Chapter 8

SONG VIBE: Pied Piper - BTS

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SAPHIRA

Inner Keep, Castle Renatus

A thunderous crack split the night, rolling through the darkness as jagged purple lightning tore across the sky. Then, the heavens opened, and heavy, searing drops of rain pelted the castle.

Sitting by the open window in her tower, Saphira let the rain pelt down on her hand. She closed her eyes, savouring the cool relief as the day’s humidity broke. But the sensation brought no peace. She could still feel Celestine’s oil on her skin, an ache of desire that only deepened the longing in her spirit—longing for freedom that could never be hers.

As the rain dripped down her veil, Saphira thought bitterly, Father will never let me marry. I’m a prisoner, bound in chains I can’t see—until I die.

The air tingled around her, the hairs on her arms rising. When lightning struck, she felt it in her fingertips, an invitation to command the storm, to release its fury. She wanted to bring the storm down upon the Great Hall where Daisy lay—where her husband lay—in blissful ignorance of her pain.

Disgust twisted inside her. I’m not angry with Nocturne—how could he know Daisy isn’t me under the veil? Disappointment gnawed at Saphira’s heart. I should have shared what Celestine told me. I had my chance to warn him, but I wasn’t strong enough.

She ripped off her veil and tossed it on the ground. I hate this stupid thing. It’s made me into a liar.

There were no tears—only the numbness of impending resignation. She undid the outer layer of her wedding dress and wriggled out, shivering as she removed the heavy, bustling petticoat underneath. The clothes landed with a resounding plonk.

Saphira gasped. Aurelian’s stone!

Carefully retrieving the stone from her pocket, she polished it with the palm of her hand and set it on her windowsill. This may be my only proof that this wedding ever happened.

She slipped into a summer dress of thin white silk and again approached the window to latch it shut.

Outside, Saphira saw wards Gregor personally etched into the stone, protecting her from any intruder. Not even Zephyr, the great Smuggler King, could sneak me out of these walls, she sighed wistfully, remembering the press of Nocturne’s body against her as they rode together.

And yet, I feel as though my heart has been stolen.

Lightning struck again, followed by a rumble that rattled the glass in its frame. A shadow on the rooftops caught Saphira by surprise. The shadow moved with surprising speed and agility, pouncing from one handhold to another.

She shook her head and blinked; purple lightning streaked through the skies again.

A nightspawn could not have got past the gates, guards, and wards, she thought, perhaps it was a shadowcat.

Saphira glanced at the locked door—with the pounding rain, the guards would not hear her scream for help, and if she did, they would take too long to run up the stairs with the key.

Inhaling, Saphira peeked outside the window, taking the full force of the rain pelting down. She could see a large, dark figure clinging to the side of her tower.

Gregor’s wards keep even the birds away, Saphira thought. No one can come up here.

She wanted to peek again, but her racing heart stopped her. She decided, No mere mortal could scale the tower, and certainly not in this weather.

Under the roar of the rain, she heard scraping under her window.

She froze—but only for a moment.

Grabbing her sewing knife, she pressed her back to the wall near the window, waiting with her breath held tight in her lungs. Enormous fingers slid onto the windowsill and gripped, pulling.

A hooded figure slipped onto her windowsill and vaulted into her room, wearing wet black leathers from which water streamed onto the floor.

Saphira held out her knife to the figure’s back and declared, “Hands where I can see them.”

The figure held up their large hands. In an eyeblink, he spun around, grasped Saphira’s forearm and squeezed. She yelped and dropped the knife.

The air pulsed with the energy from an imminent lightning strike; Saphira felt the same tingling sensation in her free hand, calling to her. She responded, not pulling so much as yanking at the threads of magic.

Purple lightning formed in her free hand, crackling and flickering with raw power and potential, lighting the room in wild surges of white and purple. She moved her hand to shove the ball of lightning into the intruder’s torso, feeling the intoxicating pull of holding so much power.

For a single moment, the power flowed into her veins under her control—and then it was not—surging into every part of Saphira. White hot tendrils of agony shot up Saphira’s arm, into her shoulder, moving towards her heart, her lungs, her head; she cried out in terror.

The intruder grasped Saphira’s hand, covering it with his palm, and drawing the lightning out from her body and into his. He pointed his fingers out of the window. The lightning redirected, shooting out from his fingers and into the night sky, cracking over the tower with a deafening crash.

image [https://img.wattpad.com/9cf2306578f9c66a3be0256ce50c4e8c72ca2fa1/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f54657437536c746a5048337268413d3d2d313535303233393933342e313834633234396264643863663039313233393737373437303731322e706e67]

Above: Nocturne dispels the lightning

[This is just for vibes and not a totally accurate depiction. AI-generated image]

Slowly, he lowered their hands and growled, “Is that how you greet your husband?”

Where the lightning had pathed through her, Saphira could still feel the tingling warmth where it had threatened to burn her.

She exhaled. “My…husband?”

Nocturne picked up her sewing knife from the ground and handed it back to her, hilt first, saying, “So you feel the pull of magic? No wonder why Crassus hides you away.”

Placing the knife aside, Saphira felt the shock of the intrusion subside; in its place, a giddiness overtook her, underpinned by the warmth pulsing from within her core.

She demanded, “How did you do that?”

“Dispel you?” He shrugged, eyes searching the room. “A basic skill needed to fight spawnlords. Although—” he laughed, “—not even August risks lightning magic. If I weren’t here, it would have consumed you.”

“My guards will be here any second. The tower is warded.”

“You mean those wards outside the window? Remember, I can dispel anything.” With a smile, he stepped around the room, spreading his watery outline of his boots all over the floor. “Your guards are near the door. One of them is asleep as he stands. You did not sound the alarm.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“How do you know that?”

He touched his earlobe with the tip of his finger. He continued observing her room—her discarded wedding dress, her half-finished embroidery still on the hoop, before taking particular interest in the bookshelf.

Despite his height and size, he treaded quietly to the books, his hand running softly over the spines as he read the titles. “For a noblewoman, you have a distinct lack of poetry. Is Arden Everflame not to your liking?”

Saphira said with an eye roll, “All passion and heartbreak, with very little substance.”

He mused, “On the Body and the Soul, and The Golden Paradox? Pity I don’t have time to stay. But you do have good taste in philosophy. Brother Thrane is a remarkable new talent. Niveus is my favourite.”

Saphira scoffed, “Niveus overemphasises the role of the body and not the spirit.”

“Then I’m guilty.” Nocturne stopped at Saphira’s sketchbook and sniffed the air, saying, “The scent of magic is strong in this room.” His hands stopped, touching the hidden cache that contained the secret compartment in Saphira’s bookshelf.

He smiled, saying, “Strong here.” He moved closer to Saphira, sniffing the air around her, “And the strongest here.”

Crossing her arms, she complained, “Can you hurry up and leave? I have a busy day full of doing nothing tomorrow, so I shall want to make sure I’m well rested.”

He paused, looking Saphira up and down, a look of disbelief set on his expression. Then, his eyebrows softened and he responded lightly, “Go on, call the guards,” he invited, “Ring the bell—they won’t hear you scream over this storm.”

Saphira crossed her arms. “You won’t kill me.”

He lowered his chin. “It would be easy.”

“You vowed to protect me.”

With a wink, he looked at her discarded veil and said, “Is this my own personal parade?”

Saphira felt warmth spread over her cheeks; she tried hard to continue looking at the knight, but without a veil, she felt almost naked. She muttered, “A Lady’s husband should be the first man to see her unveiled.”

“And I am your first?”

Saphira nodded.

“I do not understand you Renatii.” Nocturne paused, contemplating the moment. Then, his hand came to rest on the dagger at his belt.

Panicked, Saphira did the first thing that came to mind—she fell to her knees and curtsied, and she despised herself. This was my last resort when my father was angry—and now I try to appease my husband already.

Nocturne said, “What are you doing? Get up.”

Saphira rolled onto her back and lay unmoving on the floor. She looked up at Nocturne. “You cannot imagine how boring it is being trapped up in here. You were supposed to choose Celestine—now father will never let me out of here.” She closed her purple eyes, crossed her arms over her chest as if lying dead in a coffin. “Hurry. A quick death is far more preferable.”

A crash of thunder rumbled her chamber.

She opened one eye. “Come on then, I’m sure you know how to use a sword. Just make sure it is sharp. I would hate for you to strain yourself stabbing me too much.”

He took his hand off the knife’s hilt. “I’m not here to kill you, although, I’m sure you could give me a good fight.”

“A good fight?” Saphira sat up, raising one eyebrow. “My Lord, I would demolish you. I thought only to spare your dignity.”

“How very considerate. Now—” he said, “—I have a message.”

“If we are to talk, then it is rude for you to be dripping all over my carpets.” Saphira reached upwards and pulled the cowl from his face, and drew the cloak from his shoulders

A wild sort of excitement filled her as her hands graced his shoulders; she had never been alone with a man unrelated to her, let alone stole a lingering touch. She hovered close to him, scenting the wild, masculine smell on him.

As Saphira hung his coat up over the fireplace, she thought, So different to the endless stench of rowanberries.

She turned to see his face—for the first time without a cowl shadowing his features. His hair was jet black, long enough to be tied back into a warrior’s knot. His eyes were a vibrant umber, and he had a closely shaved beard. His left earlobe was pierced with a single obsidian stud, and the hole of an old piercing on his right ear. The side of his top lip was split, but he did not look menacing, instead, it gave him a permanent smirk.

He said, “Done staring?”

“You don’t let people see your face often, do you?”

“A trait we both have in common.”

“Sit,” Saphira commanded, seating him in a drawing chair. She sat beside his feet and unlaced his leather boots. With an almighty tug, she pulled the large boots off and set them aside.

With a bemused smile, he asked, “What now?”

“I want to talk. I must clear up a few things.” She sat in the armchair beside him and drew a deep breath. “You must have figured it out by now—it was not me in the wedding chamber. It was my half-sister, Daisy. She’s my father’s bastard daughter. I do not consider your wedding vows broken—you had never seen my face unveiled. I wouldn’t have made vows if I had known my father intended to cheat you.”

She paused, carefully watching his stoic expression. “I’m sorry you had to bed Daisy. Although you’re a spawnslayer, you’ve had much practise with her type.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I’ll have to ask Val about his experience with a nightspawn—” he winked, sending a shiver over Saphira, “—I switched places with him before the bedding.”

Elation surged through Saphira, and she resisted the urge to throw herself into his arms. “The mirror—it was a distraction! How did you know where to find me?” Almost instinctively, she looked to the stone—feeling the tiniest thread of shy, uncertain magic.

She let out a little laugh, feeling her excitement grow. “What a gift, indeed! Gregor would be on the hunt for Augustus’ energy, but to think Aurelian can cast magic too?”

“Clever girl,” he purred, pulling out his knife, “it really is a shame.”

Saphira froze. Nocturne held the knife out, pointing it at her. Then, he placed the knife—slowly, purposefully—on the mantlepiece, his gaze not leaving Saphira for a moment. “This is a message for your father. Tell him he is Duke Silver Tongue, indeed.”

Saphira dared, “And if I don’t tell him? I could throw the dagger out the window.”

Nocturne paused, looking her up and down. “Why would you go to all the trouble? He’ll know someone disabled the wards.”

Her voice grew bolder. “I’ve never been good at doing what I was told.” Saphira swallowed the lump in her throat. “If Father finds out you were here, with me, alone…he’ll never let me out. Ever.”

“Do what you think is best.” Gathering his cloak and shoes, he said, “I take my leave, my Lady.”

Standing, Saphira caught his sleeve and whispered, “Please, don’t go.”

“As delightful as your company is, I have a spawnlord to slay.”

“You’ll really slay Golgog? Even though you have been tricked?”

Nocturne shrugged. “I swore on a truthstone.”

“But my father cheated you.”

“I knew he would,” he growled, almost annoyed, “but one of us is a man of their word.”

Saphira searched for the threads of magic that pooled around her voice. She pulled on them, as she commanded desperately, “Take me with you.”

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, dark and knowing. He reached out, tapping a gloved finger gently against her forehead. “You can’t cast magic on me.”

“Please…” Her hands clenched at her sides. “I want to leave this place. I need to.”

Nocturne’s gaze softened. “My Lady,” he said, his voice laced with patience. He gestured to the window, his face lighting up as lightning cracked across the sky. “Not even I could carry you down in this weather.”

A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed hard. “Then stay,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing pink, “at least until you have un-braided my hair.”

Nocturne arched a brow. “As fascinating as your vila hair is, I—”

“I have never unbraided my hair before a man,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to be my first.”

Surprise flickered across his face. He exhaled slowly, studying her for a moment before giving a small shrug. “Very well. Unbraid your hair.”

Saphira blinked, watching him in silence. He’s serious.

Heat flooded her face. “I… that’s not how—”

She shut her mouth, realising, He took my words literally.

Nocturne gestured toward her. “Well? Go on, then.”

Saphira pressed her hand to her mouth, her mortification growing. “That’s… not how it works.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t see how it could be complicated.”

She shook her head. “It’s just—not something a woman does in front of a man unless…you know…”

Nocturne tilted his head slightly, waiting for her to continue, finding amusement in her discomfort.

Saphira inhaled sharply, “It’s a Renatii tradition for the wedding night. Only married women can wear their hair down. Please.”

Nocturne held her gaze for a long moment, then, without a word, took her hand. His grip was warm and firm, calming the nervous energy coursing through her. He led her toward the fireplace, where the flames cast a flickering glow against the stone walls.

Sitting in the armchair, Nocturne guided her to sit in the space between his legs. Slowly, he pulled off his gloves and set them aside, flexing his bare fingers before reaching for her.

Saphira’s breath hitched as his calloused fingertips traced the intricate knots of her braid. He could crush me with those hands… but he’s careful not to tug a single strand.

His touch was unhurried, patient—gentle, handling her as if she were someone precious, someone worth taking his time with, Someone he could love.

Piece by piece, the braid in her thick, pale purple hair unravelled beneath his hands, strands slipping free, cascading down to the small of her back.

She saw how the candlelight illuminated his stern features, how his scent—smoky, like charred cedarwood; spicy like pepper and saffron—filled the space around her.

I thought that when this moment came, it would be ceremonial, impersonal. But it’s not.

image [https://img.wattpad.com/56c99d19f03b99cbb5aa83e32321321d158408d8/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f61357763454c33734a4e73476f413d3d2d313535303233313230362e313834626665646439343839343635393834383733393336393934392e706e67]

Above: "I thought that when this moment came, it would be ceremonial, impersonal. But it’s not."

[This is just for vibes and not a totally accurate depiction. AI-generated image]

Saphira closed her eyes and let him break down the last of her walls. She felt warmth bloom in her chest, spreading lower, twisting into something she could no longer ignore.

She admitted what she had thought from the moment she saw him—he’s wildly handsome, and I want him. All of him. She bit her lip, hoping, Does he want me too?

The final strands slipped free, spilling down her waist.