Sapphire held little Volt in her arms, his warm cheek pressed to her chest as she hummed the lullaby she once sang every night. The room glowed softly from the dying hearth, and in the mirror across from her, their reflection shimmered mother and child, bound in quiet love. She smiled faintly, brushing soft kisses on his crown, whispering promises only he could hear.
But then—
The warmth vanished.
She jolted awake with a strangled gasp.
"No !" she cried, reaching out, her arms suddenly empty, cold.
It had been a dream.
Her hands trembled as they folded around themselves, mimicking the shape of her son's small frame. The ache of memory tore through her chest like a phantom blade. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she rocked herself on the rope bed, whispering the lullaby once more into the silence.
Outside, the sun rose soft gold spilling into the room, too gentle for such sorrow.
Sapphire rose from her bed as if her limbs weighed more than her body could carry. Each movement slow, drained, like a doll with loosened strings. She dressed in silence, her motions mechanical, and made her way down the manor stairs, her mood sour.
At the stables, the scent of hay and Stallion sweat clung to the early air. She waited quietly, arms folded, until Asahel finally strolled in his shirt undone halfway, hair tousled like he'd rolled straight out of someone's bed.
"Someone's early," he teased, smirking.
She barely acknowledged him, her expression unreadable as she offered a stiff,
"Good morning."
Asahel tilted his head, giving her a sharper look. "Got up on the wrong side of the bed, sweetheart? Tell me bad dream?"
Her gaze snapped to him briefly, surprised he could read her so easily. But she recovered, her expression indifferent.
"Doesn't matter."
Then her eyes dipped to the reddish bruise on his neck. She clicked her tongue.
"Clearly someone had fun last night."
Asahel glanced down and laughed, hurrying to button his shirt.
"Wouldn't call it fun if I'm greeted with that face this morning."
Color rose to her cheeks. She turned away with a scoff, quickening her steps.
"Hivites men really have no shame."
"Oi -wait for me!" Asahel called, jogging after her with an easy grin.
They both mounted their stallions, Sapphire adjusting her seat as Asahel clicked his tongue and led the way. The hoofbeats echoed against the cobbled path, dust rising with each stride.
Lord Typhon's manor wasn't far from the heart of town, but the winding road and guarded gates made the distance feel longer than it truly was. Sapphire didn't mind. The wind on her face helped clear what was left of her troubled thoughts.
"What's in for today?" she asked, noticing how confidently Asahel led the way toward the bustling market square.
"The usual," he replied with a shrug, eyes ahead. "Coin collection, merchant fees, trade dues. The exciting life of a glorified errand boy."
They reached the town gates where the market already buzzed with life. Stalls brimmed with cloth, spices, smoked meat, and metals. Asahel dismounted first, flipping his reins to a stable lad before helping Sapphire down. Together, they weaved through vendors, collecting silver coins in exchange for permission to trade.
Sapphire's eyes wandered, catching sight of a highborn lady stepping elegantly into a tailor's shop.The way she moved with ease, ordering yards of silk as if silver grew on trees. There was a time, not long ago, when Sapphire had been that woman. Draped in velvet and jewels, issuing commands instead of receiving them. She had taken it for granted the soft life, the servants, the protection of a name.
Now here she stood, dust on her boots, a tax ledger under her arm, watching someone else live the life that was once hers.
Asahel, ever observant, followed her gaze again. "You used to be like that," he said, not unkindly.
Sapphire didn't reply immediately. Her throat tightened as memories of garden strolls, harp music, and laughter under chandeliers brushed against her mind like ghosts.
"Do you still miss it?" Asahel asked softly, his voice gentler now aware of the fine line he treaded, especially since he'd been there the day her clan had turned their backs on her.
Sapphire finally exhaled, her voice quiet. "Not as much… as I miss my son."
Asahel gave a slow, knowing nod. "Fair enough," he murmured, before turning away to collect more coins, leaving her to her thoughts and the ache that never quite left her chest.
As Sapphire caught up with Asahel, her eyes were drawn to the sudden commotion ahead. The market, usually noisy with bargaining and chatter, hushed slightly as ten massive animals dark-coated and heavily muscled—pulled a grand wagon into the square, its wheels grinding against cobblestone. The wagon creaked to a halt at the very center, stationed like a monument. A few curious whispers flitted through the crowd, and all eyes followed the tension in the air.
Then came the second arrival, a polished carriage, distinctively foreign in design, with golden hinges and dark wood that glinted under the morning sun. The horses halted without command. A footman leapt down and opened the door with practiced flair.
Out stepped a man dressed in lavish silk and a deep blue tunic trimmed with silver. His hair was matted and tied into a tail, with both sides of his head shaved clean, save for intricate inking in a foreign script marked on the bare skin. Regal yet dangerous.
His gaze swept lazily over the market square disinterested, as though he'd seen far grander things than this dusty collection of stalls and peasants. He didn't smile, nor did he frown. He simply stood there, radiating the kind of power that made everyone shift uneasily.
Asahel narrowed his eyes as he leaned close to Sapphire and whispered,
"Lord Cassian." His tone was quiet but carried a hint of caution, drawing her attention to the man stepping out of the carriage. Sapphire's gaze fixed on him, feeling the weight of his presence in the bustling market.
A bulky man, broad-shouldered and red-faced, hurried forward, bowing low as he greeted the figure stepping from the carriage likely the newly appointed town mayor, eager to impress. Sapphire stood still, observing as Lord Cassian gave a curt nod, not bothering with formalities. With a flick of his gloved hand, he ordered the covered gallons from the wagons to be offloaded and rationed among the merchants.
Sapphire blinked in confusion, her brows furrowed. "Why are they rationing?" she asked, watching the hurried movements and whispered orders.
Asahel's jaw tightened as he turned slightly to her. "The water is no longer fit for drinking," he said dryly.
She frowned deeper. "Since when?"
"Since the storm," Asahel replied, irritation edging his tone. His eyes briefly flicked toward Cassian. "Tensions are high. Lord Typhon and Lord Cassian don't see eye to eye... and Cassian—he's not the type to care who burns, so long as he wins."
Sapphire said nothing, her gaze following Cassian as he walked through the market with the arrogance of someone who knew the world bent for him.
***
Albert Espusio was escorted by two guards through the grand stone corridor of House Viremont , the air crisp with cold and judgment. The doors to the dining room swung open, revealing a long oaken table lined with golden candelabras and silver goblets. The entire family was already seated, mid-meal, the clink of cutlery pausing ever so slightly at his arrival.
The air shifted.
A servant announced him, but the .Duke of Viremont , seated at the head, merely grunted in acknowledgment, not bothering to stand. His hawk-like gaze followed Albert's every step.
"Your Grace," Albert greeted respectfully, offering a short bow before being silently motioned to the seat beside Lady Rosella , the Duke's only daughter.
He cast a polite nod to the Duchess , whose cold eyes barely masked her distaste. The servants promptly laid before him a plate of roasted duck, herbed greens, and fine wine.
"You look ravishing today," Albert whispered to Rosella, lips curled in a sly smile.
She blushed faintly, but her father's jaw visibly tightened.
Silence followed. Tense, measured. As if the Duke were calculating the weight of every word spoken—and those yet to come.
Albert dabbed his mouth with the cloth napkin and cleared his throat, feigning courtesy.
"Your Grace," he began smoothly, voice laced with performance,
"I come not merely to dine… but to speak plainly. I wish to offer for your daughter's hand in marriage."
The hall fell into a brief, heavy silence. Rosella's spoon halted mid-stir in her soup, and the Duchess's eyes flickered with restrained judgment.
The Duke did not even blink
. "You speak boldly, Baron," he said. "But by law, you are still bound in matrimony to Lady Sapphire."
Albert's jaw tensed slightly. He gave a small, mocking scoff.
"She is no lady," he said. "She betrayed her house. Brought shame and exile upon herself. A disgrace to the bloodline."
The Duke's fist clenched subtly on the table, the knuckles paling. His voice dropped, low and sharp as a blade:
"My daughter will not marry as anyone's second. She is far too valuable. And you, Baron, are not worthy of her."
The Duchess gave a satisfied hum of approval, lips curling in smug delight.
Albert forced a crooked smile, swallowing his rising irritation. He leaned in slightly, voice more honeyed now. "I understand, Your Grace. Forgive me, perhaps I overstepped…"
Then, almost carelessly, he added,
"Still, if not for Lady Rosella… perhaps a gesture could be made. There's a parcel of land—Jethro a territory of no great political weight but one I could restore and profit from. It lies dormant."
The Duke's spoon dropped into his bowl with a loud clink. His cold gaze locked onto Albert, full of scorn.
"Ah. There it is. Your true intentions, unveiled."
Albert straightened but held the Duke's glare.
" Jethro has belonged to House Viremont for generations. And though you call it minor, it is governed indirectly by His Majesty the King . What makes you think I'd surrender it… to you, Baron Albert?"
The word "Baron" left his mouth like venom.
Rosella said nothing. But Albert saw her stare—measured, observant. Not surprised.
The Duke continued, "You dare come into my hall, with debts of your own, wearing ambition like perfume, and ask for my daughter and my land?"
Albert's smile was gone now.
This was not going to be as easy as he'd thought.
Albert's expression faltered for a heartbeat before he regained his composure, leaning slightly back in his chair, fingers laced together in mock ease.
"Your Grace," he said, voice smooth but no longer playful, "you speak as though I am some petty merchant come to peddle false wares. I have connections, coin, and the ability to breathe new life into Jethro. Surely a man of your wisdom knows that holding land with no yield is as good as losing it."
The Duke narrowed his eyes. "You dare lecture me on land and yield? Jethro is quiet because it must be. That territory rests on ancient lines. Lines you know nothing of."
Albert's jaw clenched.
"Your Grace, I only offer a chance for prosperity. You speak of honor and bloodlines, yet let your pride choke progress."
The Duchess set down her goblet with an audible clack.
"Mind your tongue, Baron," she snapped. "You sit at our table, not your own."
Rosella finally looked up from her bowl, her voice quiet but cutting. "And yet, he speaks as if my hand were a trinket to barter with."
Albert turned to her, softening. "I meant no disrespect, Rosella. You know I hold you in—"
But the Duke raised his hand.
"Enough," he snapped. "You come into my house, bound to a woman you discarded, asking for my daughter and eyeing my land as if it were for sale. Tell me, Baron did you truly think we were so desperate?"
Albert stood slowly, bowing stiffly, jaw locked. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I clearly overestimated your openness to alliances."
The Duke scoffed. "No. You overestimated your value."
Albert turned to go, tension crackling in the air.
"Do not return here unless summoned," the Duke added coldly. "And leave Jethro out of your thoughts before someone reminds you it's not wise to covet what's not yours."
Albert left in silence, the weight of rejection and calculation tightening on his shoulders. He would need another way in.