Song vibe: Wildflower – RM

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  NOCTURNE

  The Courtyard, Firestone Castle

  As Nocturne rode into Firestone, the sunlight struck his eyes. He drew his cloak over his head and passed through the gates without a word. The guards recognised Gin and gave a silent nod, stepping back as he passed, biting back every question.

  He dismounted heavily, his body aching with exhaustion. As he crossed the yard, his boots slammed into the ground with a wet squelch—spawn ichor coated thick across the soles. Blood still crusted the edges of his coat, flaking in the wind. He made it to the stables before he ran into Aurelian, who stood with Brawn’s saddle in his hands.

  The two warriors locked eyes—one washed and ready, the other bleeding and wrecked.

  “Nox—”

  “I ordered you to stay with her,” Nocturne heaved, his voice cold as he shoved Shadowrend into Aurelian’s hands.

  Aurelian took the sword without flinching, and then Gin’s reins. “Yeah, and she ordered me to find you.” He shrugged, trying to lighten the weight between them. “I’m stuck in the middle of a power couple. What do you want from me?”

  “Is she…” He swallowed the pang of guilt rising in his throat. “…alright?”

  Aurelian’s teeth caught on his lip ring, anxious. “I’d hurry.”

  Nocturne turned, pulling off his gloves as he strode through the stables. His gaze stayed low, shoulders tight, the weight of failure pressing down like a stone. Blood clung to him—his cheeks, his hair, the gash along his ribs where a claw had split through leather and flesh—and the stench made his empty stomach churn.

  She can’t see me like this. It’ll only bring her more distress. He paused, eyes flicking toward the corridor that led to the apothecary. Just a few minutes—to not look like death incarnate.

  As he paced through the side halls, warmth spread beneath his shirt—fresh blood. He pressed a hand to the wound, trying to numb the throb.

  Behind him, the quiet patter of careful footsteps echoed. “My Lord,” Quintus called, panting, “What happened? Where did—”

  “Not now,” Nocturne snapped, ripping open his chamber doors and slamming them shut before the castellan could finish.

  Inside his chambers, he ripped off the filth as he walked—cloak, gloves, tunic, all left in a trail of ruin. Ichor tainted everything, but he had no time to be careful.

  He pushed through the rear doors of his chamber and stepped into the private courtyard. The hot spring steamed softly in the sunlight, its scent a blend of pine and minerals. He entered the water without pause. Heat flared through the cut at his side; he gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. He worked quickly, scrubbing hard—arms, chest, neck.

  Get rid of the stench of corruption. Be something steady she can cling to.

  After drying off, he wrapped a fresh bandage around his side—just enough to hide the horror. Then, he pulled on a plain shirt, the collar loose, black so it would not show any blood. Pain flickered beneath his ribs as he fastened the last button.

  Good. Let it hurt.

  He caught sight of himself in the mirror—damp shoulder-length hair; a bruise blooming just below his collarbone; the dark circles under his eyes. I hope it’s enough. This is all I’ve got to give.

  A sharp knock sounded on the door. Nocturne opened the door to see Felix. He opened his mouth to dismiss him, but Felix spoke first.

  "Saphira's in the guest room. Go to her. Now."

  Together, they strode down the halls, clean boots heavy on the stone. Nocturne kept his gaze ahead, his body tense. The pain gnawed at him, but he did not slow. I need to see her, I need to know if she's okay.

  His hand hovered above the door, fingers turning cold. "She should be in my quarters," he growled.

  "I didn't have the key," Felix said plainly, then, "Go. Be her rock."

  He felt the blood drain from his face. Guilt and shame surged together—both sharp, useless emotions. He closed his eyes and breathed. No rage. Just calm. Control it. You can’t bring any pain in with you.

  Then, gently, he knocked.

  “Saphira…” No answer. He called out again, then he tried the handle—locked. He looked to Felix, as if to ask what to do next.

  Inside, he heard Dusty’s mewing, almost frantic. There was a soft rustle of fabric—and then nothing.

  Something sank in his gut—cold and immediate. He cursed under his breath, then called out, “Saphira, say something, or I’m breaking the door."

  After a moment of silence, he stepped back and threw his shoulder into the door. The fragile latch gave in, splintering the wood.

  He swept into the room.

  Saphira lay slumped across the rickety bed, pale and unmoving. Dusty crouched at her side, pawing gently at her chest.

  For a heartbeat, his body locked up, his mind a chaos of rage, fear, guilt—all snarling at once, in a breathless, paralysing knot. Then, warrior’s instinct snapped him into action. He crossed the room in two strides, pushing his fears down as he grasped her wrist.

  Her hand flopped. His fingers pressed harder, feeling—finally, one beat, then another—faint, unsteady, but pulsing. His breath caught. He placed his hand on her forehead and felt her skin burning up, wet with sweat. He scooped her up into his arms, her body even more fragile than the last time he held her.

  "Felix!" He commanded, "Your swords—heal her."

  Stepping into the room, Felix withdrew his hooked blade and pressed it against her skin. The steel glowed green and then—nothing. Felix hissed, "It's... not working."

  "Run. Tell Verity. Prepare the apothecary."

  As Felix sprinted away, her head slumped against his chest; the smell of her hair hit him, a gentle lavender. He drew her closer to his chest, as a single, panicked thought broke through his calm demeanour: What if she dies?

  Above: Nocturne carries Saphira

  With her in his arms, he strode to the apothecary, holding her steady. The servants gawped as he passed—Nocturne did not flinch, only held Saphira tighter.

  As he burst into the apothecary, Verity was already waiting, herbs ready, Felix relaying information.

  “We found her like this,” Nocturne said, brushing the hair from her face as he set her on the bed. “She’s burning up.”

  Verity tightened her apron and stood at Saphira’s feet. “I’ll check for bleeding.” She touched the hem of Saphira’s skirt. "Felix..."

  "I'll stand watch," Felix said, leaving the room.

  "My Lord..." Verity looked to Nocturne. “She may not want you to see her…like this as well.”

  Maybe—she’ll hate me for this, he thought, we barely know each other. But I’m not leaving her side, not again.

  He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes fixed on Saphira’s face. “Tell me… when I can look again.”

  As Verity checked her, he studied Saphira’s face for clues. Her eyebrows were drawn together in pain; her lips grew paler with each minute; her body trembled as she took each shallow breath.

  Nocturne held her hand tighter. We lost Asher. I can’t lose her as well.

  Verity looked up. “I don’t understand. She’s healing quite well down there. Unless…” She moved to the other side of the bed, her fingers hovering over the buttons on the front of Saphira’s dress. “Excuse me, my Lord.” With the gentle professionalism of a healer, Verity pulled away the dress and slipped the arm off her silk shift.

  Underneath lay a neatly bandaged wound, red with fresh blood.

  “I re-dressed it while she slept,” Verity breathed, gently peeling the stained material away. “Fye…” she gasped.

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  The flesh beneath the bandage had blackened, branching out in dark veins across Saphira’s chest. Verity’s breath caught. Her hands hovered, motionless, and her eyes narrowed behind her lenses. When she finally spoke, her voice was clipped, clinical. “That wasn’t there before. It was a clean wound.” She glanced at Nocturne. “What precisely happened to her?”

  “A Dragon’s Claw. Her father struck her with his cane.”

  “But only the Duke of Renatus has a—” Verity inhaled, then composed herself. “It’s magical, and it’s turned corrupted. This is beyond my skill.” She stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron. "I need Sir Augustus."

  Nocturne kissed Saphira’s hand, cold and limp in his own. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered against her knuckles, then rose and crossed the threshold.

  I won’t fail her twice. He swore, she’ll live. No matter the cost.

  Nocturne burst into the hall, his voice sharp as he caught Felix's eyes. “Find August. Verity needs him in the apothecary. Now.”

  With a curt nod, Felix sprinted off down the corridor.

  He turned back toward the bed. Saphira lay there—motionless, her skin growing paler by the minute.

  No wonder Felix's swords didn't work. Dragon's magic is older than his swords.

  “Quiya blossoms,” Verity called from the storeroom, her voice tight with urgency. “I’ve seen them here.”

  Behind him, she climbed a ladder hastily, reaching high above the storage shelves. Her short frame stretched to its limit as she strained for a jar on the topmost rung. The ladder creaked beneath her. She faltered, let out a frustrated breath, and climbed down. Turning toward Nocturne, she opened her mouth to ask.

  Nocturne was already there. He took the jar from the shelf and handed it to her in silence.

  She accepted it with a nod of thanks, unscrewing the lid. A sickly-sweet aroma drifted through the apothecary as she crushed the dried petals between her fingers.

  “The dryads use this for magical wounds,” she murmured. “This is the last of it.”

  "Whatever it takes. I can always ask for more."

  Nodding, Verity pressed them gently against the blackened flesh of Saphira’s chest.

  Nocturne reached for the cloth, helping blot the sweat from Saphira’s brow. He held Saphira’s hand, closing his eyes as a prayer tumbled from his lips, Almighty, don’t take her away…

  Sharp footsteps rang down the hall. August stepped in, expression as icy as ever, platinum hair swept back, his long coat brushing the floor.

  His grey eyes rested on Saphira. He stopped, his gaze sweeping over her pale skin, the blackened veins branching across her chest, the fever-slick sweat on her brow. The cold mask slipped.

  He exhaled slowly. A weight settled in his eyes as he pulled off his cloak. “No time to waste.” With a nod at Verity, he commented, “Quiya petals—good thinking.”

  “Thanks,” Verity said, her pale cheeks turning red.

  August pulled away the petals, saying, “All the magic has drained now. We’re dealing with corruption.”

  “She’s been… using magic?” Verity whispered.

  “She has—or someone did this to her. I’ll need to draw it out. This is going to hurt—a lot.” August muttered, bracing himself. “Hold her down.”

  Verity moved to Saphira’s right, pinning her arm and steadying her torso. Nocturne took her left side, one hand over her forehead, the other braced gently across her shoulder.

  August slipped his gloves off, the skin blackened and cracked with dry fissures of dead skin. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbow, revealing more blackened skin. His hands hovered just above Saphira’s bare shoulder before he placed them down on either side of the wound.

  In her sleep, Saphira winced, trying to pull away from his touch.

  August’s hands held firm as he closed his eyes and exhaled. The air shifted.

  A faint pulse of silver-blue light came from beneath his palms. Her wound glowed faintly, dark veins of corrupted magic spidering outwards like cracks in glass.

  Then, August inhaled.

  Above: August begins the healing.

  Saphira jolted, writhing against Nocturne’s grip. He steeled himself, holding her down with brutal force. Visions flashed into his mind—not his own—of the images Golgog showed him, arms pinning her down like he was now, taking what he wanted. Nocturne gritted his teeth, sweat forming on his brow. The wound on his side split, and he felt the warm rush of blood spreading on his shirt.

  Hold it together, damn you. She needs your strength.

  August exhaled slowly, unravelling the corruption thread by thread. The black streaks faded from her wound. The fever in her cheeks subsided, leaving cool beads of sweat on her brow.

  Saphira stirred—just a twitch, a shift beneath the blankets.

  Nocturne leaned in at once, his thumb brushing gently over her cheek, breath caught in his throat. Her skin was still clammy, but no longer burning.

  Across the bedside, August stood silent—shoulders tense, fists clenched at his sides. The near-imperceptible silver hue in his veins had dulled, replaced by a spreading blackness that crawled beneath the skin. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breathing—though quiet—was shallow, strained. But his eyes never left his patient.

  Nocturne looked up, and for a brief moment, their gazes locked—pain mirroring pain.

  Then August blinked, composed himself, and looked away.

  “Is it over now?” Verity whispered, her hand twitching towards August. “Are you…okay?”

  “It’s done. Treat it like any normal wound now,” August instructed, “You know how to care for that far better than I do.”

  “You’re incredible,” Verity breathed. “Another hour and she might not have woken.” She took a clean cloth from the bedside and gently dabbed the wound.

  Nocturne closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a wave of exhaustion hit him all at once. Placing Saphira’s hand gently down, he stood and crossed the apothecary, heading for the storeroom. His legs ached. His side throbbed with fresh warmth; he stumbled, grabbing the shelf for support.

  I need Rinnel Weed. He pulled himself upright and scanned the jars, fingertips brushing the labels one by one. And a needle and thread.

  Behind him, quiet footsteps approached.

  “Need a hand?” August leaned against the doorway, arms folded, face pale.

  “You’re hardly in better shape yourself.” Nocturne held the jar to the light, reading the label. He sat on a stool and threaded the needle with slow, stiff fingers. With a grunt, he pulled up his shirt using his teeth. A fresh line of red streaked down his side.

  "Fye—at least numb it first." August let out a low breath and crossed the room, grabbing a bottle of rakia from the shelf. "I don't even want to know how you got this."

  “Just get on with it.” Nocturne gritted his jaw.

  August knelt and splashed the wound with the clear spirit.

  “Tsek.” Nocturne hissed, his hand tightening around the ladder rail. “A little warning next time.”

  “I thought you liked pain.” August deadpanned, “Rell says you're into that sort of thing.”

  Nocturne gave a hollow huff of laughter. “Only on full moons.”

  A tired silence followed as August passed him the bottle. Nocturne took a long swig, feeling the fiery burn all the way down to his belly. “That’s vile,” he muttered, taking another sip.

  “Not made for drinking,” August replied, already lining the needle to the torn skin.

  Above: August stitches Nocturne up.

  The first stitch pulled through. Nocturne exhaled through his teeth and stared into the main room at the bed. Saphira lay still, pale against the sheets. Beside her, Verity rewrapped the dressing with deft fingers.

  “What in the pits was that?” he asked, voice low. “Did Crassus use magic on her?”

  August did not look up as his needle poked another hole into Nocturne. “I need to do more research. This wasn’t the claw. This was something…dormant. Waiting.”

  “So, it woke up? Why now?”

  “I took care of the initial wound—at least, what was caused by the dragon’s claw,” August said, tugging the next stitch through. “What we saw was deeper. Residual magic embedded in her body—subtle, expertly placed. Potentially fatal without me.”

  Nocturne tensed. “Look, if you made a mistake at Horrocks—if you missed something—”

  “I didn’t.” August’s hands stilled mid-stitch, his voice dropping into a low, firm note. “We were guarding her the moment she left Renatus. So, unless someone managed to cast something from a distance—” he looked squarely at Nocturne “—it’s very unlikely. Which means this is older magic. Buried deep. Done to her long ago.”

  “Whether she knew it or not… that’s another question.” His gaze shifted to Saphira, the calculating focus of a Hyland-trained mage hardening his features. "And then there's the question—why?"

  Nocturne clenched his teeth and looked away.

  August returned to his stitching. His movements were clinical, but now slower and stiffer. As he shifted, the collar of his shirt opened, revealing more blackened marks creeping up the skin of his chest.

  “You paid the price,” Nocturne said, flinching as the needle pulled through.

  “I’ve dealt with corruption before.” August shrugged. “She hasn’t.” He tied off the thread. “Besides, while I heal, I can study it. And with all that extra time I’ll have on my hands, I’ll work out who drew half a pit’s worth of ‘spawn to Hawthorne’s Rest using your blood.”

  Nocturne blinked. “My blood?”

  “I sensed it, even from this distance.” August shrugged. “Hyland trick. Gets the ‘spawn right where you need them.” He sat back on his heels, his pale eyes drilling into Nocturne. “You need to prepare yourself. This is targeted, planned.”

  “How the hell would anyone get my blood?”

  “You’ve fought more battles in the last decade than most lords do in ten lifetimes.” August stood, stretching his back with a wince. He plucked a pinch of Rinnel Weed from the jar and smeared it over his stitching. “You’ve seen healers from coast to coast. It wouldn’t take much—one drop, one traitor.”

  Nocturne stilled

  At last, August added, “Look. It’s all just theory. For now, focus on her.” He glanced toward the bed. “There’s more to her—perhaps more than even she is aware of.”

  Nocturne followed his gaze. “So, that’s what this is—trying to use her?”

  “No,” August said flatly. “I think they were trying to break you.”

  “Break me? Never.” He looked at the bed. “She’s here to stay.”

  Verity tucked the blanket higher over Saphira’s chest and returned to her desk. The kettle whistled softly behind her. She sprinkled herbs in a mug and let the tea brew.

  Behind her, Saphira shifted.

  At that, Nocturne stood, the stitches tugging slightly. He commanded, “Give me the room.”

  August exhaled—quiet, respectful. Verity gathered her tools in silence, glancing once at Saphira’s flushed cheeks, then followed August out.

  Nocturne returned to her side, just as her fingers twitched beneath the blanket. He caught her hand—lightly, afraid to hurt her. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first and then fixed on his face. That impossible shade of violet locked on him.

  Her lips parted. “You're here… for me.”

  His eyebrows twitched, his composure cracking for a single moment. He dropped to one knee beside the bed. His hand curled around hers instinctively—her skin clammy, but warm. His other hand rose, trembling, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

  I wasn’t there. I should have been. I promised.

  “I’m here,” he said softly, leaning closer, his thumb tracing slow circles against her knuckles. “I shouldn’t have left you—I’m sorry,” he said at last, voice raw.

  “I thought you didn’t care.” Saphira blinked, her lashes damp.

  “I…” he swallowed, jaw clenched. “I was trying to run, from it all.”

  “But you came back.”

  “Aye.” He bowed his head, resting it gently against her hand, lost for words. He stared at her as she slipped back into rest—her pale face, her bruised lips, the wound just hidden beneath her collarbone.

  She doesn’t know. About the magic. About what they might be planning. And she doesn’t need to, not yet. Nocturne leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. I owe her that much. She deserves the space to grieve.

  “Rest.” His voice broke. “I’ll carry it all.”

  A faint exhale escaped her lips—almost like a sigh of relief. Her hand relaxed in his. He stayed there, kneeling beside the bed long after her breath evened out.

  This goes beyond Crassus. This is something bigger. His thumb still traced hers. I chose her—and now, it’s my duty to protect her from all this.