The morning sun cast a pale glow over the cobbled streets as Sapphire moved alone through the marketplace. Her cloak trailed behind her, catching the dust as she passed shuttered stalls just beginning to open. The scent of warm bread and spiced oil lingered faintly in the air.
With Asahel returned to his command duties, she carried the weight of the morning collections alone. One by one, she visited the shopkeepers, her presence quiet but firm. A nod here, a soft word there. Coins clinked into her leather pouch, heavier with each stop.
Some merchants offered nervous smiles; others avoided her gaze. Yet beneath her calm, Sapphire's thoughts wandered—to Sire Volt, to the ache of loneliness she didn't dare name. The road ahead was long, and duty, as always, did not wait for the heart.
She reached the fabric shop tucked between a baker's stall and a perfumer's booth. The scent of dyed linen and old wood greeted her as she stepped inside. Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows, casting soft lines over bolts of velvet and silk folded neatly on the shelves.
Behind the counter stood a woman, no more than in her thirties. Her movements were slow, almost cautious, as if each step or turn was rehearsed. She didn't lift her head even as Sapphire approached the counter.
"Good morning," Sapphire said, her tone even but firm.
Still, the woman didn't meet her gaze. A shawl was wrapped tightly around her neck, though the morning was warm, and she wore heavy gloves despite the indoor air. But what caught Sapphire's sharp eye most was the makeup, far too much for this early in the day, too thick around the eyes, too heavy along the jaw.
Sapphire tilted her head slightly, watching. Something wasn't right.
She stood quietly before the counter, her hands resting lightly on the worn wood.
"You're overdue," she said plainly, eyes scanning the shelves of untouched fabrics and the dust settling at their corners.
The woman flinched, finally lifting her gaze, but only briefly. Her eyes, rimmed with too much kohl, flickered with something between fear and exhaustion.
"The shop hasn't done well this week, my lady," she murmured, voice low and careful. "We've had fewer customers. My husband is away... and I—I only have part of what is owed."
Sapphire said nothing. Her silence wasn't cruel, it was waiting. Watching.
The woman hesitated, then slowly reached beneath the counter and drew out a small, velvet pouch. From it, she pulled a delicate old necklace, the metal worn but clearly once fine, with a single cracked gem in its center.
"It was my mother's," she said, placing it on the counter with trembling fingers. "I... I'll redeem it once we're able. Please, just some more time."
Sapphire's gaze fell to the necklace, but her thoughts stayed on the woman, on the stiff shawl People wear masks for two reasons: for beauty… or for hiding something broken.
She didn't pick up the necklace. Not yet.
"What happened to your hand?" Sapphire asked softly.
The woman froze.
A beat of silence passed, long and sharp.
Then she smiled, too quickly.
"Nothing, my lady. Just a little burn. Clumsy with the tea kettle."
But the way her voice wavered betrayed her.
Sapphire said nothing, only extended her hand slowly and took the necklace.
"For now," she said. "But I'll return. And next time, it must be full."
The woman nodded, a little too fast.
Sapphire turned to leave, slipping the necklace into the inner fold of her cloak. But as she moved, a breeze from the open doorway caught the edge of the woman's shawl.
It slipped, just slightly.
Her hands darted to catch it, but not before Sapphire saw it.
Swollen skin.
Two puncture-like holes, deep and dark on either side of her neck, like something sharp had pierced her flesh. Not once, but twice. Not a wound. A mark.
Sapphire froze, eyes narrowing in quiet alarm.
The woman laughed, too quickly, too brittle. "Silly shawl," she muttered, her fingers fumbling to wrap it back in place, tighter than before.
Sapphire's voice was calm but edged with quiet suspicion.
"Are you—alright?"
"What?" The woman snapped a little too sharply, then softened. "It's nothing. Just... nothing."
"But those marks—"
"I think you should leave." Her voice dropped low, almost a whisper. "Some things are best left unsaid."
Sapphire held her gaze a moment longer. The heavy makeup. The gloves. The lies.
She gave a small, strained smile. "Very well."
Then she turned and stepped out into the street, the weight of the old necklace in her pocket suddenly feeling much heavier.
***
Queen Dalia sat alone on her obsidian throne, robed in midnight velvet, her crown absent, replaced with a simple braid. Beside her, Aldo, her ever-faithful shadow, stood silent, hands clasped behind his back.
The, the doors groaned open.
A single guard entered, boots heavy with mud, a sack slung over his shoulder, tied with fraying rope. He didn't speak, didn't raise his head. He stopped just short of the throne and dropped the sack with a dull thud.
Dust rose.
Queen Dalia tilted her head, eyes narrowing with calm curiosity.
"…What do we have here?" she said slowly, her voice soft but sharp enough to slice air.
Aldo stepped forward at her side and extended a gloved hand.
"Shall I, my Queen?"
She nodded, her fingers lifting slightly from the throne's armrest.
Aldo offered his other hand, not to the sack, but to her.
She rose, letting him guide her with quiet elegance.
The sack squirmed.
Aldo crouched, undid the knot, and peeled the coarse cloth away, revealing a small boy, bound, bruised, and blinking against the light. His lip trembled, but he held her gaze.
He didn't cry—yet—but the fear was thick in his eyes.
Queen Dalia didn't spare him another glance.
She turned instead to Aldo, who stood silently after revealing his prize, the sack discarded like a shed skin behind him. The flickering torchlight caught the faint sheen of sweat on his temple, but his posture remained poised, ever precise.
Dalia stepped close to him, her gaze steady, voice low and warm.
"You never disappoint me, Aldo."
A faint smile touched her lips, not the cruel one she wore for court, but something quieter. "Always thoughtful. Always timely."
She reached out, brushed an imaginary crease from his sleeve as Aldo stepped closer, his hand sliding quietly to grasp Dalia's, fingers brushing hers with a softness that belied the coldness in his eyes. He had promised her Shem and he had done just that.
"Your child lives," he murmured, voice low and deadly certain.
"But for how long... depends on your loyalty."
Dalia's gaze sharpened, a dark promise burning in her eyes.
"Yes," she said, voice firm.
"Send word to the boy's father. Make sure he understands. That message will bind him tighter than any chain."
Aldo smiled, a slow, cruel curve of satisfaction.
"That will force their hand. They will have no choice but to bend to our will."
He pressed his lips gently to her fingers, then lifted his head, eyes flicking to the pale, trembling child.
"And what shall we do with him?" he asked.
Dalia's smile was ice.
"Whatever we please."
She paused, her eyes darkening with cruel intent.
"Send his locks to his father. Let us see how strong a king's love truly is when it's tested by fear."