Chapter 3

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SAPHIRA

The Inner Keep, Castle Renatus

From the moment Saphira exited The Grand Hall of the Ancients, a wave of servants swept over her, preparing her for the wedding. They fitted her into a dress of white silk satin with a bodice brocaded in ivory and gold thread. Emblems of the rose and rowan tree decorated the train and skirt, all trimmed with lace and orange blossom.

They took out the pink pearls Ginny had threaded in Saphira’s pale lilac hair, and then brushed her hair through with almond oil and rowanberries. They re-braided her hair so not a single strand fell freely, and they threaded in beads of purple pearls, with a headband of amethyst and crystalith, set in white gold.

As the servants went to replace Saphira’s crystalith studs with hanging gold and sapphire earrings, she stopped them, saying, “These were…a gift.” She touched the studs and thought of her mother—the one item of her mother’s that her father had not confiscated. “I don’t take them off—ever.”

The servants backed away, exchanging wary glances as if the Duke himself were watching.

The sun hung heavy in the sky, spreading faint streaks of orange across the pale blue. Saphira had half-expected a servant to come rushing into the room to announce the wedding had been cancelled, that it had been some sort of sick joke—or that the Ashen Knight had changed his mind and wanted Celestine instead.

Finally dressed and alone for a moment, Saphira stood in front of the mirror and exhaled.

“I never thought I’d leave this place,” Saphira said, looking out the window. She saw the sun setting and swallowed, feeling her mouth turn dry. “I will be a wife. A mother.” She looked herself directly, seeing the gold flecks shine amongst the deep, striking purple of her eyes, and breathed, “I will be free.”

Without knocking, Celestine swept into the chambers. She wore a dress of lavender silk, interspersed with beads of white pearl and gold, and the faint whiff of rowanberries and orange blossom clung to her skin. Her pale violet eyes could not hide the tinges of red where tears had come. She murmured, “They measured me for that dress in Lux. I asked for the orange blossom detail. They’re my favourite.”

Saphira’s expression softened. “We can trade places…or we could ask the blacksmith to stand in—with a veil, no one would know—although, he is a tad fatter and hairier than me.”

Celestine’s full red lips pressed into a tight smile as the soft rustle of her silk gown mingled with the quiet crackle of the hearth. She ran her fingers over the off-cuts of lace strewn on the tapestried walnut seat, her gaze full of sorrow and longing. She said, “I had my final fitting yesterday—I thought I’d be standing there, in that dress.”

Saphira’s voice softened, “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I know—and that’s why I can’t stay mad at you. I’m sorry I lashed out earlier.” Celestine deflated slightly as she bent down, smoothing her lavender silk gown. “I’m in shock.”

“So was I,” Saphira breathed. “I don’t want this to come between us, Celeste. I don’t care how much Father punishes me—if you love Lord Nocturne, I won’t walk down that aisle.”

Celestine burst into tears. Saphira held her close. “I don’t love him, Saph. Not him.”

“Another?”

Celestine nodded mutely.

“But if you love someone else, why were you set on marrying Lord Nocturne?”

“Because at Firestone, I would have been free—to do what I want, to be with whom I choose.”

“But you would’ve been married.”

“Nocturne understands my situation,” Celestine said bluntly, her expression heavy with sorrow. “What matters is who holds my heart.” Her voice, low and steady, seemed to blend with the gentle creak of the wooden beams overhead, as a storm brewed outside. “As long as I’m under Crassus’ thumb, I’ll never be free. Nocturne knows this.”

“Then why did he pick me? It makes no sense.” Saphira shook her head. “Father insulted Lord Nocturne—was it revenge? Father can be charming, so why was he so hostile towards Lord Nocturne? Why choose now to—”

“To take off his mask?” Celestine replied bitterly. “You’re going to be miserable, Saph. And not just because you can hardly speak the language. The Firestone fief is harsh—mountain folk are stubborn in their ways, and unwelcoming to outsiders. Life there is hard—I would not live there if I didn’t have love.”

Saphira’s fingers hovered over her braided hair. “I’d rather have a hard life than no life at all.” She sighed. “I doubt it will be loveless, Celeste. Maybe Lord Nocturne…” she bit her lip. “Do you think he could…?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Celestine said, smoothing the long sleeve of her gown as she leaned in. “To him, marriage is a contract—a duty, love is a liability, a weakness.” Her painted red lips pressed into a tight line. “He lives to work—and his work is killing monsters. It is not a life you want to share.”

“That sounds...lonely,” Saphira murmured, her fingers clutching the sleeve of her dress.

Celestine tilted her head, her vividly purple hair catching the firelight. “Perhaps. But loneliness suits him—and it protects him. He won’t let a woman into that.” A pause settled over them, and Celestine took a moment to let the crisp evening air cool her rouged red cheeks.

“How do you know so much about him?” Saphira’s violet eyes searched Celestine’s expression, but her sister’s courtly mask betrayed no secrets. “Will he be kind?”

“He’ll treat you with all due respect, but he won’t give you his heart.”

Saphira exhaled, “So, is this all a game he’s playing with Father?”

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“Who knows?” Celestine shrugged. “Maybe he’s in it for a good time—he wouldn’t dare touch me.” She sighed, the bitterness in her tone slipping through. “He is a man, after all.”

“What does being a man have to do with it? I know I have duties, but surely…”

Celestine studied her for a long moment. “Will this be your first time?”

“Celeste!” Saphira gasped, scandalised. “I would have told you if I had—” Her voice dropped to a mortified whisper. “I’m not married, so how could I?”

Celestine smirked. “Well, have you at least kissed anyone?”

Saphira brushed away the question with a scoff, “Does the mirror count?” Her voice softened. “I…know what to expect. I’ve heard the court ladies talk about their husbands. And… if that’s the price I pay for freedom, then I’ll endure it.”

“Endure?” Celestine raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly have you heard?”

Saphira wrapped her arms around herself, her stomach twisting. “That it hurts. That I’m meant to lie there. That if I’m lucky, he will finish quickly.” Her voice faltered. “That I should pray he finds a courtesan.”

Celestine cut in, her tone gentle. “You should enjoy it too. A man who cares about you—who wants you to enjoy it—will make sure you do.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “And if he doesn’t know how, you teach him.”

Saphira stared at her younger sister, half horrified, half fascinated.

“If you learn what he wants, he will be at your mercy. Oh, he’ll rule over his fief, but when it comes to your marriage bed? You’ll have all the power. If you’re to survive a marriage to a man like Nocturne, you’ll have to learn how to control him.”

Saphira shook her head. “I don’t want to control him. I want us to love each other.”

Celestine’s smile faded, and she squeezed Saphira’s hand. “I know you’re worried. But it doesn’t have to be like the stories you’ve heard. Nocturne won’t love, but he won’t be cruel. And if he does—” her expression darkened, “—I’ll make him regret it.”

A small, sceptical laugh escaped Saphira. “You’d destroy a man who has killed seven spawnlords?”

Celestine lifted her chin. “I’d destroy anyone for you.”

Saphira exhaled, some of the tension in her chest easing.

Celestine continued, “If he’s playing a game, you should play one, too. But if he’s not… then maybe this won’t be the burden you think it is. Either way, this will help,” Celestine murmured, glancing over her shoulder. She reached into the folds of her dress and produced a small glass vial. “My wedding present.” Celestine smirked. “Dab a little on yourself… down there.”

Saphira’s mouth fell open in horror. “Celeste!”

“Whatever he does, it will make it feel good. It won’t hurt.”

Feeling her cheeks burn, Saphira tucked the vial away and whispered, “How will I know what to do?”

Celestine rolled her eyes. “I’m sure he knows. Think of it as practise for next time.”

A chill spread through Saphira. “Next time?”

“Come on,” Celestine said, “Nocturne is playing a game. He knows Crassus wants someone else for you. Someone more… noble.”

Saphira’s cheek grew cold. “How will I get married again if I’m not—” she whispered, “—a maid? Father will—”

“If your maidenhead is the price he pays for executing Golgog, Crassus would call that a good deal,” Celestine said coldly, then she softened her voice. “You’ll marry again. Men don’t know the difference,” Celestine replied, smoothing Saphira’s wedding dress. “Just act coy and they’ll be smitten. And don’t forget—a drop of lamb’s blood on the sheets will fool them into thinking they’re your first.”

Saphira pushed her sister’s hand aside. “I’m not going to lie—”

Celestine cut in, “Do you really think Crassus will let you leave?” She paused. “You’re clever, Saph, and you know Crassus’ mind better than any of us,” Celestine snapped. “Because you’ve sat in on all of Crassus’ meetings, you know his dealings—” Celestine’s voice cracked. “He loves you, Saph, as much as Crassus can love anyone. He’s never going to let you go.”

Saphira whispered, “He made a vow—in front of the whole court.”

“And has that stopped Crassus before? Oh, Saph, I—” Celestine sighed, turning away.

“What?” Saphira demanded, “You’re holding something back. Please, Celeste—”

A demanding knock resounded on the walnut door.

Duke Crassus strode forward, the tip of his cane—a preserved dragon’s claw set in mahogany—tapping sharply against the marble floor before he used it to push open the door. His pale blonde hair gleamed beneath the crystalline glow of his pure crystalith coronet, the delicate structure catching the light like frozen dragon fire. His porcelain skin remained untouched by age, and his steel-blue eyes, cold and calculating, swept the room, his expression unreadable.

He paused, letting his gaze rake over both his daughters with the scrutiny of a jeweller inspecting deeply flawed gems. His lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze landed on Celestine first. “Celestine, my dove, if you must cry, do it sparingly. No man likes a Lady with swollen eyes.”

Celestine's lip curled in frustration, but she bit it back, refusing to show any more emotion.

He glanced at Saphira, his tone sharp. “A wife is not meant to invite lust, Saphira. You should know better than to dress like a courtesan.” He shook his head. “Just hold your bouquet high to cover your chest. I don’t want every man staring at you.”

Saphira’s heart sank at his words. She pressed her lips together, feeling the burn of shame creeping up her neck. Her eyes dropped to the floor, as she thought, Lord Nocturne will think I’m unmarriageable. Will he change his mind when he sees me?

Behind him, a servant carried an enormous hanging bouquet and presented it to Saphira. As she held the flowers, an unsettled feeling ascended from her stomach and constricted her throat. Interspersed amongst the rowanberries were sickly sweet-smelling mountain daisies—a beautiful flower, but nothing close to the traditional white wedding roses. The daisies were highlighted with white river lilies—the flower of death.

“There are no purple flowers,” Saphira murmured.

“You’re mumbling, girl,” Crassus dismissed, turning to Celestine to command, “Escort Saphira and stay close, be sure to show my generosity to the peasants. I’ll be waiting in the cathedral.”

“The purple of our House… it’s not represented in my bouquet,” Saphira said louder, a note of distress ringing out in her voice. “Where is it?”

“It’s near the end of summer, Saph,” Celestine dismissed, her gaze shifting to Crassus, “All the best flowers have probably dried up.”

A lump rose in Saphira’s throat. “Mother had orchids and aster in her bouquet. It was hot when she wed.”

The Duke’s expression fell. Gripping his dragon’s claw cane, he stepped to Saphira and, with his face an inch from her own, he pressed the dragon’s claw into her shoulder and hissed, “You will not speak the name of the dead in this castle, you impudent—”

“Your Grace—!” Celestine exclaimed, grasping her father’s arm and redirecting his cane away from her sister, “—is the consummation to happen in the guest’s chambers? I would like to burn sage and lavender along with the rowanberry. Perhaps some frankincense—they wouldn’t have any of that in the mountains.”

“That spawnslayer wouldn’t appreciate frankincense, nor will it cover the stench of blood which clings to him.” Crassus’ nose twitched as he turned back towards the door. He tapped the dragon’s claw cane on the doorframe saying, “The Ashen Knight is on his way. I will meet you at the altar.”

“As you command, Your Grace,” Saphira said, in a quiet, worn-out voice.

As her father’s heavy footsteps faded down the hallway, Saphira rubbed the red mark left by the cane. She turned to her sister, saying, “Well, he’s in a delightful mood.”

“Are you crazy?” Celestine hissed, “Why would you mention her?”

“I wish Mother were here. She would know how to handle him.”

Celestine said coldly, “I forgot her face years ago.”

Saphira clutched the delicate bouquet of daisies, the sickly, cloying scent of the flowers clawing at her senses. She barely noticed the flowers, her mind a tangle of memories. She tried to call up her mother’s face, but all she had were fragments, distorted and tainted by time and other people's recollections. The one memory that remained crystal clear, however, was the cave. The blood on the walls. Her mother’s helpless sobs echoed in the dark. Why did you let him take me? Her pulse quickened. She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing the vision back into the recesses of her mind. Not now, she told herself. Not ever.

Saphira glanced at the mirror, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw her reflection flicker—her mother's face in her place. She blinked, and the illusion vanished. It’s time to go. I can leave this in the past.

With deliberate slowness, Saphira moved away from the mirror, her steps echoing hollowly through the cool, stone hallway.