Song vibe: Moonchild — RM

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  NOCTURNE

  Beaumont Estate, Lux

  Inside his quarters, Nocturne watched rain hammer against the windows of the Beaumont Estate. It came down in sheets—loud enough to drown thought—just like the night he had infiltrated Renatus to reach his bride.

  He removed his belt and scabbard and laid his sword next to his pillow. The room smelled of lilies and something darker beneath it—Isolde Beaumont’s scent. I've known her longer than most—though she had a different name back then.

  Nocturne’s hands stilled as he half-removed his gloves. Lilies and rain stirred memory.

  I killed Amon—but Isolde’s dancers infiltrated behind enemy lines, taking out the facestealers, carving a way for the Ashen Blades. He looked at Shadowrend, lying next to his pillow, alive with the faint warmth that always seemed to call to him. Amon waged a long, bloody war. I slept with Isolde four, maybe five times. No romance, no intimacy. Just us both releasing the pressure.

  I never expected to see her again. Nocturne unbuttoned his shirt. Certainly not on the arm of Lord Beaumont. A new name, a different backstory—but the smell of lilies and poison never fades.

  Carefully, Nocturne hung his shirt over the mahogany chair. The court gossip about the Ashen Knight and the beautiful, childless wife. They see scandal, not truth. He snuffed out the candle at his desk between his thumb and forefinger. Lord Beaumont handles Edwin’s spy network, and Isolde heads the Dancing Shadows.

  No one can torture that information out of me. Nocturne touched the piercing in his ear. But all Saphira did was ask.

  Nocturne snuffed the last candle; the room folded into velvet dark. He watched the downpour outside with weariness. He heard a rustle of silk, then felt a blade at his throat.

  “Still an easy target,” Isolde purred. After a moment, she slid the knife back into the gold filigree pin that held her blonde hair in its elegant twist.

  “I knew it was you.”

  “Liar.” She stalked away from him with that catlike grace; the scent of lilies laced with bitter almond trailed in her wake. She wore a fitted dusk-violet coat over black trousers, gloves tucked into her belt, and a heavy ring of obsidian at her finger—shiny as ink, and almost certainly hollow.

  Above: Lady Isolde Beaumont infiltrates.

  “Does Claude know you’re here?” Nocturne stood where he was, bare-chested in the dark, watching her every move.

  She shrugged.

  “Was that your hand at the docks last night?”

  “One of my little dancers.” Isolde paused by his bed, her grey-green eyes measuring up Shadowrend. “My gift should be in Firestone now. A little dancer, just for your court.”

  “You sent an assassin to Firestone? Who?”

  Isolde smiled. “Her name is Marceline. She’d be using a false identity, no doubt. Don’t worry, she’s completely loyal to me, to our cause. Send her home if you wish, but while you’re gone, she’ll watch that pretty wife of yours.”

  “I don’t like it,” he said, raking his tongue over the inside of his mouth in irritation.

  “You do like it,” she answered, amused. “You only dislike being out of control.” She stepped closer, eyes fixed on him—those grey-green slits that catalogued everything. “When will you breathe and let people hold some of your burden, Nocturne?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To offer help.” Isolde glanced at the desk where Saphira’s letter lay—seeing Nocturne’s almost imperceptible flinch. She smiled. “Claude hopes the Conclave bends your way—deals with Aaliyah, promises to Diego. But I owe you—for not leaving my dancers behind in the pits.” She looked at him, eyes dusky, eager for blood. “I can handle Crassus personally—it’ll be silent.”

  “No.” He glared at her. “If Crassus dies, it will be by my blade. Not some shadow in the night."

  "My favour can extend to any inconvenience." Her laugh was small, sharp like her blades. “One planned death can save more lives than a bloody war.”

  He stared at her as she stepped closer, standing so close that he would not have time to react if she struck.

  “Your wife—” slowly, she reached out and brushed her thumb over the small silver piercing at his ear. “—does she know?”

  “About you? Yes.” He closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “About what you do? No.”

  “Then she won’t be a problem." Isolde's gaze flicked to the scar along his jaw, acknowledging history without reaching for it. “But remember—assets must be sheltered. Keep your distance. Enough to stay sharp. Not enough that she ever feels it.”

  “I’m not that man anymore,” Nocturne replied.

  “People rarely change,” Isolde shrugged, pulling away from his space.

  Her silhouette slid toward the window; she placed her boot against the sill and swung a leg over. “If you change your mind—if you ever want a different sort of solution—you know where I am.”

  He locked the window quietly after she left.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, exhaled, and rested his hand on the sword beside his pillow. His fingers curled loosely around the grip—habit, not fear. The rain drummed against the shutters, steady and patient, as though waiting for him to breathe out the tension he refused to name.

  Time to sleep, to see her.

  He flexed his hands once. His palms remembered the feel of his sins—the lives taken, the women used—and he shut his eyes against the memory.

  Can this strength be controlled—without being weakened? Without destroying her?

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  He lay back, centred his breathing, relaxed one muscle at a time—from jaw, to shoulders, to spine—counting slowly to one hundred. A soldier’s trick to fall asleep.

  Nocturne stood on the crown of the dream-mountain, frost-crisp wind tugging at his coat. Lucian was beside him, mask in hand, looking entirely too alert for someone who claimed he would forget the moment.

  "Took your time," Lucian teased.

  “You’ll stay at the perimeter,” Nocturne instructed. “You won’t listen.”

  “I’ll hold the frame of the dream—nothing more.” Lucian tipped his head, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. “Just—try not to look like someone’s funeral procession. She’s your wife, not a wraith.”

  Nocturne gave him a look that promised violence.

  Lucian only grinned wider. “There he is.”

  The mask lit—soft first, then all-consuming—and the world folded to light.

  Then, Saphira stepped out of the mist—half dream, half real—wearing that apricot silk dress, lavender hair braided with fresh flowers, his knife at her belt.

  Nocturne did not think; his arms were already around her. She met him with equal force, burying herself against his chest. The weight of her was real, warm, his.

  All the things he meant to say—the updates, the warnings, the strategies—fell away. He lifted his hand to her lavender hair, fingers threading through the familiar softness, tilting her face up so he could see her.

  “Just three more weeks,” he murmured. “Then I’ll hold you again.”

  Her cheeks coloured at the implication, and it struck him—unexpected, disarming—how deeply he liked that. His thumb brushed over the blush.

  She cast a nervous look at Lucian. Then, she reached up and straightened Nocturne’s collar. “Even in a dream, you look like you haven’t slept. Are you taking care of yourself—”

  “You should get enough rest for the two of us.” His voice dropped; he leaned in, close enough that the dream-space wavered as Lucian struggled to maintain concentration in the shared space. Nocturne murmured, “Because when I come home, you won’t leave my arms.”

  “I’ll clear my schedule.”

  “—for at least a week,” he added against her ear.

  “Only a week?” Her fingers slid under the lapel of his coat, drawing him a fraction closer.

  “Greedy.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, thumb tracing the curve of the wedding piercing there. “You wear this so well.”

  “You put it there.” Her hands fisted lightly in his coat, holding him to her.

  He stayed like that—her body pressed fully against him—wanting, with a sudden fierceness, to close the distance between dream and waking. To feel her breath where it warmed his throat; to touch her without restraint or separation; to stop holding back.

  Above: Saphira and Nocturne meet.

  “There was an attack inside the keep," Saphira breathed, the words tumbling from her as she burrowed into his arms.

  Nocturne felt a cold rage fill him, though he remained still. Assassins. Mages. It reeks of Crassus—a stain to erase.

  Saphira hesitated. “I didn’t want to burden you, but—”

  “You did right to tell me,” he said, voice low. "Dusty, she's okay?"

  “She's improving every day, spoiled little princess.”

  “Good. She’s family.” His eyes closed briefly. Then, steady again, he issued his orders: control the gates, let the Sowing Festival continue but with a trusted guest list. Vary her routines. Felix, August, or Lysander with her at all times—Rell, too. Her safety is more important than proprietary.

  At last, he paused. “There’s already a shadow in Firestone,” he said quietly. “Mine. You won’t see them. Don’t look for them. If you need them, place a vase of white lilies in the great hall.”

  Saphira nodded once, slowly; her fingers stilled against his coat.

  Then his voice dipped. "Quintus is to be stripped of his title.”

  “That… won’t be easy.” She inhaled sharply. “He’s served Firestone his whole life, and the Sunfire clan—”

  "You can do this." He took her shoulders, firm but not forceful, drawing her gaze to his. “I chose you. Not an ornament. Not a symbol. A partner. When you speak, it’s as if I spoke. When you act, it’s with my hand. You hold my authority because I trust you.”

  “Then I won’t fail us,” she whispered. “Not Firestone. Not you.” Her fingers curled into the fabric over his heart. “Are things…unravelling in Lux?”

  Nocturne hesitated.

  “Edwin sent over his records. Someone in Firestone has been siphoning coin. Quintus oversaw those reports. Whether he stole it or let someone else do it—he’s responsible.” He threaded his hands into hers, raising them to his lips to gently kiss. “Now, I need a strategist at my side, not a bureaucrat—it is a good time for Valentino to take his place.” He continued, “I’ve already sent orders by Silvark, signed and sealed. Ensure the rookery is—"

  “We’ve already secured it,” she said, thinking aloud, practised now in the rhythm of governance. “When your orders arrive, we’ll move fast. But Quintus has been entrenched for decades. I worry how much information he’s hoarded—to keep himself indispensable. I’ve started to cut him out of decision-making, but—”

  “You’re doing well, Saphira,” Nocturne interrupted, voice soft but sure.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.” Something like a smile tugged at his mouth. “I should’ve removed him years ago. I let the rot sit.” His thumb brushed her cheek. “Now we cauterise. It will hurt, and get messy. But it won’t last. And none of it is your fault. You’re cleaning damage I allowed.”

  Her throat bobbed, and she swallowed. The dream-wind stirred around them, nipping at the apricot silk.

  Saphira’s fingers twined with his. She glanced at Lucian. “How much longer do we have?”

  “Enough,” Lucian answered, the dream-light thinning at the edges.

  “Then you must know—” Saphira faced Nocturne. “When he cleared my nightmares, I saw my mother… and Crassus.”

  “Tell me.”

  Her voice stayed flat. She told him of the warded gate, the three caves, the chamber of crystalith and blood. Then, her mother’s final moments—her plea, her bargain—and the violence that followed.

  Nocturne said nothing—not of his disgust, the rage, and certainly not of his own visions inside his inner world. He only drew her in, hand at the back of her head, holding her where his heartbeat was steady.

  “I always believed it was nightspawn." She swallowed. “But I saw it. He killed her. Not by accident. Not war.” Her breath trembled. “By choice.”

  A tear slid down her cheek, warm against his shirt.

  “For what?” she choked. “He spoke of debts. Bloodlines. But never why.” Her voice cracked. “Her final words, she asked me to remember her—to remember the spells she taught me. And I forget her, because they made me.”

  “Your mind fought it. You remembered,” he murmured.

  “Before you face him, you need to know…”

  “Saphira—”

  “My Lord,” she addressed, in a quiet, controlled voice. “I don’t care what happens to Crassus. Whatever you must do—whatever justice demands—I won’t ask you to spare him. I won’t be the reason you hold back.”

  Wind stirred through the pines. Dream-clouds drifted around the mountains, white and impossibly shaped.

  Slowly, Nocturne released a breath.

  “I wasn’t sure where you’d stand." His hand closed around her waist, steady, sure. “I’ll shed blood before I let him take you.”

  “If someone is to shed blood, it is Crassus.”

  She didn’t say ‘father’. Not anymore. Something settled in him. Not peace—he was not built for that—but certainty. The last seed of hesitation Golgog had planted in him finally withered away. She’s not mine because I took her—she’s mine because she chose me.

  “You don’t know what you’ve just given me.” His forefinger found the soft place beneath her chin, guiding her gaze to his.

  “I do.” She caught his hand, lifted it, pressed her lips to his knuckles. “I’ll be here when it’s over.”

  “Then I’ll have no hesitation.”

  “Nocturne?”

  He paused.

  “Whatever happens,” she said quietly, “don’t let him walk away smiling.”

  He exhaled—then felt the faint, grim curl of his lips. “I won’t.”

  The tension in his shoulders unwound, slow and deliberate. For the first time in weeks, his spine straightened without effort.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “For trusting me. For… all of it.”

  Almighty… I expected her to soften me. He looked at her—truly looked—at the purple fire in her eyes, the resolve that had replaced fear. I thought a wife would make me weak. But this has sharpened my blade.

  He turned to Lucian. “Close your eyes.”

  “If I do, the dream might—”

  “Now.”

  Lucian’s sigh was theatrical, but he obeyed.

  Nocturne took Saphira’s jaw and tipped her head back. His tongue parted her lips, his kiss rough, unyielding, raw. She tasted of strawberries, her skin soft; he pressed in closer, feeling her surrender amidst her overwhelm, feeling her hands on his chest, drawing him closer. He deepened the kiss until the dream itself trembled around them—

  And then he was awake. No lilies in the room, just lavender.

  Rain still pounded down on the window, the air cold, the pillow beside him empty. The taste of strawberries lingered on his tongue. He lay there for a few heartbeats, his chest rising and falling with breath.

  That was worth it. He sat up, wiped the sweat from his brow, and steadied his breathing.

  Everything I’ve done—everything I’m about to do—is worth it.

  Let me know below ?? what you hope to see in the ending!