________

  NOCTURNE

  Felix’s Study, Brightwood Manor

  When Nocturne finished speaking, the weight of it still held the room. He braced both hands against the edge of the desk and leaned forward.

  “Fye… wrong place, wrong time,” Lysander drawled, clipping the end of a cigar and casting an expectant look at August. The Hyland-born mage clicked his fingers; a small flame bloomed at his thumbtip, and Lysander leaned in to light the cigar. Through a hazy puff of smoke, he added, “Selkies are not exactly known for their brains. Sounds like mistaken identity.”

  Lucian and Valentino exchanged wary glances while, beside them, August rubbed a hand over his face, cold calculation moving behind bloodshot eyes.

  “It attacked first,” Rell said, arms crossing as he leaned back against the wall. “You defended Saph. The pact wasn’t broken.”

  “They’ll understand.” Lysander tapped ash into the tray. “They’ll have to.”

  “But what if it wasn’t a mistake?” Lucian said quietly. “It all sounds… too intentional.”

  Nocturne’s gaze snapped to him, the sharpness in his umber eyes demanding explanation. His pulse kicked hard in his chest.

  Rein it in.

  "Explain," Nox said.

  Lucian met his gaze with caution, then continued. “On Yule, the women whisper about bathing in the vila pools at midnight—hoping to take some of their fertility for themselves.” His teal eyes flicked briefly to Nocturne’s face, as if gauging how far he could safely go. “She doesn’t just look like a vila, Nox.” Lucian’s voice dropped, velvety soft in the stillness of the room. “She gave you a child when you said it'd never be possible.”

  Nocturne’s throat locked—sharp and sudden—and he turned abruptly toward the window. He would not let them see him like this. For years, he had carried the certainty of his own infertility, like spawnrot in his blood. Since his first marriage, he had believed it unchangeable—another quiet failure to catalogue and bury. Until Saphira. Until they lost Asher. The memory pressed hard against his ribs as a dull, familiar ache.

  “Are you saying she’s not human?” Nocturne asked at last, his voice quieter than before—too even.

  Lucian held up his hands. “Vila blood is respected in my clan, it’s not intended to insult—”

  “We all carry different bloodlines,” August interjected, eyes narrowed, already calculating. “The charm she made you—that magic is ancient, and not from humans. She did it without training. Like she was born to it.”

  “Her lineage,” Nocturne said softly, each word measured, “is not up for speculation.” A surge of cold, possessive anger tightened in his chest. “They attacked what is mine. If they choose to call that a breach of the pact… they will learn the cost.”

  Silence tightened the air.

  "We cannot look eager for war. Not unless we want to invite it." Valentino, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “If they believe the pact broken, it won’t begin with fire,” he said evenly. “It will begin with withdrawal.”

  Nocturne did not break eye contact with his castellan. These days, whenever Valentino spoke, he rarely wasted a word.

  “No more river trade. No more access through the marsh passes. Fishermen vanish. Crops near the riverbanks sabotaged.” Valentino’s voice remained calm, almost gentle. “Retaliation isn’t always blood and fire,” he continued. “Stop the slow escalation that leads to bloodshed. We request parley first. Publicly. Calmly. If they refuse, then the fault is theirs, and the other Folk may side with us.”

  Rell’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once.

  Nocturne turned abruptly to the window, bracing his hands against the sill. Outside, the sun shone bright as another hot summer’s morning rolled forward into a hazy afternoon. He pushed the window open, letting in fresh, warm air into the stuffy room. He still felt like he could not breathe.

  “Until we sort this out, we tighten security,” Nocturne said at last. “Not just for Saphira—she’s not to be left alone—but for the whole fief. Caution around the rivers and waterways. Double the patrols. Any suspicious persons on land are not to be approached and should be reported immediately.” He looked to Lucian. “And find a way to get in touch with the selkies.”

  “The dryads are the best bet as intermediaries,” Lucian replied. “Their willow trees are plenty along the waters.”

  “Then we move before the selkies do. Now let’s get to work.” Nocturne glanced at them briefly, before setting his gaze on the Hyland-born mage. “August, stay a moment.”

  The knights shuffled out of the room, Rell leaving last, casting a long glance at Nocturne before closing the door.

  August approached, two glasses of gin already in hand. He passed a drink to Nocturne and said, “This is about Saphira’s blood, isn’t it?”

  “You already have the memories she wrote down about her Mother. Just… look into it,” Nocturne said, “Privately. Don’t worry her."

  “Study her without her consent?” August asked, considering the request. “She won’t like that, Nox.” He shrugged, throwing the shot of gin down his throat. “I have an inkling of where to begin my research. I’ll start there.”

  “Make it so.”

  As the door shut, Nocturne sipped his gin in the silence. Felix would lecture me. Rell would tell her everything. Lucian would balk at it. Val and Lye—they would comply, but with questions. He threw the rest of the gin down his throat. Only August understands that sometimes, you need to cross a line to protect others.

  I’ll protect her—even if that means damning myself.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  At his desk, he wrote letters until his hands cramped. Lunch sat on his plate, cold and untouched. He ate it without tasting and continued working—reviewing the defences for Brightwood, planning contingencies, and securing Firestone.

  When the afternoon sun bled through the study’s window, Nocturne stood to stretch his legs. He found himself ascending the stairs, walking towards their bedroom. Outside the door, he listened—homing in his spawnslayer sense to a singular point—and heard Saphira’s gentle breathing and steady heartbeat.

  He inched the door open and stared at the sight.

  His wife, lying on top of their bed, was fast asleep, a half-open book tipping from her slender fingers. Her lavender hair was spread out over the pillows, brushed and oiled. She always felt tiny in his arms, but somehow, she seemed smaller now—more fragile.

  Good. She feels safe enough to sleep, he thought, his expression softening as he watched the rise and fall of her chest. I’ve made a home for her. Now I’ve got to keep the darkness out.

  He approached her silently and slipped the book from her hands. Bookmarking her page, he set it on the nightstand. Where her silk sheets had bunched up around her knees, he pulled it over her feet. His palm settled against her forehead, feeling the cool skin.

  Above: Nocturne watches Saphira sleep.

  Nocturne’s gaze shifted, catching the small raw patch behind her ear where the selkie had torn free a clump of lavender hair. The skin there was red against her pale scalp. His teeth scraped together, clenching so hard it made his jaw ache.

  I doubt she's ever been hurt like this before.

  Her fingers twitched faintly against the sheets, grasping for something solid. He slid his hand into hers.

  She's still in shock.

  "It's just me," he whispered.

  “Nox...” she murmured, her eyes half-open. “Is everything okay?”

  His hands stilled.

  “Aye,” he breathed, smoothing a wrinkle from her dress. “We’ll keep a closer guard on you—just as a precaution. So don’t go wandering.” He turned away from the bed, quietly closing the curtains, shutting out the summer heat. “Get your rest now. You were up too early.”

  Her eyelids closed softly; the wrinkle between her eyebrows softened as she drifted back to sleep.

  Silently, Nocturne turned and walked down the hall. He passed Valentino in the practice yard, stopping to watch.

  The knight was pushing himself harder than anyone else, his movements relentless—driven by something Nocturne could not quite name.

  We’re all pushing, each in our own ways, not knowing where the finish line is.

  “Mind if I join?” Nocturne asked, rolling up his sleeves.

  Valentino nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Thought you might.”

  They took up practice blades without further talk and squared off in the middle of the courtyard. Around them, life moved on, slow and unhurried as the peak of the afternoon heat lingered. Only the scullery maids watched from the kitchen window—sneaking looks at Valentino.

  Before bowing to Nocturne, Valentino inclined his head towards the kitchens. The maids giggled and blushed—then they ducked under the sill.

  “On your guard,” Valentino called out.

  “Ready,” Nox replied, squaring his shoulders.

  Sunlight caught in the gold flecks of Valentino’s eyes as he shifted his leading foot and struck first. The clash rang sharp across the yard as Nocturne blocked with ease.

  Valentino tested him—light, probing strikes, the measured, fluid footwork of someone trained by Fiorenza’s best arena fighters.

  Nocturne relished each block. Valentino’s offensive was solid as always, but it was his defence where he shone. Felix was intuitive, and Rell savage, but Valentino—he was honed into perfection, with each move calculated and executed with textbook precision. With brutal force, he drove Valentino back, steel meeting steel every time.

  It’s like he reads my moves before I make them. Nocturne’s hand dripped with sweat; he switched sword hands and then thrust. He draws the fight out with that unbreakable defence—waiting, always waiting—until the other man exhausts himself.

  But I don't tire.

  Switching back to his dominant hand, Nocturne thrust forward far more aggressively than needed. Instead of blocking, Valentino shifted, rolling across the courtyard floor to avoid the blow. He grinned as he sprang back to his feet.

  “Has Lye been teaching you some tricks?” Nocturne panted, circling.

  “Some,” Valentino replied, wiping the sweat off his brow. “You’re hungry today.”

  Nocturne answered with a brutal downward strike.

  Valentino’s boots skidded in the dust. He barely deflected the next swing before stepping aside.

  “That wasn’t a compliment,” Valentino added evenly.

  Nocturne pivoted and struck again—too hard.

  The hilt cracked; Valentino dropped the practice blade to avoid injury to his hand.

  Above: A near miss.

  Nocturne stood frozen, chest rising, blade still raised.

  Instead of retrieving his weapon, Valentino lifted his gaze. “You’re fighting angry.”

  “I have reason to be.”

  “Aye. But that’s not what this is.” He stepped closer, unarmed. “I think you’re afraid.”

  The word settled heavily between them.

  Nocturne’s grip tightened on the hilt. “I don’t fear the Forest Folk.”

  “I’m not talking about the selkies.”

  A muscle flickered in Nocturne’s cheek as he ran his tongue over the inside.

  Valentino’s voice remained steady, not accusing—just certain. “You can fight a war with the selkies.” He held Nox’s gaze, unwavering. “But you cannot fight what she might be.” He inhaled. “And there are men who see that better than you—and that’s what scares you.”

  Vladislav. Crassus. The men who want her for the power in her blood. Nocturne finally lowered the blade. The men who would extract everything they could from her—if I were not standing in their way. And now, she's not even safe in my own fief.

  “She is my wife,” he growled.

  Valentino held his gaze. “Which is precisely why you must be careful what you decide on her behalf.”

  Above: Valentino gives Nocturne solid advice.

  Valentino held his gaze. “You need to tell her—tell her it wasn’t a random attack.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” he snapped.

  “Aye, but if it is, she’s going to know, especially if she's locked up here for the sake of her safety,” Valentino muttered, handing him a towel. “It’s too bloody hot to be out here. What maniac trains this hard in the afternoon heat?”

  “Just a fool that wasn’t made for a desk job,” Nocturne replied, sheathing his sword. “Could say the same about you.” He wiped the sweat from his face. He glanced toward the manor where the curtains remained drawn over the master bedroom window.

  Good. She didn’t see that last fight.

  Then, he turned towards the meadow and kept walking. He did not care where his steps took him, feeling only the weight of his thoughts pulling him deeper into solitude.

  Almighty, it never ends. She asked for freedom. I let her roam these hills with Dusty.

  He had listened to Maxine's report. The first time, Saphira had lain in the long grass and looked up at the sky. The time after, she had taken off her shoes and dipped her bare feet in the water. Maxine had always followed, close enough to protect, but far enough that not even Dusty noticed.

  Now the selkies may hunt her. His jaw tightened. I made a promise to her—that she could be free. By the pits, how am I going to tell her that I’m taking that away?

  I must. He walked deeper into the meadow. Freedom is a luxury I can’t afford her.