Song vibe: Reflection – RM

  __________

  NOCTURNE

  The Great Hall, Firestone

  With the eyes of a tactician, Nocturne’s gaze swept the hall, from most critical to least.

  First—Saphira.

  Felix stood directly in front of her, hooked blades drawn and angled outward, his body positioned to shield rather than strike. Guards were forcing their way through the crush toward them, but the crowd pressed just as hard in the opposite direction, weapons half-raised, fear and fury blurring together.

  It took every ounce of control within Nocturne not to go to her at once.

  Felix has her safe. Trust him.

  Then he saw Rell.

  Blades drawn, stance low and aggressive, crossing steel with a creature wearing Nocturne’s own face. The facestealer moved well—too well—anticipating Rell’s strikes, turning them aside with masterful precision. Blood streaked its side, dark and wet. The same dark stain was on Saphira’s hand.

  At the sight of the blood, rage surged through Nocturne, cold and precise. I’ve seen enough.

  Nocturne strode forward. As the creature’s blade came down toward Rell’s shoulder, he cleared Shadowrend from its sheath in a single smooth motion. Nocturne caught the strike head-on, steel shrieking as the impact jarred up his arm. He did not linger—he pivoted and drove his heel into the creature’s knee with bone-breaking force.

  The creature staggered, stance faltering for half a breath—then it laughed, using Nocturne’s stolen voice.

  Pitspawn. Die.

  It drew a second blade.

  It’s tough.

  “My lord!” Rell shouted, blocking a fast follow-up strike. “It’s stolen your strength—”

  Nocturne grunted his acknowledgment and stepped aside deliberately, letting Rell re-engage. The creature pressed hard, forcing Rell back two steps, blades flashing in tight, brutal arcs. But the squire was stronger now and wiser from his previous encounter, counting aggressively, forcing the creature to pour more strength into its arms just to block.

  Behind him, Lysander and August slipped into the great hall, drawing blades, making their way to Saphira and Felix.

  Somewhere, Saphira let out a cry, and Nocturne let Rell handle the next blow.

  “Hands off her!” Nocturne bellowed over his shoulder.

  The command cracked through the hall. Slowly—unevenly—the crowd stilled.

  “See Shadowrend; it is the real him!” Saphira’s voice rang out, sharp with authority. "Defend your Lord!"

  Steel rang again. Nocturne turned back just in time to catch another blow, twisting his wrist to deflect it wide. Rell followed immediately, striking for the ribs. The creature spun aside, Rell’s blade missing by a breath.

  Guards closed in then, swords raised, forming a rough circle around the three of them—tight enough to contain, wide enough to give space.

  The facestealer changed tactics—speeding up, edging towards the exit.

  Blades blurred, driving Rell onto the defensive. The creature ducked low, slashed high, then reversed direction with inhuman speed.

  “Should we try?” Rell yelled between blows.

  “Do it,” Nocturne ordered.

  Nocturne swung for the creature’s head—wide, committed—leaving his flank exposed.

  The facestealer saw the opening. Its eyes widened as it ducked and lunged forward, blade thrusting—

  Rell took the chance.

  His sword drove clean through the creature’s back, the point bursting from its chest in a spray of blackened blood.

  At the same instant, Nocturne brought Shadowrend down in a brutal diagonal cut, slicing from shoulder to hip.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The creature screamed.

  Nocturne wrenched his blade free, flicking black ichor from the steel as the body collapsed to its knees, then pitched face-first onto the stone.

  Its skin bubbled. Flesh warped and split, folding inward and outward in grotesque spasms until the illusion finally tore apart, revealing a twisted, bat-like form beneath.

  Above: The facestealer transforms when it is slain.

  “Guards,” Nocturne commanded, already wiping his blade on his cloak. “Take it away—to the dungeon. Keep it on ice.”

  Nocturne swept the hall once more, not with urgency now, but with the habit of a man ensuring nothing else could rise to meet him. The half-eaten feast lay abandoned, seeds crushed into the stone underfoot. Weapons slid back into sheaths one by one, the crowd’s fury ebbing into stunned quiet.

  Only then did he allow himself to breathe.

  He sheathed Shadowrend.

  He felt her before he heard her—her presence close behind him, familiar and impossible, her scent cutting cleanly through blood and smoke and rain.

  “My lord,” she whispered. “Welcome home.”

  He turned.

  She stepped toward him, careful, as though unsure whether she was permitted the distance. The blood on her hand had already begun to darken, oxidising into black ichor. His eyes went immediately to it, then to her dress—searching for splatter, for tears in fabric, for any sign that the blade had slipped.

  There was none.

  Relief hit him hard enough that his jaw tightened against it. A renewed anger followed close behind.

  He wanted to pull her against him, feel her weight, prove to himself that she was real and unbroken. He wanted her away from the hall, away from the blood and the watching eyes, into the quiet of his chambers where he could finally let the tremor in his chest settle.

  But not yet.

  Right now, I’m the lord returning—a husband second.

  “My lady,” he said quietly. “You’re marked.”

  He shrugged off his cloak and wrapped it carefully around her bloodied hand, fingers firm but gentle, as if afraid too much pressure might bruise her. Then, to the murmur of the watching hall, he dropped to one knee and lifted her hand to his lips.

  Her fingers were warm—delicate and soft.

  He pressed his forehead to them and closed his eyes, allowing himself a single breath—just one—drawing in her scent, losing himself in her presence. The noise of the room dulled at the edges. For a heartbeat, there was only her.

  Around them, the people murmured.

  Still, he lingered.

  Above: Nocturne returns to Saphira.

  “My wife,” he said at last, voice low, measured, searching for words that would not betray how close he was to losing control. “Thank you for waiting.”

  “Thank you for defending our home,” she replied, the lines on her face softening. "And not a moment too soon."

  “I’m sorry. I was gone too long.”

  Tears gathered in the corners of her purple eyes. She held them in and nodded.

  He rose. Her hand fell instinctively toward his, twitching as though unsure whether to reach.

  He took it without hesitation, enclosing it in his own, his other hand resting on the hilt of his sword—a reminder to himself as much as to anyone watching.

  He felt the tension ease from her shoulders, just slightly.

  Good. I’m here. You’re safe now.

  “My lord,” Felix said quietly at his side. “The threat has been neutralised. I believe this is over.”

  “Well fought,” Nocturne replied, clapping his shoulder once, brief and grateful.

  “Shall I call it a night?” Felix murmured.

  Tempting. His shoulders stiffened. But I cannot leave this matter unfinished.

  "People of Firestone." He turned to face the hall instead, his grip on Saphira’s hand tightening by a fraction. “I know what I saw tonight—you raised your blades against my wife.” His voice carried without strain. “Guards.”

  The soldiers stepped forward at once.

  “Blades back my the hearth. No one leaves this room,” Nocturne continued. “I will speak with my advisors. If a crime has been committed, the guilty will answer for it.”

  “Yes, m’lord," the crowds replied, obeying him without question.

  Still holding Saphira’s hand, Nocturne withdrew into the side chamber.

  Rell, Felix, August, and Lysander followed, the door closing behind them with a dull click that shut out the hall and its watching eyes.

  Lysander spoke first, brisk and practical, calling in a servant to bring water and a cloth for the Lady.

  Nocturne barely registered it. He drew the chair out for her. As she sat, he placed his hands on her shoulders, palms heavy, steadying—not just for her, but himself—so that she might not vanish. Here, with his brothers watching, the urge to hold her became sharper. Not the gentler impulse he had known before, but something deeper, more territorial. He locked it down at once.

  Too much tenderness will crack my control—and my control is the only thing holding Firestone together.

  Rell lingered close, unconsciously placing himself between her and the door. Felix’s attention drifted to her as well, checking, measuring, out of habit.

  Protectors, both of them. Nocturne noted, but they've done their job. It's my role now.

  When the water came, Saphira washed her hands. Only when the black residue curled away in thin ribbons did he breathe properly.

  “Report.”

  August spoke—the facestealer, the jailbreak, Gorda’s death. When Lysander repeated the words Quintus spoke, Nocturne felt the rage boil within him.

  Saphira's lips remained a tight line, her eyes distant. Nocturne squeezed her shoulders, to tell her of his indignant rage, but she merely lifted one hand to his and stroked his fingers. The simple contact sent a jolt through him.

  Fye. His eyes dropped despite himself, catching the soft line of her collarbone, the apricot silk sitting lower than was wise for a night like this. Mine.

  He wrenched his attention back to the room.

  “Bring Quintus and Selwyn from the dungeons,” he ordered. “This ends tonight.”

  “Surely—” Felix began, then stopped as he followed Nocturne's gaze.

  He looked only at Saphira, searching her purple eyes—full of weariness and relief—for confirmation. She met his gaze steadily and nodded once.

  She wants this finished. She wants rest. Peace.

  Good. She'll have it.

  Are you happy Nox is home? What do you think will be the first thing he does?

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