Song vibe: UGH! – BTS

  __________

  NOCTURNE

  Castellum Luminaris, Lux

  The city of Lux glittered beneath a violet shroud of twilight, its marble spires spearing the darkening sky like pale fingers reaching for the stars. From the high balcony of the council chamber, Nocturne stood unmoving—an obsidian figure against the dying light—his umber eyes fixed on the vast cityscape below.

  The air smelled of smoke and spice, warm and heavy. He longed instead for Firestone’s clean mountain air—steam from the hot springs, pine resin, his wife soft against his chest.

  You’ve grown sentimental, he chided himself. That weakness won’t serve you now.

  He had washed, shaved, and dressed for the king, but the road was still in him—the ache in his shoulders, the dust caught in his cloak’s seams. His body obeyed the ritual of readiness; his bones did not.

  Valentino stood beside Nocturne, perfectly groomed, not a single indication that he spent the last three weeks in a saddle, sleeping rough, killing nightspawn.

  Val and I play dress-ups while Luce lies abed, Nocturne thought, the faintest curve at his mouth. Then the humour died. Lucian’s arms were black—the cost of bringing three minds into one dream, of soothing her nightmares. Let him rest. He’ll need his strength tonight.

  He stripped off his travelling cloak, then his gloves. A servant moved to collect them, but he shook his head and dismissed him.

  “Edwin is on his way,” Valentino murmured, taking Nocturne’s cloak. “No weapons before the king.”

  With measured precision, Nocturne began to disarm. The knife at his thigh, the hidden blade at his forearm—each placed into Valentino’s waiting hands. Last came the belt and Shadowrend.

  “Edwin’s loaned us a Silvark,” Valentino added. “Shall I send word to Firestone—let them know we’re aware of the missing letters?”

  “Saphira knows. She’ll have told Felix.” Felix, you bastard, Nocturne thought with reluctant fondness. Finally stepping up as heir. “He’ll handle it quietly.”

  “Felix has enough burdens already,” Valentino mused. “My guess? Lysander will set a trap—beautifully brutal, as always. August will scorch the rest, and Rell will throw himself into whatever scheme they devise.”

  Hearing Rell’s name, Nocturne ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek. The boy I hauled from a spawnpit—nine years old, half-wild, left for dead—my son in all but name. He’d never disrespect me—let alone with my wife. His fingers twitched. Damn you, Angelica. I won’t let your venom sink in now.

  “Thinking about Rell, aren’t you?” Valentino murmured knowingly. “You always get that twitch when you’re irritated. Look, Rell may let his thoughts run, but he’d rein them in before acting. I wouldn’t fear his betrayal. What I’d worry about are the rumours. Best to use Crassus’ lies against him—if Firestone knows you’d never kidnap or rape, then any gossip about Saphira falls flat. Tell Lye to exploit it.”

  “Rumours. Daggers. Politics,” Nocturne muttered. “I hate them all. You, though—you thrive on it.” He clasped Valentino’s shoulder. “Times like this, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Crassus plays mean; I play smart.” Valentino’s mask slipped for a heartbeat, courtly grace replaced by something more honest. “About my request—may I have leave to look for Celestine?”

  “Quietly, Val. A few inquiries only. Don’t endanger the Conclave.”

  “I know her seamstress,” Valentino said. “A two-year wait for her needle. If I commission dresses for Lady Saphira under that pretext, she might tell me something.”

  “Very well,” Nocturne conceded. “But nothing too Luxian. She’s to look like my wife.”

  “Of course.” Valentino bowed, a faint smile playing at his lips. “She’ll look beautiful in indigo—don’t you think?”

  He wears the mask too easily, Nocturne thought as the door shut behind him. Celestine is gone, and he’s the only one who doesn’t know it. He chose politics over the girl—and now he bears the cost.

  Nocturne crossed to the table, poured a half glass of brandy, and drank—the liquor stinging his throat. I chose the girl over politics—and this is my cost: Edwin breathing down my neck, Crassus tarnishing my name, Firestone at the front lines.

  He grimaced. Nasty Luxian liquor. He poured another. I understand why Edwin didn’t want me to get attached. But I did. What did he expect when he ordered me to make vows to a woman? Nocturne threw the brandy down his throat, but it did nothing to dull the ache inside him. I’d have annulled our vows if she hadn't wanted to consummate it. But Saphira... He closed his eyes, the ghost of her strawberry-sweet kiss cutting through the bitterness. Fye. Focus.

  Bootsteps echoed down the marble hall—measured, familiar, like an old rhythm he had learned to dread. Nocturne straightened. Edwin. He took me under his wing after I killed my first spawnlord, Krug. After Mara, he knighted me. Then, he made me Count of Firestone—and now, this mess. Nocturne gritted his teeth. Why does it always come back to him? I don’t owe him anything.

  The heavy oak doors groaned open behind him, and Edwin strode in. A seasoned statesman with short dark hair and the poised grace of a predator, the king carried a faint smirk that made him look younger than his fifty-five years. His doublet bore the crest of Lux—a blazing sun against burgundy—and the gold embroidery caught the firelight like hungry tongues of flame.

  But it was his eyes that held Nocturne—rich copper, warm at first glance, yet shadowed with something cold. The warmth doesn’t hide it, Nocturne thought. These are a killer’s eyes—the eyes of a man who’s seen a spawnpit and lived to tell it.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Above: King Edwin.

  “You’ve got nerves of steel, Nocturne,” Edwin said, tone balanced between humour and reproach. He closed the distance between them until they stood eye to eye—two tall figures, neither inclined to bow. “Coming here after ignoring my orders. Bold.”

  “This has gone too far,” he replied, his voice clipped, the soldier addressing an equal. “We all nearly died in Golgog’s pit. And Saphira…” His jaw locked.

  “Ah, your wife,” Edwin drawled, resting an arm against the balcony rail. The word landed with deliberate weight—half mockery, half intrigue. “She must be extraordinary to melt such a cold heart. But perhaps—” his eyes gleamed, “—she’s more like her father than you’d care to admit.”

  Nocturne’s expression hardened. Edwin caught the shift and smiled faintly.

  “I’ve killed three spawnlords in my time,” the king mused, the sharp edge never leaving his voice. “And I know at my age, I know I'll never get a woman with child. You’ve killed nearly threefold. Her pregnancy should have been impossible.”

  “I dug the grave myself, Edwin, so—” the warning came out as a growl, “—don’t.”

  “I see,” Edwin breathed. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

  Edwin’s hand came to rest on Nocturne’s shoulder, firm and fatherly. Silence settled between them—the hum of the city below filling the space.

  “The child was mine, Edwin,” Nocturne said quietly, touching the place where he once wore the bracelet of her purple hair. “She was faithful to me. I knew for certain.”

  Edwin nodded, eyes unreadable. Then, turning to the table, he poured two glasses of brandy, the light catching the liquid like molten gold.

  “For those you’ve lost,” he said, lifting his glass. “And for the ones yet to be avenged.”

  Nocturne raised his and drained it in silence.

  Above: “For those you’ve lost... and for the ones yet to be avenged.”

  “Crassus has brought charges against you,” Edwin said, setting his glass down. “Kidnap. Rape. He’s calling for your execution. It would have been easier if you’d left her untouched—you’d be blameless. The hero denied his prize. The dukes would rally behind the story. But now…” He exhaled. “Now we pivot. The death of a child—personal, tragic. It can unite the dukes. It can rally the people.”

  “I’ll say this only once,” Nocturne growled. “I will never use my child’s death as a rally cry.”

  “This is justice, Nocturne—”

  “Luxian justice is worthless.” He flung the words off the balcony. “Crassus will pay when the time comes. And if he wants my wife, he’ll have to take her with steel and fire.”

  “There,” Edwin murmured, almost pleased. “That’s the Ashen Knight I need. You're saying he pushed his own daughter off the city walls. At the Conclave, I need you to look Crassus in the eye with that fire, and tell them just that."

  Nocturne’s fingers tightened around the glass. “I’d rather drive a blade through his throat. But you seem determined to keep his head attached.”

  “And that is why you’re not a king.” Edwin’s tone turned patient, almost fatherly. “You think like a soldier—win the battle, leave a ruin. But someone must rule the ruin.”

  “You, apparently.”

  A flicker of amusement crossed Edwin’s face. “If there’s enough pressure, Crassus can heel. Hyland can be held at bay. And that’s what this scheme is designed to do." He paused, sombre. "But if the two join forces, the Central Alliance will fall. I need all the dukes behind me if that happens.”

  “If?”

  “If,” Edwin confirmed. "I wanted the threat of war, not actual war. But, if it comes to it, we're ready. I'd rather keep Crassus alive. If he dies, it will only further push Renatus to Hyland. Golgog wiped out the Renatii lords sympathetic to Lux. Marquess Sanguinis will use one of Crassus' bastards as a puppet ruler."

  “At least war is honest,” Nocturne said. “No masks. No daggers.”

  "Although..." He looked at Nocturne, measured. "Saphira is still his heir. She has legal claim over his throne—"

  "Don’t," Nocturne warned.

  Edwin chuckled. “I must tell you, my boy, you weren’t the match I imagined for Lady Saphira. Crassus rejected my envoys, when I would have made her my queen.”

  Calm. A muscle in Nocturne’s jaw ticked. Another one of Edwin's endless tests. He did not reach for his sword, but the impulse was there—a flicker of instinct quickly buried as he leaned over the railing.

  "Crassus would rather drown than cling to timber you've thrown him," Nocturne replied.

  Crassus—the little spawnrot—watched his grandfather lose the throne to Lux. Everything he’s done since has been about winning back his birthright—through strength, not marriage. Cold fire spread through Nocturne’s veins. His fate is sealed.

  “I know,” Edwin continued lightly, “but... better a close ally to have Lady Saphira than another hand.” His smile sharpened. “Now Hyland holds Crassus’ leash. And without Saphira, Vladislav won’t commit—perhaps your wife knows why.”

  "He kept her in the dark, and I plan to keep her out of this too," Nocturne growled the warning.

  "That may be out of your control," he loosened his shoulders, as though the subject were trivial. “Keep your wife loyal, Nocturne. Her devotion to you is the only thing shielding you from Crassus’ accusations. Lose that, and the court will decide the rumours are right.”

  Nocturne touched his wrist again, feeling the ghost of her braided charm. “She deserves better than this,” he said at last.

  Edwin’s gaze lingered on him. “Better than war?” He paused. “Or better than you?”

  Nocturne kept his mouth shut for a moment. His reply came low and deliberate. “She is not yours to meddle with.”

  Edwin studied him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. Hold on to that fire. It will convince the dukes you’re no monster. Privately, of course, their politics will steer the ships.” His eyes glittered. “The Central Alliance will hold—Brielle and Wouter are with me. Luther may lean toward Crassus and Vladislav, but I’ll handle him.” He turned brisk again. “You handle the Western League. Lorenzo trusts Valentino. Speak with Duchess Aaliyah. Find out where they stand.”

  “And Diego?” Nocturne asked.

  “Diego’s adrift—still mourning his father and wife… the Whispering Curse. Win his trade partners, and we win him.”

  “Barely returned to Lux, and already you’re issuing orders.”

  “Think of it as doing me a favour.” Edwin smirked.

  “Then a favour for me,” Nocturne said, slowly. “The taxes. You’re bleeding Firestone dry.”

  Edwin arched a brow. “You’re getting greedy. I’ve already halved your dues. Don’t push your luck.”

  Blood moved hot behind Nocturne’s teeth. Quintus. He pictured the man’s throat, the quickness of a blade—no trial, no grovelling. If Crassus’ death demanded fire and steel, Quintus’ end would be quick and impersonal. I’d do it myself.

  “Still…" Edwin’s tone softened. "I do owe you a favour—for this, for everything. If you ever ask something of me, I’ll not refuse.”

  Nocturne regarded him for a long moment. An open-ended favour from the King—reckless...or desperate?

  “You’ll regret saying that,” he said quietly. “But I’ll hold you to it.”

  “Perhaps.” Edwin’s faint smile returned. “But I keep my word. And I trust you not to abuse it.” He turned toward the door. “The Conclave begins when Hyland makes land. Try not to make a mess before then.”

  When he was gone, Nocturne remained by the balcony. Below, Lux shimmered in the last light of day. He turned the glass in his hand. For a moment, the brandy caught the last of the sun—and looked like blood.

  What's your impression of the monarch? Is he who you thought he would be?