Song vibe: Black Swan – BTS

  __________

  NOCTURNE

  Golden Quay, Lux

  Down at Golden Quay, waves lapped against wooden hulls and sailors shouted orders. The Silver Siren stood apart—her silver sails shimmering, the emerald flag of Arteaga snapping proudly in the salt wind. At her bow, a siren figurehead—both alluring and menacing—reached forward with outstretched hands, emerald eyes glinting with the green fires of envy.

  Nocturne paused at the foot of the gangplank, gaze lifting to the ship before turning to the two men beside him.

  Lucian looked gaunt in the morning light, shadows clinging beneath his teal eyes. The leather gloves hid the blackened skin of his hands, but not the toll. Dream-walking had left its mark—he had woken shaking, whispering only, “It’s done. She’s safe. It’s not my place to say what she saw.”

  Now, Lucian forced a smile. “Wouldn’t miss the reunion of the century,” he drawled. “The Duchess Aaliyah—your infamous almost.”

  “I’ve no interest in ghosts,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, his voice sharpened, ordering, “Keep this professional, boys.”

  “As I said before—” Valentino adjusted his silk necktie, the golden flecks in his eyes glowing. “—her fondness for you is an asset. Try not to squander it with that charm of yours.”

  “I’ll get the gold, secure her vote, and leave,” Nocturne replied. “Nothing more.”

  They climbed aboard, their boots striking the polished deck, the crew parting to make way. Lucian behind him, lazy and watchful, while Valentino moved with quiet ease, his expression unreadable.

  At the stern, Duchess Aaliyah of Arteaga lounged against the railing. She was in her mid-thirties, still slender and beautiful as she had been in her youth. She wore leather pants and a loose silk blouse that threatened to spill open at any moment, and a fortune of jewels—diamonds dangling from her ears, fat emeralds hanging from her neck, countless golden bangles at her wrists, and a ring on nearly every finger.

  She spun a slender dagger between her fingers idly—every bit the self-titled 'Pirate Queen of the Sapphire Sea'.

  “Nocturne,” she greeted, voice edged with amusement as she sheathed the blade. “Welcome aboard the Silver Siren. Duke Wouter designed her—magnificent, isn’t she?”

  “An impressive vessel.” Nocturne’s umber gaze swept the ship before settling on her. “I appreciate you granting us an audience.”

  “Granting an audience?” Her full lips curved. “How formal. Did Edwin send you to charm me or threaten me?”

  “I’m here because I want to be, Duchess.”

  “Let’s not play titles, Nocturne.” She laughed lightly, offering her hand. “Come, sugar—let us talk as old friends.”

  Above: Duchess Aaliyah of Arteaga, the Pirate Queen.

  That charm would fool anyone—the ruthless pirate queen who rose from the ranks in tides of blood. Nocturne inclined his head and took her hand. Aaliyah keeps the Sapphire Sea locked beneath her heel—and for a time, she almost did the same to me. He brushed his lips over the silver siren engraved on her signet ring. Not with desire, but with the ease of an equal. She knows how to speak my language: power, risk, survival.

  But... Aaliyah is not a woman for gentleness. He let her hand drop and straightened. Whatever hold she once had, I've outgrown it—I pray.

  “Edwin says you’re married now; Crassus says differently. And so, the reason why we’re all here—Lux beats the drums of war.” She gave a teasing laugh. “I find it all hard to believe. You were never one for noble women.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “My wife,” Nocturne said, voice flat.

  “Saphira,” Aaliyah repeated, tasting the name. “You say ‘wife’ as if it’s a shackle.”

  “Aaliyah,” he cautioned.

  “Fine, fine.” She waved a hand, a smile lingering. “Save the sermon, sugar. Three sons, three fathers—shackles aren’t my style.” Her eyes glinted mischievously. “Would you like to be the fourth?”

  “You already know—” he warned, voice low. “—my loyalty lies elsewhere now.”

  “Come. I have a debt to settle,” she said briskly, covering the slip with a laugh. Then, to her crew: “Bring it here.”

  Two sailors hauled a large chest from the captain’s quarters. “Your payment,” she declared. “For killing Ammon. With three years of interest owed. You ignored my summons to retrieve it.”

  “You would only release it if I came in person,” Nocturne said flatly.

  “And so, here you are.” She brushed his arm, a lingering reminder of her touch. “You were in such a rush to leave that night, you left your gold on—”

  “The contract is settled,” Nocturne said evenly, waving his hand at Lucian to take possession of the gold. While he did, Nocturne watched Aaliyah. She’s like a shark circling—always nudging, playing games. I’ve known too many like her: all charm, no substance. No wonder I stopped believing what any woman said.

  Nocturne kept his expression still, not betraying a single thought. “Now, to business. I’m sure Crassus has spoken to you already, so you know why I’m here.”

  “Business already?” she purred. “You’ve grown dull, Nocturne. Let’s play a game first. An old favourite.”

  “Five-finger fillet?” Nocturne’s brow lifted.

  “Let’s see if you can still best me.” Her gaze bounced between Valentino and Lucian. “Unless one of your shadows wants to take your place.”

  “And here I thought this was a diplomatic visit,” Valentino chuckled softly. “I’ll pass.”

  Lucian smirked, hiding his gloved hands behind his back. “I’d rather not excite you with my fingers, Duchess. I’ll leave that to Nocturne.”

  The crew laughed. Nocturne rested his hand lazily—deliberatly—on the hilt of Shadowrend. “Fine.”

  They sat across from each other, the crowd gathering close.

  Aaliyah went first—swift, fluid, reckless—stabbing the space between each splayed finger. When she finished, she set the knife down with a flourish, though her hand trembled faintly as she drew it back.

  “Your turn.”

  Nocturne took the blade and laid his free hand on the table. The rhythm changed—precise, merciless, every strike deliberate, as if he were driving each one through Crassus’ heart. The crew fell silent. When the final thrust landed faster than hers, Aaliyah’s smile slipped—only for a heartbeat.

  He set the knife down without a word. “A game of precision,” he said, "and focus."

  “And danger,” she replied, sliding her rings back on. “Something you’ve always understood too well. But politics are better discussed in private. Captain’s quarters—you know the way.”

  Fye, this woman is infuriating. A moment alone and she’d find a way under my skin again. He gestured for Valentino to follow, jaw tight. Edwin thinks I can handle her—he doesn’t know what she does to men who try.

  Lucian gave a low whistle, planting his boot on the chest. “She’s only getting started,” he murmured. “I’ll keep this safe—and out of her reach.”

  “Good,” Valentino said, adjusting his cuffs. “I’ll see the Count doesn’t end up sold to the highest bidder.”

  Nocturne nodded once, then followed Aaliyah toward the stern.

  At the door, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind—I invited an old friend.”

  The captain’s quarters were as lavish as Nocturne remembered—maps and coin glinting under lamplight, the air thick with the tang of sea and smoke.

  At the far end, Duke Lorenzo of Fiorenza sat with a goblet of wine. Silver streaked his dark hair, and the twin dolphins of his house gleamed on his sea-blue shirt, a scar on his cheek from his fencing days. His eyes lit up as Valentino—his former ward—entered.

  Above: Duke Lorenzo of Fiorenza.

  “My boys!” He rose, grasping Nocturne's hand first. “Still the same steady hand, Nocturne. Will you ever grant me that duel?”

  “Not unless you want another scar for your cheek.”

  “Ha! Cocky as ever.” He clapped Nocturne’s shoulder, then turned to Val, kissing each cheek once, Southern-style. “Valentino. A year already. The offer to return to Fiorenza still stands.”

  “The cold keeps one honest,” Val said, smiling faintly, looking at Nocturne. “And loyal.”

  At the desk, Aaliyah poured a deep red wine into three crystal goblets. “To Duke Alejandro of Lusitierra,” she said. “Damn the Whispering Curse.”

  “Rest well, Alejandro.” Lorenzo raised his glass. “His son’s a boy playing at statesman—Almighty help Diego, Lusitierra needs him strong.”

  “I used to fence with Diego. He's no pushover. He’ll rise to it,” Val murmured, sipping politely. “His father raised him well.”

  Nocturne touched his glass to his lips without drinking. His eyes flicked between them—the Duchess of Arteaga, the Duke of Fiorenza, and the empty chair of Lusitierra.

  The Western Trade League: sea, blood, ambition—and now, a untested piece, the grieving Duke Diego.

  Lorenzo set his goblet down and turned fully to Nocturne. “Now—let’s speak plainly.” The warmth dropped from his voice. “Crassus calls you a rapist. War brews on our lands. 'Spawn encroach. Crassus has a solution. What do you have to offer Fiorenza?"