Prologue

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SAPHIRA

The Grand Hall of the Ancients, Castle Renatus

Saphira entered the Grand Hall of the Ancients at her father's side, her steps careful, her hands folded demurely. Every eye turned toward them—toward Duke Crassus of Renatus and his two trueborn daughters, Lady Saphira and Lady Celestine.

At the front of the hall, the nobility fanned themselves idly, their gilded fans casting shifting patterns of light, but their gazes were anything but lazy. They studied, measured, and assessed. Behind the nobility, the hall swelled with restless bodies, the air thick with anticipation and the sharp, peppery scent of rowanberries. The heat in the room was unbearable; there were far too many bodies pressed in close—in the summer's heat.

The highest stone dais awaited them. Above, garlands of dried rowanberries and sage wove between the rafters, interlaced with banners of deep purple. Upon each, the golden dragon of Renatus stretched its wings in exquisite embroidery, a true crystalith stone glinting from its raised paw.

A cage woven in gold and silk, Saphira thought, A cage just like mine.

Her heart pounded as her eyes searched the room. Somewhere beyond these doors—riding through Firestone's gates—was Lord Nocturne, the Ashen Knight, the Count of Firestone. The man who had slain seven Spawnlords. The man who would soon stand before them all.

The man who will soon marry my sister, Saphira thought, looking over to Celestine, who, at nineteen years old was younger than Saphira by one year. Father promised his daughter's hand in marriage to the man who killed the spawnlord Golgog. They say he'll choose Celestine. Good, she deserves her freedom from this prison.

A veil of fine lace draped over Celestine's deep purple hair, slipping off one shoulder as she adjusted it with a delicate hand. The soft lilac of her gown, which fitted perfectly to her curves, shimmered with every small movement. She's the prettier one. The one who deserves to marry the hero of the continent.

Saphira had never seen Nocturne. Not in portraits, not in tapestries. He was legend turned flesh, and soon, she would witness him with her own eyes.

Excitement fluttered in her chest, girlish and unbidden. Will he be as fearsome as the stories claimed? Would his Mountain Knights be as charming as the bards' tales?

She imagined their dark armour, their silent presence, the unshakable discipline of warriors forged in ice and steel. And Lord Nocturne—what sort of man could command such loyalty?

***

When the giant doors slammed open, a blast of hot summer air rushed into the hall. Saphira shivered as the draft slipped beneath her veil, and she quickly adjusted it back into place.

Seven men stood in the entrance, their figures stark against the light from outside. They were not dressed in heavy armour, but there was no mistaking them for courtiers. Their clothing was finely made—dark doublets embroidered with the three red flames of Firestone, cloaks lined for warmth rather than decoration. They all wore belts with swords resting at their hips, their hands resting close to their weapons.

As they walked down the aisle, the hall quieted. People instinctively stepped back, pressing closer to the walls. The knights moved with a calm, deliberate purpose, their presence commanding enough that no one dared block their path.

They came to a stop at the foot of the dais.

The herald's voice rang out, echoing through the grand hall [https://img.wattpad.com/5993270c8bce6041677d169b768f18217b3285fd/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f48573468795f72635f44754e52673d3d2d313535303136373332302e313834393331383366663761313930353636313936383932393832352e706e67?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

The herald's voice rang out, echoing through the grand hall. "Presenting the Mountain Knights of Seven."

"Sir Valentino of Lux." The second tallest of the group stepped forward, his presence commanding the room with a quiet but undeniable authority. His features were sharp and aristocratic, radiating an elegance that seemed almost effortless. Over his leathers, he wore a tailored cloak of silk and wool, and his dark hair was expertly styled, exuding refinement in every detail.

Beside her, Celestine drew a sharp breath, and the women in the room could not help but lean in closer to catch a glimpse of the knight who seemed to embody every bit of the word handsome.

With a sweeping bow brimming with unwavering confidence and grace, Valentino raised his head to reveal his striking brown eyes, flecked with gold. His presence was noble yet intimidating, his warm smile charismatic—yet calculated, like a tactium master moving his pieces. For a brief moment, his eyes met Celestine's, and he winked.

A collective gasp swept through the room, as though his wink had been meant for each woman present.

With effortless grace, Valentino stepped aside, leaving the room buzzing with admiration.

"Sir Felicius of Sunfire." A tall knight with a balanced, athletic frame came forward. His dark hair caught the light as he moved forward with the lithely, agile grace of a dancer. He bowed, his movements fluid and controlled, though there was a sense of casual elegance in his demeanour. His face was long, with an unusual mixture of soft and hard lines, giving him a warm, lordly appearance. He looked in Saphira's direction, and smiled, his eyes, a pale gold hue, twinkled with wit and vivaciousness.

Saphira could not help but smile back at the knight, A knight of sunshine, she thought, A warmth that seemed to radiate from him.

"Sir Augustus of the Flaxen Fields." At first glance, Augustus' presence was almost unremarkable—just a man of average height. But his platinum blond hair, tousled and almost translucent, fell past his pierced ears, lending him an ethereal, almost mysterious air. His features were finely sculpted, but it was the stillness of his expression—cold, composed—that made him appear as if he belonged elsewhere.

Saphira's gaze dropped to his hands, where the black stains of magic coloured the flesh of his fingers—an unmistakable mark of a magician. His eyes, a piercing grey, locked onto Crassus, and the impending storm of his gaze simmering beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

He gave a brief, curt nod before stepping back into the shadows, his presence lingering long after he had withdrawn.

Saphira shivered. He's someone dangerous, someone to avoid.

"Sir Lysander of Sunfire." The shortest of the knights, he possessed a lithe, nimble frame, his long, braided blonde hair cascading down his back. Silver pendants adorned his pierced ears, catching the light as his vibrant hazel eyes shone with youth and mischief. His bow was a performance in itself—graceful, effortless, and undeniably charming, like an acrobat mid-dance.

Lysander flashed a carefree smile at her half-sisters, Daisy and Primrose, winking playfully as if he had a secret meant just for them, the gesture itself was outrageously flirtatious.

Seemingly against her wishes, Primrose's cheeks flushed red, and she tried to wink back, but all she managed was a strange, unprepared sort of spasm.

Saphira suppressed a snort of laughter.

"Sir Lucian of Yule." The dark-haired knight who stepped forward possessed an effortless, almost haunting beauty. His face was so perfectly symmetrical, so exquisitely sculpted, that it could have belonged to a statue—his high cheekbones, chiselled jaw, and full lips lending him an otherworldly quality. His deep teal eyes glimmered with amusement, the ghost of a self-satisfied smile lingering on his lips, unapologetic in its confidence. His presence was as unsettling as it was magnetic, like a wolf guarding its domain.

Saphira stared in earnest, thinking, Why does he look like he's stepped out of a dream I've forgotten?

"Aurelian of the Ashen Blades, Squire to the Count of Firestone." The knight who stepped forward was barely twenty, yet he was the most muscular of the five before him. Tall and broad-shouldered, his sharp features held a quiet intensity, his expression blank. His dark hair, perpetually tousled, framed his face, and his slate-gray eyes—slightly too wide for his features—stared distantly into the crowd, as if looking at something no one else could see. He lacked the grandeur or grace of the others, but his presence thrummed with barely contained energy, coiled beneath his skin, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Saphira tilted her head, studying the young squire. How could someone so young be so powerful? A flicker of frustration stirred within her. I'm the same age as him, and I can't even hold a sword properly. Absentmindedly, she reached into the air, feeling the static hum of an impending summer storm. Well... I'm not entirely powerless, if worse comes to worse.

Finally, the herald called, "Lord Nocturne, Count of Firestone, and Knight of the Ashen Blades, slayer of Krug the Foul, Ammon the Deceiver, Vandele the Undying, Mara the Temptress—"

Saphira glanced at her sister and breathed a sound of astonishment—four spawnlords, she admired, they kill one spawnlord and that's a good career, kill two and you're a hero, three and you're a legend.

The Herald continued, "—Epialos the Dreamstealer, Zagon the Torturer, and Abraxas the Defiler."

Seven spawnlords, Saphira admired, to hear all their names spoken like that is unbelievable.

Standing at the head of the group, Nocturne commanded the space with a presence that could not be ignored. The tallest of the knights, his broad shoulders and imposing stature made him seem like a figure carved from steel, forged in the fires of war. Midnight-black hair framed his handsomely rugged face, a short dark beard covering his cheeks and jawline.

He wore a cowl that obscured much of his identity, yet the air around him seemed charged with a palpable danger.

A living legend, a hero in the flesh. Saphira thought, but despite his grand reputation, there is something raw, something untameable about him—and I can't look away.

Saphira found herself instinctively leaning away, yet the steady thrum of her pulse betrayed a deeper, more confusing sensation. She could not look away—there was a power in his presence, a mystery in his stillness, that set her heart racing. It's not fear I feel... is it?

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Nocturne bowed curtly, and said with the weight of authority and power, "Greetings, Duke Crassus of Renatus."

Saphira bit her lip, It's impossible to get him out of my mind.

Saphira squeezed her sister's hand, whispering, "He's...unreal."

Celestine did not reply. She simply watched the Ashen Knight with cool indifference.

Crassus declared, "I welcome you and your Knights to my castle, Nocturne, Knight of the Ashen Blades."

A subtle insult, Saphira thought, her father's tone a calculated blade. Lord Nocturne is the Count of Firestone, a title far more important than his knighthood. Yet, Lord Nocturne insults Father in turn by not removing his cowl.

Nocturne, unperturbed, rested a gloved hand on the hilt of the sword at his side, the motion calm yet pointed. Saphira leaned forward slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face beneath the shadowed hood. Celestine's fingers wrapped around the sleeve of her gown, tugging her back with a warning glance.

Crassus, seated upon his elevated throne, leaned lazily against the carved backrest. His lips curved into a faint smile that failed to touch his cold eyes. "Renatus and Firestone share a border, Lord Nocturne, and yet, you were made Count seven years ago, and you have not once made a formal visit to my court. So, tell me, what brings you to my lands now?"

"I know my absence has been noticed, Your Grace. I did not mean it as a slight," Nocturne said cooly, "I have killed five spawnlords in that time—a task which keeps me away from Firestone and the duties of ruling a fief."

Around the Knights, the eyes of the men widened, and the women peeked over each other, trying to catch a glimpse. Nocturne turned, almost addressing the crowd and said, "I am here to formally proclaim that I accept your quest, Your Grace. I will slay the spawnlord called Golgog."

Cheers erupted through the hall, unrestrained and jubilant. Peasants openly wept, their voices raised in cries of relief and hope. The sound grated against the Duke's composure; his fingers curled around the dragon's claw on his cane, knuckles whitening. The smile on his lips grew tighter.

Nocturne lifted his hand, the gesture effortlessly commanding silence. The hall obeyed, the cheer dissolving into an uneasy hush.

The Duke's gaze sharpened like a drawn blade. "I accept your gracious offer to use the services of your Ashen Knights to slay Golgog," he said, voice dripping with an air of mock civility. He gestured idly towards Celestine, and then to Primrose and Daisy. "As my decree proclaims, the man who slays Golgog will marry one of my daughters—and they are all exceptional beauties."

Saphira suppressed a snort, Me? And exceptional beauty? There's a first time for everything.

"Though..." Crassus inquired lightly, with only a slight amount of sarcasm detectible in his tone, "Is your company capable of such a feat?"

"There are no peers of the Ashen Blades. We have no slaves in our ranks—every man who fights is free. We share the treasure we take, and we leave no man behind." Nocturne paused, and said quietly, "Yes, some may fall, but the bards sing their song, so no name is forgotten. Soon, they will be singing the song of our victory over Golgog."

A few scattered cheers rippled through the crowd, but Crassus remained unmoved. His gloved fingers traced the point of his cane in slow, deliberate circles. "That is noble," he said dryly. His tone turned sharp as he slammed the cane against the ground, the crack echoing through the hall. "Now, may good winds guide your hunt into the shadowlands."

Saphira's hands clenched, clutching the fabric of her skirt. Father's words sound less like encouragement and more like a curse.

Nocturne, however, stood his ground, his voice cutting through the tension. "As I said, I accept your quest, but—" he paused, letting the weight of the moment hang in the air, "—I have a condition."

A ripple of unease swept through the room, the festive air turning cold. Saphira leaned forward again, brushing off Celestine's attempt to stop her.

Nocturne's voice rang out like a tolling bell. "I will slay your spawnlord, but first, I will wed my prize—and I will have my wedding night."

The hall erupted in gasps. The Duke's face darkened, his pale complexion hardening. His teeth gleamed in a tight smile as he hissed, "You may say your vows before you leave."

"A marriage left unconsummated is no marriage," Nocturne scolded. "Why the hesitation, your Grace? I know you are aware of how dire the situation is."

Nocturne shifted slightly, angling himself to face the crowd. His voice turned almost casual, but the edge remained. "The Crimson Hunter survived one week in the shadowlands before retreating. The Smiling Knights lasted a single moon before their leader succumbed to thirst. The Breaksblade Company never even reached the spawning lair, overrun by nightspawn two seasons past. Meanwhile, your spawnlord only grows stronger."

"While you are strong, Knight, your Company is small. With two-and-fifty men—"

"We are more than that, Your Grace."

"Nevertheless, perhaps I will contract a larger company. Perhaps the Bone Guard?"

"Then contact them with haste—but I suspect you have already, and their answer is clear." With a shrug, the Nocturne turned again to Crassus and said, "The last sighting of Golgog was a two-day ride from Renatus Castle. Survivors said the spawnlord carried the Obsidian Knight's blade. He takes more of your territory for the shadowlands each day—and I see none behind me lining up to slay him."

Nocturne gestured to the hall with a gloved hand. "Simply put, Your Grace, I have killed more spawnlords than any man—or monster—on this continent. I lead the only company experienced in entering a pit of this size and strength."

The Duke's grip tightened on his cane. "And yet, you expect me to trust that you won't abandon the hunt after claiming your prize? Running to the nearest sanctuary city to piss away the gold with impunity?"

A silence so heavy it felt suffocating fell over the hall. Saphira gripped her skirt, bunching the material into her fists.

Nocturne stepped forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "You can save your gold until I return with Golgog's head. I will only have your daughter now." Nocturne added slyly, "With such reluctance to grant me my simple—and rightful—request as a husband, your Lords may say you are not truly interested in ridding your lands of this pestilence."

Crassus said evenly, "A spawnslayer should know better than to insult a Duke."

"A Duke should know better than to question the honour of a knight. I have given you my word that I will slay this Golgog, as such, you should consider the deed already done." Nocturne said in a way that Saphira could practically hear the smirk in this voice, "I will now speak boldly—you are called 'Duke Silver Tongue' for a reason, and I have no intention of being tricked out of my prize. I will claim my reward first, slay your spawnlord, and then return for my gold."

Crassus said casually, "I could have you killed right here, for such presumption."

"The Mountain Knights of Seven versus your entire castle guard—easy," Nocturne laughed, the words not a threat, but spoken as a fact. He continued, "Do you also forget that my company is camped on your doorstep? They would not be happy if ill fortune befell me or my companions."

"I have no guarantee you will succeed, Knight."

"If I cannot succeed, there is no other soul on this continent who can. There is little to be gained in arguing further with you. My offer is clear—take it or leave it." He nodded his head with due respect. "Thank you for your hospitality. I will take my leave, Your Grace."

Nocturne signalled to his six men, and they rose to leave.

Saphira felt a surge of happiness pass through her as she thought, finally, one who does not cower before my father!

"Stop," Crassus commanded. He glared at Nocturne, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths. Slowly, his gaze swept the room, lingering on his soldiers, his council, and finally his daughters. When his eyes returned to Nocturne, there was no disguising the storm raging behind them.

"Very well," Crassus said, his words biting. "Wed my daughter. But you will not see a single coin of gold until the beast's head lies before me."

Celestine gripped Saphira's sleeve. Saphira pushed her sister away and leaned closer.

"Agreed—only if you swear on the truthstone."

For a delayed moment, Crassus glared at Nocturne before commanding, "Bring out the stone." He said with a smile, "You go first."

In robes of wisping grey, which billowed around him as if it were smoke, the magician Gregor rose from the front row of the hall. He drew back his sleeves to reveal arms as black as coal up to his forearm—it was not a tattoo, but rather, the decay of corruption. He spilled a drop of his blood onto a black, egg-shaped stone, and presented it to the Knight.

Without hesitation, Nocturne removed his right leather glove, laid the bare hand on the stone, and said, "I vow before the Almighty, that if I am given the daughter of Duke Crassus to wed today, I will devote all my efforts to killing Golgog. And, by the grace of the Almighty, I believe I will succeed"

The inky black stone swirled, turning grey, then a deep blue.

Gregor ascended the dais, with whispers of magic following him. He spilled another drop of blood onto the truthstone and held it up for his master.

Crassus lay his hand on the truthstone and said, "I vow before the Almighty that you will wed the daughter of your choosing, and you will have your bedding ceremony. When you return, the daughter you bed shall be waiting for you." The depths of the black stone morphed, turning a shade of light blue.

Crassus waved everyone away and said, "Now go, Knight. We have only a few hours to prepare a wedding feast."

"I would like to see my future wife up close."

"If you must." The Duke's words echoed through the hall, his fingers flicking dismissively as he signalled to the guards at the foot of the dais. They parted with precision, allowing Nocturne to step forward.

Saphira felt her father's piercing gaze sharpen on her, and she instinctively lowered her chin, drawing the folds of her veil closer around her face. I must not seem too curious about him, she thought, her heart quickening. Father would disapprove. Lord Nocturne is a warrior, a man of bloodshed and corruption.

Nocturne's footsteps were slow and deliberate, each stride purposeful as he moved past Daisy and Primrose without so much as a glance. His presence filled the space, pressing in like a gathering storm. The steady thud of his boots against stone was the only sound in the hush that had fallen over the hall.

He was close now, standing above them. The air felt heavier, thick with the scent of ash, leather, and something metallic.

He was not weighed down by armour, only a single pauldron of titanium resting over one shoulder, embossed with a dreadspawn, its monstrous shape crawling up his pauldron with terrifying realism. The rest of him was dressed in reinforced leathers, fitted for both movement and protection. His boots, worn from long rides and rough terrain, did not attempt courtly refinement. A dark cowl shaded his face, and over his jaw, a short beard.

Without a word, Nocturne brushed a garland of rowanberries from his path, his expression tightening slightly at the sharp scent. His shadow fell across the sisters as he halted over them, standing tall and unyielding.

Saphira inhaled, almost excited. He should know better than to approach veiled Ladies so boldly.

"Stand," he commanded, his voice firm and low.

The room gasped in unison, a hushed silence spreading like wildfire. Before Crassus could issue his command to stop, Saphira's body obeyed the command instinctively. Her hands clenched at her sides as she slowly lifted herself, but she kept her chin lowered, her eyes fixed on the worn leather boots that loomed before her.

"Celestine, is that your name?"

"Yes, my Lord," Celestine purred, her voice smooth as silk.

Saphira tensed as Nocturne's boots shifted, moving to stand before her.

Warm leather touched her chin, lifting her face with deliberate pressure. The veil pressed against her skin, blurring her vision as Nocturne tilted her face to the left, then to the right, inspecting her as if she were an object to be appraised. A faint grunt of assessment escaped his lips.

"Your name?" His voice was a low, commanding rasp.

"Lady Saphira," she replied softly, adding, "My Lord."

Nocturne gave no acknowledgment of her submission.

He stepped back, moving toward the Duke's chair, his hand resting briefly on the hilt of his sword as he addressed Crassus with finality: "Duke, as your decree proclaimed, the man who slays Golgog shall marry your daughter. Since you did not specify which daughter..." He paused, the weight of his words hanging in the air. "I shall take your eldest, Lady Saphira. Prepare my feast."

The words struck like a blow, and Saphira's mind spun. A strange lightness bloomed in her chest, and before she could stop herself, a smile tugged at her lips. She glanced at Celestine, her breath quickening, almost giddy with the suddenness of it all.

But Celestine's expression darkened, her eyes narrowing as she turned her face away, crossing her arms. The warmth in Saphira's chest began to dissipate, leaving behind a cold unease. The smile faded from her lips as a creeping chill crawled up her spine.

What has just happened? Saphira thought, anxiety replacing her brief joy. For once, Father is on the back foot.

Crassus remained silent, his jaw clenched as his eyes flickered between his daughters and Nocturne, his mind working behind the heavy silence.

"We will return at sundown for the ceremony," Nocturne said, his voice carrying finality. He gave a polite bow to Crassus, nodding once to his entourage. Without another word, they turned in unison and strode from the hall, the ancient doors slamming shut with a deafening crash.

The coldness within Saphira spread, enveloping her entire body, and she shivered uncontrollably—despite the heat of the room. Her fingers trembled, the enormity of the moment weighing heavily on her.

Celestine's lips remained pressed tight as they waited in silence for Crassus to exit the hall. The sisters followed him in a heavy quiet, and by the time they reached the private chamber, Crassus was already gone.

Celestine turned to Saphira, her voice sharp with venom: "Well, I hope you're happy. You've ruined everything." Without waiting for a reply, she spun on her heels and stormed out of the room.

Before Saphira could let her sister's harsh words—or the events—sink in, a pair of gentle hands took her by the shoulders and guided her away.

"Come now, Lady Saphira," Matron Helena's voice was soft, warm with reassurance. "We need to get you ready for your wedding."