________

  NOCTURNE

  The Old Linden Tree, Brightwood Manor

  Nocturne kept walking until the noise of the world fell away and the old linden’s shade swallowed the heat. He had stood here once before—knee-deep in blood and ichor. Vandele’s forces had broken through the mountain passes that day, crawling up the slope like rot through a wound. They had nearly reached Firestone.

  His hand came up almost absently, fingers brushing the deep fissures in the bark. The trunk was broad enough that three men could not have circled it. A great dryad had lived here once and fought beside us. She had not lived to see our victory.

  Nocturne lowered himself to the roots and rested back against the trunk. From his coat, he drew the worn copy of Vespera Lune’s River of Peace. His thumb flicked to the familiar wrinkled page without looking. The words did not steady him the way they usually did. But he kept reading, until the words lost their shape, blurring into nothing.

  The sun had begun to dip low by the time he finally lifted his gaze.

  Scarlet’s hooves pressed softly through the meadow.

  Saphira sat tall in the saddle, cheeks flushed from riding, lavender hair hanging loosely over her shoulders. His gaze softened as he saw the grace in her—even wind-tossed and sun-warmed—making his chest tighten in a way he only felt from her.

  Above: Saphira finds Nocturne.

  She’s alone. His jaw clenched, the trance breaking. I specifically told her not to wander…

  “You don’t need to stand for me,” she called out as she approached, still too far away to see the twitch in his brow.

  He closed the book with a quick snap and stood anyway. The motion was fluid, instinctive, after all, she was his wife, and he would always rise for her—angry or not.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

  “I was…” Her brows drew together—not in fear, but confusion at the edge in his voice. “I was looking for you." She glanced over her shoulder. "Val said you walked this way.”

  Behind her, a broad-shouldered rider lingered at a respectful distance. Valentino gave a small nod before turning his palomino back toward Brightwood.

  “I’m sorry,” she finished, slumping in the saddle. “I didn’t realise you wanted to be alone." Her hand drifted upwards, touching the bald, red patch on her scalp. "I just... I wanted you.”

  The edge in him dulled when he saw the tremble in her hands. He stepped towards her, grasping Scarlet's reins and leading the mare over to the shade of the linden tree. “I spoke carelessly. I thought you rode out without a guard.” He stepped to Saphira's side, saying, “You mustn't wander—” the words died as his hand rested against her bare knee. Her white dress had shifted in the saddle, exposing her pale skin. Reining in his instinct, he drew the fabric back over her knees.

  “Saph, we’ve spoken about this. This dress isn’t made for riding.” He steadied her by the waist and lifted her down. “When will you use the gold I set aside for you?” He looped Scarlet’s reins over a low branch of the linden tree, leaving the mare enough slack to graze. Again, he turned to his wife and said, “Luce tells me there’s a new seamstress in Hart Village. You should browse her work."

  “Marigold’s old dresses fit well enough,” Saphira dismissed, scratching behind Scarlet’s ears. "Anyway, have you noticed—”

  “Saph.” He caught her wrist before she could step away, forcing eye contact so she could not change the subject again. “Yesterday you complained the colour makes you pale.” His thumb brushed absently along her skin, his voice coaxing, “What’s the delay?”

  “I’ve never... well..." Colour crept up her cheeks, and she glanced down, her gaze set on the flowers trampled underfoot. "I've never bought anything from a shop before.”

  He laughed, a short and instinctive reflex. The cold sound hit the warm summer air, fading when he saw the shame dim the purple in her eyes.

  Of course. He slid an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. Why would a duke’s daughter haggle? Pay? Be expected to choose for herself?

  “I’ll take you next market day,” he said quietly. “Together. I’ll show you how to handle shopkeepers.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Nox…” she murmured. “You’ve enough on your shoulders. Just send—”

  “It has to be me.” The words came firmer than intended. He softened slightly. “I’ll be the one to spoil you.”

  A small smile curved her full lips. “I’m sure you have more important things to do than go shopping.”

  “On the contrary,” he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I should be seen by the people. Taking my wife shopping is merely a… pleasurable side effect.”

  He drew her fully into his chest and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. He smelled the lavender and rose oil brushed through. The scent—the softness of it—took the edge off his thoughts. She does this so easily, and I shouldn’t need it as much as I do.

  He guided her down to the shade beside the linden tree. He sat first and held out his hand—not for any other reason than because he wanted her close.

  "The ground is wet," she laughed. "I'll ruin my dress."

  "Do you think I would let you sit in the dirt?" He tugged her arm, pulling her onto his lap. "Comfortable?"

  She rested her head on his shoulder, and for a moment, it was just the two of them under the cool shade—no selkies, no pacts, no one else but a husband and wife. He felt her fingers reach up and intertwine with the hair of his beard, stroking, soothing the storm inside him. He leaned into her touch.

  "You always look so peaceful when you read," she murmured, her fingers slowing. "You didn't have to stop on my account."

  “Reading’s not exactly a social activity,” he muttered. “Not when there are more pressing matters.”

  Her lips brushed his ear. “Read to me.”

  He opened the book again. “When peace, like a river, flows calm through my days, And sorrows, like hailstorms, fall swift in their ways—”

  “—No matter the storm, or what troubles unfold, it is well with my soul,” she finished, eyes closed.

  Those words. They're not for me.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  But they might have been—in another life.

  The wind moved through the heart-shaped linden leaves, and for a moment—only a moment—the darkness held at bay. At the end of the poem, he closed the book softly.

  "Saphira, I need to discuss what's next." He set the book aside. "No more going out like this."

  "Lye said he’d take me and Dusty hunting to see how she goes. We planned for tomorrow, but perhaps next week will be—”

  “No.”

  “I… beg your pardon?” Her head lifted slowly from his shoulder, lavender braid sliding forward over her arm. A small crease formed between her brows.

  “I mean it, Saphira. No wandering anymore.”

  “You mean… just for a week, right?” She searched his face, and when she saw his answer, her lower lip quivered. “You promised. Please.” She drew back slightly in his lap, not pulling away entirely, but enough that the warmth between them thinned. “There’s more to this, isn’t there? More than just an accident.”

  He steeled his gaze and looked away. “Lucian thinks you may be part vila.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “It explains a lot about you,” he replied, looking away from her.

  I know she's going to dislike this, and I dislike myself for doing it anyway. His hand brushed against her belt knife. What if I hadn't sharpened it? What if I had missed? I lost our child; I won't lose her.

  He said, “You’ll not leave Brightwood unless you’re with me. I won’t risk it.”

  Her hand retreated from his arm. Carefully, she folded her fingers together and looked out toward the mountains. “If that is your decision, my lord,” she said, her voice polite in a way it had never been with him before, “then of course I will obey.”

  “Saph—” Nocturne’s hand flexed once against his knee.

  She pulled away from his lap, chin lifted, spine straight, the soft warmth of moments ago folding carefully behind court-trained composure. She rose without his help and paced toward Scarlet. Her foot slid into the stirrup. She pushed up and then faltered.

  Nocturne moved on instinct, catching her at the waist and lifting her the rest of the way into the saddle. Instead of leaning into him, softening as she always did, she tensed at his touch. He pulled away at once and stepped back.

  “Thank you,” she said coolly, gathering the reins. Scarlet stepped forward as Saphira turned her head slightly. “Are you escorting me home?”

  He walked beside Scarlet, resting his hand on the chestnut’s flank. “If you have a better way of managing the situation,” he said evenly, “then speak your mind.”

  “What’s the point,” she returned tersely, “when you’ve already made up yours?”

  She doesn’t see the danger. He ran his tongue over the inside of his mouth, biting back his reprimand. She's my Countess; she should understand the stakes.

  “I’m keeping you safe,” he said lowly, his hand resting on his sword. “I won’t apologise for that.”

  “I understand,” she said, measuring each word, “But I need some space.” She gathered the reins more firmly. “I’ll ride ahead—yes?”

  The request hung between them, a clear test of the new boundaries.

  Almighty, woman. Just lay low while I fix this.

  Nocturne’s hand remained on Scarlet’s flank for one long moment as his gaze swept the meadow. The long grass rolled in slow, uneven waves beneath the afternoon wind, rustling against itself. A lark lifted suddenly from the branches of the linden tree, wheeling sharply before settling into a gnarled branch. He sniffed the air and scented only the sweet scent of meadow flowers and underneath, the drying grass.

  Nothing disturbed the peace—and yet, the back of his neck remained raised.

  I don’t like this.

  “Stay within sight,” he said at last, adding, "and only if you must."

  Scarlet moved forward at a measured pace toward Brightwood, and for the first time, Nocturne let the distance open between them.

  Once she thinks it through, the storm within her will calm, he thought, though the self-assurance felt hollow.

  By the time Nocturne arrived at Brightwood, Scarlet had been stabled with Whiskey and Gin. The stablehand informed him that the Countess had retired early and requested her supper be sent to their chambers.

  Nocturne took his own meal in the study, eating with Rell as they reviewed the patrols.

  Night had deepened by the time he finally returned to their room. He stepped soundlessly, careful not to wake her. He grimaced at first sight—the window stood ajar, curtains fluttering in the cool night breeze.

  Fye, this woman and her common sense; anything could have flown in. With a quiet exhale, he shut the latch and set Shadowrend within easy reach beside his pillow before slipping into bed.

  Saphira lay on her side, back to him. Her breathing shifted the moment the mattress dipped.

  He waited for a moment longer than usual, hand flexing, then he reached for her. As he did, she shifted away. Nocturne's hand stilled and then withdrew to his side.

  Slowly, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the moonlit ceiling. The warmth of her lingered just out of reach.

  Freedom or safety. Right now, I can give her only one.

  The rest, he thought as he closed his eyes, must always be her choice.