Song vibe: Just One Day – BTS

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  NOCTURNE

  The Lord’s Wing, Firestone

  Nocturne woke just before dawn. The first thing he registered was Saphira, warm and tangled against his chest, her breath soft against his collarbone. A slow awareness moved through him—the lingering warmth of her skin, the soft weight of her arm draped over him. The memory of the night returned—her yielding, the way she had clung to him, the way she had said his name.

  He registered the deep, steady heaviness in his body, a strange, unguarded ease he did not recognise. A quiet, dangerous satisfaction settled in his chest—and then something rarer still—because, for the first time in his life, he had slept peacefully.

  I could have her day and night, and it still wouldn’t be enough. He brushed a loose lock of hair from her shoulder and bent to kiss the skin beneath it. Fye—even the trace of lavender in the corridor yesterday drove me into reckless distraction.

  Grey pre-dawn light filtered through the windows. His hands itched to wander lower, to wake her slowly and start the day tangled together, as they had the past handful of mornings.

  She needs to rest. And in the meantime, I need to show I’m in control.

  He settled for a light kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be back for breakfast,” he murmured, easing himself from the bed.

  As he buttoned his shirt, Dusty padded over from the dying warmth of the fireplace. She leapt onto the mattress and, without breaking eye contact with him, curled herself possessively against Saphira with an indignant meow.

  “I’m still thinking about making you into a rug,” he muttered, fastening Shadowrend at his hip.

  Dusty hissed.

  The keep was hushed as he moved through it, most servants still abed. Somewhere below, pots clattered in the kitchens; armour rang softly as the guards changed shifts.

  Dawn has always been my favourite time—in the keep, on the battlefield—and now, he added with a dry laugh, apparently, with my wife.

  Focus.

  Rell waited in the training yard, the rising sun staining the sky red behind him. He had shed his heavy leathers; sweat darkened the shirt clinging to his back from his own early drills. At Nocturne’s approach, he straightened instinctively, squared his shoulders, and dipped his head in greeting.

  He’s grown, Nocturne noted. Not just in height, but in the steadiness of his movements, the weight behind his gaze.

  “You’re up early,” Nocturne said, rolling up his sleeves.

  “You’re up late,” Rell shot back, drawing his sword. “Didn’t think lover boy would make it out of bed this morning.”

  Nocturne glared at him, but the look lacked its usual reprimand; he could not quite hide the amusement in his eyes, and his former squire knew it.

  “Besides,” Rell added with a wolfish grin, “your Captain of the Guard should always arrive first—and never leave his lord waiting.”

  "Careful." Nocturne stretched his shoulders, eyes never leaving Rell. “That bravado’s going to cost you a finger one day.”

  “You’ve been saying that for years, old man.” Rell lifted his blade eagerly.

  “And you keep testing me,” Nocturne replied calmly. “Come on, then.

  Nocturne drove him hard—punishing every opening, forcing him into defence. Rell faltered once, his injured leg wavering, and Nocturne immediately shifted the rhythm, letting him recover without softening the pressure. He allowed Rell onto the offensive instead, blade flashing with sharp, disciplined precision.

  Above: Nocturne and Rell train together.

  When the sun finally cleared the rooftops, they crouched near the stables, both breathing hard.

  “Good training,” Nocturne said, offering his hand.

  Rell clasped it. “Tomorrow?”

  “Can’t lose my edge.”

  “Not if I can help it.” Rell grinned.

  As the servants began filtering in for the morning, Rell looked at his shirt and rolled down his sleeves, hiding away his tattoos. He buttoned his shirt up to his neck and carefully slipped into his guard’s jacket.

  “First day on the job,” he said with a wink. “Wish me luck.”

  “You know you don’t need luck,” Nocturne replied, accepting Rell’s salute with a nod.

  Nocturne crossed to the neighbouring stables to saddle Whiskey and Scarlet. His old mare nickered softly as he approached, muzzle nudging his shoulder with familiar insistence. He patted her flank and checked her legs and tack by instinct.

  Too old for a spawnpit now, old girl. A slow ride suits you.

  Scarlet lifted her head from the hay, ears flicking forward. The chestnut mare gave a low, curious nicker, dark eyes bright and alert.

  “It’s me,” he murmured, slipping his fingers under her chin in an absent-minded scratch. “Small ride today. Best behaviour.”

  He ran his hands along her back and girth, testing for tension, then crouched to lift each hoof in turn, clearing packed dirt and grit with methodical care. The work steadied his heart rate as the sweat cooled on his body. His hands remained precise and disciplined; his thoughts did not.

  Her touch. Her taste. That sound she made last night when I—

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  His fingers stilled on the saddle blanket.

  Patience. Tenderness. Almighty, I’m turning into Valentino.

  He snorted under his breath and adjusted the straps.

  “G’morning.” Felix leaned over the stall door, forearms resting casually on the rail. “I saw you training. You’re distracted.”

  The instinctive dismissal rose—and died. Nocturne only shrugged. “Feels like I’m sixteen again.”

  A warm and unguarded laugh came from Felix, the sound of someone who needed no further explanation. He stepped inside the stall, tightening the reins and smoothing Scarlet’s forelock with fond familiarity.

  “I’ve watched your wife change this place over the past few months,” he said quietly. “Every time I doubt your instincts, I’m proven wrong.” His hand rested against the mare’s neck. “She’s exactly what Firestone needed—what we needed.” His voice lowered. “You’re a better man because of her, Nox. So, for pit’s sake, let her rest.”

  Feels less like a friend and more like a worried father. He met eyes with Felix and saw that the worry lingered there still.

  Nocturne secured the last buckle on the saddle bag. “Tell me—was it really that bad when I was gone?”

  “Worse.” Felix closed the stall door behind them.

  They walked together into the open yard. Felix’s gaze drifted toward the training ring where Rell barked orders, the guards snapping into formation under his sharp corrections.

  “None of us realised how much Golgog broke us,” Felix said. “The last decade hollowed this place out—us all, too. We needed new eyes to see how far off course we’d drifted.” He kept his gaze fixed on the young knight, his voice low with warning. “Quintus’ rumours will linger. Best keep them apart. Almighty knows I tried and failed.”

  Nocturne nodded slowly. It’s not that I don’t trust Saphira. It’s that she doesn’t always see the danger in her kindness.

  He watched as Rell demonstrated a defensive block, the guards mirroring him with focused discipline.

  She’s gentle with everyone—with me, with him, with strangers. It’s the very thing that drew me in. The unease tightened unexpectedly in his chest. And if someone ever mistook that gentleness for permission—

  “Did he ever—?” The words scraped out before he could stop them.

  “No,” Felix answered immediately. “Rell worships you—the father he never had. Of course, he puts your wife on a pedestal beside you.” He exhaled slowly. “Mostly, they argued like siblings. She needed people her own age who saw past her titles. Rell does that better than most.”

  The tension eased from Nocturne’s shoulders, slow and reluctant. There are only a handful of people who could truly wound me. My brothers. Now her.

  They crossed the courtyard, the burnt skeleton of the chapel looming ahead. Charred beams lay stacked for removal. Workers scraped soot from the stone. Lysander’s cost estimates waited somewhere on Nocturne’s desk, neat columns of gold and consequence.

  A facestealer. I thought we’d ended them in Ammon’s pit. His jaw tightened. Gorda, if you were alive, I’d make you tell me everything you knew. Instead, you sleep while we stand watch.

  Above: Nocturne and Felix pause by the ruined chapel.

  “Do you think we’ll be targeted again?” Felix asked quietly. His gaze found the stones still stained red with Gorda’s blood. His eyes glazed over, then he exhaled. “You know Crassus’ secret. He might try to silence you—permanently.”

  “Crassus won’t stop easily,” Nocturne replied. “But this feels larger than him.” He glanced instinctively over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “August heard Gorda’s last words. A warning.” He inhaled. “They were the same as Golgog’s. Talk of this Prince of Darkness, whatever they are.”

  “The Prince of Darkness,” Felix repeated, his expression hardening. “They both said that?”

  “Aye.”

  “You’ve made the right call.” Felix nodded once. “Strengthen what we have. Secure alliances. No chasing spawnlords. The Mountains are home now.”

  “But if it comes to steel,” Nocturne said evenly, “we’ve killed every spawnlord we’ve faced.”

  “If it comes to it,” Felix agreed. “We’re not running.”

  They reached the threshold of the keep and started the brief climb up the stone steps.

  “I’m going to turn Firestone into a true court,” Nocturne said, the decision settling into place. “Saphira needs company, more ladies-in-waiting around her. She’d be exceptional at guiding them.” A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “People gravitate toward her whether she means it or not.”

  Felix stopped, one foot over the threshold of the keep. “Do me a favour.”

  “What.”

  “Let her be your wife first before you make her a lady.” Felix’s warm gaze held steady. “If you don’t, you’ll consume her. Rest might not exist in your vocabulary—but it should in hers.”

  “She’ll murder me for coddling her.”

  “I never thought I’d hear that from you,” Felix laughed, the sound echoing through the Great Hall.

  “And I don’t care,” Nocturne said lightly. “What’s that called—foolishness?”

  Felix’s tone softened. “Love.”

  He regarded Felix for a moment before turning away. Without thinking, his hand went to his heart, where he had hidden Saphira’s love letter. Diego said the same thing. Now Felix. Smug bastards, the both of them.

  He turned away, already moving back toward their chambers.

  My mother died in a spawnpit. Zephyr raised me to survive. Love was never language in that world.

  Angelica had been nothing but lust and disappointment. When it faded, all that remained was a bitter girl and a frightened boy.

  He stopped outside Saphira’s chamber. Her voice drifted through the door, light with quiet laughter as she spoke with her maids. His hand lifted—and stilled against the wood.

  A year ago, I would have scoffed at the idea of losing myself to a woman. But now—the way I think about Saphira—it’s logical. She’s my wife. It’s natural for me to want her.

  He knocked twice, waited a breath, and pushed the door open.

  The younger maid, Livia Sevenson, startled into a delighted gasp before collapsing into a crooked curtsy, barely containing her giggle. The novelty of their lord appearing unannounced in his lady’s chambers clearly had not faded. Beside her, Maxine placed the comb with deliberate care, a faint tremor in her arm that would pass unnoticed by anyone unfamiliar with battle injury. Nocturne caught it at once. She dipped into a composed curtsy.

  “I can finish getting ready myself,” Saphira said gently. “Give us the room.”

  The maids bobbed and slipped out, closing the door softly behind them.

  Silence settled in the sunlit room.

  Nocturne watched as Saphira rose from the mirror. She wore a soft green gown, unlaced at the back, the fabric catching the early light. Her hair, half-braided and threaded with small wildflowers, spilled over her shoulders. The room smelled of her—lavender and violets.

  He became suddenly aware of the dried sweat against his skin, his shirt damp and clinging from training hard with Rell. He shifted, feeling out of place amid the silk, sunlight, and flowers.

  “Can you help lace me?” she asked, turning around.

  He stepped in behind her, lifting her hair clear with two fingers and testing the ribbons by tension and balance, the way he would a blade or bowstring. He was far more used to undressing a woman than fastening her in—but the precision of it pleased him.

  Above: Nocturne helps lace Saphira's dress.

  “You’ve been training hard,” she said lightly. “I’d like to come watch sometime.”

  “You’ll have to wake before dawn.” His hands slowed. “And my lady enjoys her sleep.”

  “Your lady sleeps because her Count keeps her awake all night,” she teased, glancing back at him with a faint pout. “And I can wake early—if sufficiently motivated.”

  “Then I’ll train shirtless,” he murmured, his fingers lingering at her waist longer than necessary.

  “Whose attention are you hoping for—the washerwomen or me?” She turned her head just enough to catch his eye. “I’d rather have you all to myself.”

  His grip slipped; the ribbon slid through his fingers and dropped. He caught it quickly, clearing his throat as he tightened the knot.

  “We’ll eat,” he said, a shade too briskly. “The horses are ready. We’re taking a short ride.”

  “This morning?” She laughed softly. “Firestone nearly fell four nights ago. Lysander’s been carrying everything. We’ve barely left our rooms. And then there’s—”

  “You and me,” he interrupted gently. “Just for today.”

  “I’ve visited Scarlet since Felix returned her. Brushed her, fed her apples.” She hesitated, chewing her lip. “But I haven’t been back in the saddle since…”

  “I’ll keep it slow.” He finished the final tie and leaned in, pressing a quiet kiss to the nape of her neck. “Breakfast is waiting.”

  Her shoulders eased beneath his hands.

  “Alright,” she said softly. “Just for today.”