might just become a part of life, rather than a secret she needed to keep.