Song vibe: Agust D – Interlude: Shadow

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  SAPHIRA

  The Dungeons, Firestone

  Quintus recoiled. “I’m not touching a filthy Hyland artifact—”

  August remained silent as he caught the old man’s wrist, slammed his palm flat against the table, and raised the knife.

  The truthstone flared, its veins swirling like fire beneath ice.

  Saphira’s pulse thudded against her amulet. Don’t look away. Don’t flinch. Don’t cry.

  “Stop!” Quintus wheezed, the fight draining from his voice. "Fine...I'll repeat it." He grasped the bloody stone, muttering his words again.

  Above: August interrogates Quintus with the truthstone.

  The stone shimmered—and turned blue.

  “If you had no help,” August said evenly, “then explain the rest in the vault: the blood, the wards, the ledgers, the Renatii gold.” His eyes flicked to Saphira, measuring her reaction before he added, “—the notes.”

  Quintus frowned, confusion creasing his face. “The gold in my vault—that’s Firestone’s. My records are meticulous. No one else had access. Everything else…” He shook his head, hand trembling on the stone. “No. You’re twisting things, trying to make me confess to deeds I never committed.”

  The stone stayed blue.

  He’s telling the truth. Saphira’s pulse quickened. Then how did the blood get there? Who set the ward? The questions must be exact—my father managed to trick the truthstone when he promised Nocturne his daughter's hand in marriage.

  August did not falter. “Then who placed the ward? You had mages under your command. Name them.”

  “The only wards in Firestone are yours. You’re setting me up. I won’t take the bait,” Quintus said, watching the stone turn blue.

  Lysander leaned forward. His hazel eyes glinted, too bright for the gloom, always searching, always measuring. “Have you had any contact with Crassus or Hyland—personally or through an intermediary?”

  “No.” The stone glowed blue.

  “And do you know of anyone inside Firestone who wishes Lady Saphira harm?”

  “Yes,” Quintus said. “Many servants are restless. Many in the clans are displeased. But as for my work—” He paused. “I had no help.”

  “No one?” Saphira pressed. “Not Selwyn? Not Gorda? No servants?”

  “My work was mine alone,” Quintus said, then faltered. “You may not understand family loyalty, but it is this: I would never endanger my blood. I’ve done everything for my clan’s good. If there’s wrongdoing, let Lord Nocturne judge me—but leave my family alone. They are innocent. Even my fool of a nephew.”

  The stone glowed blue, flickered, and went dull grey—dead.

  August sliced his palm again, letting fresh blood fall. The veins pulsed weakly back to life. “Confirm what you kept in the vault—and what you knew was there.”

  “Gold and ledgers,” Quintus said hoarsely. “A few crates—furniture, torches, oil. That’s all.”

  Lysander slid a stack of papers across the table. “Look at these. Are they yours? Can you read them?”

  Quintus blinked. “No. I’ve never seen them before. I can’t read that script.”

  Someone’s setting him up, Saphira thought. Or something else has used him.

  Lysander’s eyes narrowed. “And what of Felix? Did you ever intend to let him inherit the Sunburst Chair?”

  “Without doubt.”

  The stone flared red.

  August’s blade flashed. Saphira smelt blood before she saw it. Her heart stumbled—but her eyes stayed open.

  Quintus’ index finger bounced across the floor.

  His scream tore through the chamber, echoing against the stone.

  For a heartbeat, the sound was not his—it was her mother’s, the last cry before the silence in that cave. Nausea rose; her vision blurred. She fixed her gaze on Rell instead.

  He stood by the wall, unmoving, the hilt of his knife turning slowly between his fingers—up and down, up and down. His eyes met hers, steady, unflinching. It was deliberate—his rhythm measured, unhurried—soothing her, warning Quintus.

  Rell smiled at her, a lazy quirk in the corner of his lips—but it was enough. Saphira drew a breath and matched her breathing to the movement of his hands. The thump of the steel hilt over Rell’s fingers drowned out the sobs.

  “A scribe’s hand is a waste to ruin,” August said quietly. “It’s like cutting out the tongue of a singer.”

  Violence is his tool, nothing more. August isn’t Crassus—he doesn’t enjoy it.

  “You… you m-monster…” Quintus gasped, blood oozing from the stump. He wrapped the wound in his cloak, his breath a wheeze. “I’ll n-never... never hold a quill—”

  “To think,” August murmured, wiping the blade clean, “you’d lose a finger for such a pointless lie—after being so helpful. Shame. You’ll have to learn to write with your left.” He tossed the bloodied rag at Quintus. “Clean it. I’m not done.”

  The old man pressed the cloth to his hand, trembling.

  August’s gaze flicked to Lysander—brief, measuring, approving. For once, Lysander did not smirk. His expression held still, sharpened by focus rather than charm.

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  “When you’re ready,” Lysander said evenly, “answer my question—truthfully, this time.”

  For a moment, pity pricked at Saphira—he looked so small, so human. Then she remembered Dusty’s wound, the stolen gold. Evil could look harmless. August warned him, she thought. He chose the lie.

  Quintus’ hand shook, though his voice steadied. “Felix… h-he was bound to die in a spawnpit.” His words came ragged, between shallow breaths. “The Sunfires didn’t need another..." he winced in pain "Another young fool running to his death. But after eight spawnpits, h-he lived. What’s best for my clan—a boy with dreams, or a man who’s seen the cost of them?”

  “Felix is the rightful heir,” Lysander snapped. “Did you try to kill him? Try to kill anyone?”

  “I’ve never plotted murder.” Quintus swallowed hard, clutching the rag over his finger stump, while he kept his palm on the blue stone. “Selwyn wanted his daughter—Lady Gorda—married to Felix. To strengthen the clan. Nocturne thought otherwise. He gave his friend a match of the heart.” He looked up, expression hardening. “Nocturne should have done the right thing—married Gorda himself. Bound his heirs to the Mountain blood.” His gaze flickered over to Saphira, full of venom. “Instead, he was bewitched by his foreign woman.”

  The stone flickered blue.

  He truly believes it, Saphira gasped, that I bewitched Nocturne. What did I do to deserve such hate?

  “Have you used magic, or ordered anyone to?” Lysander asked.

  “Magic?” Quintus gave a rasp of laughter. “No. That’s a c-coward’s weapon. Corruption draws corruption.” His gaze slid to August, defiant. “Will that cost me another finger?”

  Saphira let the silence stretch. The torchlight flickered against the wall; she could hear her own pulse over Quintus’s ragged breath. He still thinks he’s in control—after all this.

  Her voice dropped to ice. “Did you poison my tea with snakeroot? Arrange the beam to fall in the Great Hall?”

  "No.” He laughed, hoarse from too long without rest. “Though I c-could accuse you of the same. That creature of yours—since you came, people have gone missing in Hart Village.” He shook his head slowly. “My... my memory isn’t what it was. It began when you arrived. You are the poison in this keep, Lady Saphira.”

  Rell growled; his thumb settling on the hilt of his sword.

  “I’ve heard enough,” Saphira said, gathering her skirts.

  Rell offered his hand to help her stand; she felt the faint squeeze—a promise of steadiness.

  “Your life is spared—for now,” she said to Quintus. “But you’ll remain under lock and key—for your own safety—until my husband returns to pass judgment.” She turned to August. “He’s yours, Sir Augustus. I’ll send Verity down to clean up… whatever mess you leave.”

  “As you command, my Lady,” August said, his mouth twitching in a faint smile.

  Rell cast Quintus one last look—half warning, half promise—and then he followed after her.

  When the door closed behind them, they walked in silence until the echoes of Quintus’ voice faded.

  Almighty have mercy on you, Nocturne. The easy part is finding a man guilty—the hard part is swinging the sword. I don’t envy the weight on your shoulders—though I wish I could bear some of it for you.

  Saphira exhaled, the tremor in her chest finally surfacing, and she leaned into Rell. His hold was firm—brotherly. For a moment, she let herself rest, forehead to his shoulder.

  Before the embrace could linger, he eased back.

  Above: Rell comforts Saphira.

  They climbed the last steps in silence, the torchlight dimming behind them, though her pulse still drummed in her ears. The smell of blood still clung to her cloak as they climbed; the warmth of the upper halls felt almost unreal.

  “Can’t call you Saphricot anymore.” Rell let out a breath. “Not after hearing you talk in there. Lady Venom fits better.”

  She shoved his shoulder. “Don’t you dare.”

  “So, you’re saying you prefer Saphricot?”

  “I’ve accepted it,” she said. “That’s not the same thing.”

  Warmth coursed through her as she laughed with Rell. After what I’ve just witnessed, this is exactly what I need. Rell…you’re far more clever than what you let anyone see.

  As they stepped into the corridor, she said quietly, “I’m going to have to go to afternoon tea with Marigold, Lady Astra… and Lady Gorda. I’ll have to pretend everything is fine.” She looked up at Rell. “But it’s not, is it? What if Gorda knew? What if she was—”

  “Gorda the Beauty? Aiding her uncle?” Rell snorted. “The stone would’ve turned red, Saph.”

  “I’m going to question her—subtly, gently,” Saphira whispered. “I’ll need you there, Rell. Just in case.”

  His expression darkened, deadly serious, as he nodded once, resolute. “I’ll stay close. One word from you—one look—and I’ll shed blood for you.”

  “I know,” she murmured. “But I’d never ask you to.”

  “But I would,” he said. “Saph… you could’ve thrown me out of the keep. Maybe Nox would’ve flogged me—and fye, I deserved it for being an idiot.” He paused, scratching at the tattoo climbing up his neck. “Nox is lucky. Real lucky.” He pushed open the door, holding it for her. “Luck like that doesn’t come often. I’ll do whatever I can to help you both hold on to it.”

  Saphira smiled faintly. The worst pain is when the broken bone is being reset. And now… we’re close to healing.

  Inside the Solar, Felix sat with Verity, their voices low, the air still humming with the weight of what had been done below.

  Verity slid a cup of fragrant tea across the table. “Lavender and chamomile—for your nerves.”

  Saphira nodded once. “Thank you. Now, bring your tools and go to the dungeons. Knock once. August will call you in when he’s ready.” She hesitated, her tone soft but unwavering. “Make sure Quintus stays alive. But… don’t try to stitch the finger back.”

  Verity’s emerald eyes widened behind her spectacles. She curtsied and hurried out, skirts whispering over the flagstones.

  Felix exhaled. “Almighty, August went too far, didn’t he?”

  “Not far enough,” Rell said, dragging out a chair for Saphira.

  She sat and lifted the teacup, the scent of lavender soothing her. “Quintus confessed to keeping the vault and skimming the gold. Every other answer—the stone stayed blue. Except one.” Her gaze found Felix’s. “He never meant for you to inherit.”

  Felix’s mouth curved into a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. He rolled the glass between his palms, the motion slow, thoughtful, until the light caught on the faint scar beneath his jaw. The golden flecks in his eyes dulled to bronze.

  “That wrinkled old ‘spawnling.” Rell poured himself a dash of Nocturne’s gin and leaned against the wall. “Hoped we’d all die in some spawnpit. By the pits, Sunshine, how’d you get stuck with such a charming family?”

  “Selwyn is coming to Firestone," Felix murmured. "I was meant to strip him of command today.” He exhaled softly, the sound somewhere between weariness and restraint. “He’ll know something’s happened to Quintus—he’ll—”

  “He’ll obey,” Saphira interrupted gently. “He won’t have a choice. Without Quintus, Selwyn loses his influence. His voice in the Wardens.”

  “Worse.” Felix nodded slowly. “The Wardens won’t take kindly to being deceived. Selwyn only held the seat because he promised it was temporary.”

  Saphira sipped her tea, the floral calm holding back the storm rising behind her ribs. “The Mountain ladies are coming for morning tea—Marigold arranged it. Gorda will be among them.” She set the cup down. “You’re her cousin—you know her best. Is there any chance she’s involved?”

  Felix’s eyes lifted, tired but clear. “Gorda was seven when I was born—already living here. She’s been the highest-ranking Lady in Firestone for years. And it’s no secret she doesn’t like you.”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “Nox accepted a cup of her wine at the last Sowing Festival. She took it as a proposal. He’s been paying for that politeness ever since. She has reason to despise you, yes—but not the wit or the art for this.”

  He paused, glancing toward the window where dawn bled pale gold across the peaks. “The Yule clan, though… they’re known for their gifts. Astra Yule’s a seer—trained Lucian’s mother herself. But the assassin?” His voice stayed even, but his thumb rubbed over the edge of the cup, tracing circles as though calming himself. “It’s a gut feeling—but I think it’s an outsider. We mountain folk don’t deal in poison and shadows—we’ve got too much pride, and no tolerance for cowards.”

  “Someone’s wearing a mask." Saphira’s fingers tightened around her cup. "We’re closing in—and desperate people do foolish things.”

  “Foolish?” Felix shook his head. “Dangerous. A cornered dog always bites. That’s what keeps me up—and why I keep my swords by the bed.”

  Saphira looked at Rell, sipping his drink and watching her over the rim. Calm. Fearless. Loyal to the death. He’d die before letting harm reach me—die before betraying Nocturne. No wonder Nocturne trusts him.

  Outside, the wind howled down from the peaks, rattling the shutters. Something in the air had shifted—an unease that whispered through the stone itself. Firestone was waiting, bracing for the blow it did not yet see coming.

  And when it fell, Saphira knew one thing with certainty: Rell will keep me alive.

  Did you call it from the start that Quintus was up to no good?