________

  NOCTURNE

  Harrows River, Brightwood Manor

  The moment Nocturne saw the webbed hand reach for his wife’s hair, he threw the knife in his hand. The steel flashed as it sliced through the water, lodging deep in the creature’s chest with a wet squelch.

  He slammed into the water, pulling her into his arms. He struck her back once, hard enough to force the river from her lungs.

  She coughed violently, spitting out water. She blinked heavily as she looked up at him, dazed and disoriented, her body limp.

  He cradled her against his chest and held her tight—too tight—his teeth grinding against each other. Fye, if I hadn’t had the knife in my hand…

  “Nox, what—?”

  “A river selkie,” he growled. He sloshed through the shallows and set her down on the cloak spread across the grass. He wrapped the towel around her trembling shoulders. Her fingers shook so badly she could not grasp the cloth herself. Running his thumb over her cheek, he warned quietly, “Don’t look.”

  Fury tightened the muscles in his shoulder as he returned to the riverbank. The current had pushed the selkie into the shallows, the body bobbing in water. He pulled Saphira’s belt knife from the creature’s chest and touched his index finger to the slimy flesh of the selkie's neck. He felt no pulse.

  Killed with one shot. Thank the Almighty I just sharpened it.

  Knee deep in water, he stared at the creature with cold acceptance. The selkie was almost bald, patches of sickly green hair clinging to its scalp like slimy reeds. Its eyes were wide and yellow, feral and unblinking, and its mouth—a beak-like mass—was lined with sharp, inward-facing spikes. The creature’s form was pale, a sickly grey; its body was hunched and not meant for land.

  Above: Nocturne retrieves the knife.

  A clump of purple hair remained tangled in its claws.

  His jaw tightened; the river lapped at his boots, red curling through the current.

  Tsek… will the Forest Folk consider this a breaking of the peace pact? The selkie attacked first. The thought came late, forced its way in only after the rage cooled enough for reason to return. He exhaled slowly. Hiding the body would only make it worse. The waters see all.

  He kicked the corpse downstream, if only for Saphira’s sake. The selkie disappeared around the bend, swallowed by the river’s turn.

  When he returned, she sat, still shivering in the dappled sunlight.

  He knelt and pulled her close, his calm voice detached, low, as he assured, “You’re safe. It’s dead.”

  “Thank you…” Her fingers clung weakly to the fabric of his shirt, cold and unsteady.

  Above: Nocturne checks if Saphira is okay.

  He kept her close, warming her with his natural body heat until the tight rise and fall of her breathing began to slow. When he felt the chill leave her body, he brushed his thumb gently over her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

  As Nocturne gathered her scattered clothes, Dusty slipped into place beside her, ears flicking toward the water’s edge.

  He pulled her dress over her head, hands fumbling briefly with the fastenings; Saphira was simply too numb to guide him. He pushed the cold feeling rising from his chest down.

  Now's not the time. Secure her first. He wrapped her in his cloak and lifted her bridal-style into his arms. Blood comes later.

  As he walked through the meadow, Dusty stayed close, stalking his every step from the shadows.

  When the full sunlight reached them, Saphira went limp and rested her head against his chest. He wished she would cry, fret—anything felt better than her numb silence. His hands tightened around her as he strode into Brightwood's rear courtyard.

  Rell stood with a practice sword in hand. His dark eyes took in everything at once—the way Nocturne’s shoulders stayed locked for a fight, Saphira wrapped in his cloak, hair still damp against her skin, her weight held too carefully in his arms.

  Nocturne met his gaze and gave a single nod. The former squire nodded back and ran towards the crowded corridors of the manor.

  In their chambers, Nocturne placed Saphira into the armchair by the window, warmed by the morning sunlight. He draped their bedspread over her shoulders, the sheets smelling of them. Still, the scent of blood sullied the air. He looked down and saw red stains on the hem of his pants.

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  He ripped off his wet clothes and pulled on fresh ones. When he no longer bore the stench of death, he knelt before her, stilling the tremor in both their hands.

  “I got sloppy,” he murmured. “It won’t happen again.”

  “You saved me.” She swallowed, drawing in a careful breath. “You killed it. You didn’t hesitate.”

  He flinched.

  Saphira’s gaze softened. She lifted both hands and gently took his, tracing the roughness of his calloused palms. She brought his fingers to her lips, pressing a soft kiss against them. “These are hands for protecting. I’m sorry they had to kill for me.”

  I hold no guilt for killing. But for failing her...

  His hand caressed the skin of her cheek. The softness felt so tender it made him ache; memories surfaced, unbidden. The cold scrape of the dragon’s claw against his palm. The wet resistance as the claw pierced Crassus’ lung. The life leaving the Duke’s eyes. The strange scent of her father's blood.

  “I’ve..." Nocturne closed his eyes briefly. “I’ve done worse.”

  Above: Nocturne can't forget the past.

  “I shouldn’t have gone in that deep.” Tears welled in her purple eyes. “It… called me a vila. Is that why—?”

  Tsek. His spine stiffened. Of course.

  His own words returned to him, spoken to her in what felt like another lifetime. The closer to white a Vila’s hair is, the more beautiful they are considered. They had been in the Forest of Blood, fleeing Duke Crassus’ pursuit. He had taken off her veil, showing her hair to the world for the first time.

  His hand lifted a lock of her half-damp lavender hair. He let it slip slowly through his fingers, a motion so familiar it felt instinctive now. More nights than he cared to admit, he had found quiet satisfaction simply watching her brush it before bed—and all of it had nearly been taken from him with one careless lapse in judgement.

  Never again. Sentiment or not, I will not fail her twice.

  “We must have been in the Selkie's territory, and they hate the vila. Perhaps it mistook you for one and attacked.” He brushed a stray strand away from her eyes. “During Vandele’s reign, we brokered a peace pact with the Forest Folk to help us fight his ‘spawn. They should not have broken it.”

  She tucked her hair over one shoulder and nodded, though her fingers still lingered around his.

  He noticed the pale line of her throat again, the faint tremor that had not fully left her hands. For a moment, the image of the river closing over her flashed through him, sharp and unwelcome. He resisted the urge to reach for her hair again, curling his hand instead against his knee.

  No rivers. Not alone. Not again.

  A gentle knock sounded against the door.

  Nocturne squeezed Saphira’s hand once before rising to his feet. “Enter.”

  Rell stepped inside. The slave boy he had dragged from a spawnpit was gone. Now twenty years old and almost taller than Nocturne, only the Captain remained. His dark gaze swept the room—the exits, Nocturne’s stance—before settling on Saphira.

  Nocturne shifted behind the armchair, one hand resting against the backrest, the other settling near Shadowrend.

  Outwitted by a selkie—they'll think me a fool. The thought cut deeper than he allowed to show. Ten years ago, nothing slipped past me. Or maybe I simply had less to lose.

  Rell stopped at a respectful distance from her chair. Old habits lingered in the way his gaze softened around Saphira—but there was no uncertainty in him anymore.

  “I woke Verity,” Rell informed, hand resting on Ignis Solaris, “I assumed the worst.”

  “I’m sorry for worrying you all.” Saphira tilted her head toward him and offered a small, apologetic smile. “It’s not that bad.”

  “You’re allowed to worry us, m'lady,” Rell said quietly, relief flickering through his expression as he looked up at Nocturne. “The Knights are awake and ready. We await your orders.”

  “Give us a moment,” Nocturne said.

  Rell nodded once and left the room without further question.

  Nocturne turned to his wife, watching as she took a brush from the side table and began to work her way through the knots. The gesture—so painfully mundane—deepened the creases on his forehead. She doesn't realise how close it all was—to injury, to failure—aye, even to her death.

  “I know it was alarming,” she said, pausing to untangle a stubborn knot, “but you’re all behaving as though I was dragged off into a spawnpit. Truly, it was only an unfortunate swim.”

  “Accident or not, something hurt you.” Nocturne pulled their bedspread tighter around her shoulders, thumb brushing briefly against her collarbone. “Until I know why, I won’t treat it lightly.”

  Either it’s nothing… or a warning. Nocturne’s thumb stilled against her collarbone. No point worrying her until I know.

  “I’ll discuss this with the Knights,” he murmured. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  “I’d rather rest,” Saphira said softly, tilting her chin up toward him, expectantly.

  He understood the silent request. His hand rose to cradle her cheek before he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. He lingered a heartbeat longer than intended, centring himself in the softness of her lips—but not letting himself taste her.

  “I’ll check in soon,” he whispered.

  As he turned, Saphira called after him, “I don’t want anyone else coming in. Too much fuss already over something that almost happened.”

  “As you wish.” Nocturne inclined his head before he closed the door behind him.

  Turning back toward the corridor, he nearly collided with Verity.

  “M’lord,” she said, dipping into a quick curtsy before straightening her round glasses. Her emerald eyes searched his face for answers. She listened in silence as he gave a brief explanation, her expression sharpening with clinical focus.

  “Arnica,” she decided at once. “For the shock and any bruising. Chamomile and lavender tea to settle her nerves.” Her gaze flicked toward the closed door. “She’ll pretend she’s fine. She isn’t.”

  “She’s not.” Nocturne exhaled quietly. “See that she rests.”

  Verity gave a small, knowing nod.

  Any softness remaining on Nocturne’s expression hardened as he strode down the hallway. By the time he reached the study, the Count of Firestone had fully replaced the man who had knelt beside his wife.

  Valentino met him in the hallway, nodding his head, the circles dark under his eyes. He opened the door to the study, murmuring, "Trouble?"

  "Three months without incident. It was bound to happen." Nocturne stepped inside and set Shadowrend upon the desk. The weight of the blade settled heavily against the wood.

  Lucian and Lysander were already waiting, their low conversation dying the moment they saw his face. Both straightened in their chairs.

  "August is on his way," Rell assured.

  The floorboards creaked in the corridor. August staggered in last, bleary-eyed, one hand rubbing at his temple. “Why in the pits was I summoned at this hour?” he muttered. “If this isn’t war on our doorstep, I’m going back to bed.”

  He crossed the threshold—pale eyes flicking first to Shadowrend on the desk, then to Nocturne’s face—and the humour drained from him. He slid into a chair opposite the desk. "What mess are we in this time, Nox?"

  Rell closed the door behind him, his hand settling near his weapon as he took up position near the wall.

  Silence settled over the room.

  “We have a problem,” Nocturne said at last, his gaze moving across each of them in turn. “A river selkie attacked Saphira.”

  August’s posture sharpened; Lysander’s easy smile vanished.

  “I killed it,” Nocturne continued quietly. “And in doing so…” His hand rested briefly against the hilt of Shadowrend. “…I broke the pact.”

  Silence pressed in from every corner of the room.

  No one spoke; they exchanged knowing, cautious glances.