Sapphire and Fletcher sat on the edge of a low stone fountain, the bustle of the market humming around them, merchants shouting over stalls, children darting past with sticky fingers, the scent of roasted spices and warm bread thick in the air.
Fletcher looked skeptically at the wrapped bundle Sapphire placed in his hand. "Is this your idea of a meal?"
She gave him a mock gasp. "Excuse me, Sir Fletcher, but that is freshly baked bread with crushed nuts, a delicacy if you ask me."
He snorted, but still took a bite. "Tastes like something the kitchen boys hide under their beds."
"This is not the time to be picky," she replied with a smirk. "Besides, your noble tongue probably can't appreciate real flavor."
"Oh yeah?" Fletcher shoved the rest of the bread into his mouth defiantly, cheeks puffed. "Who told you I can't eat it, eh? A knight fears nothing!"
Sapphire burst into laughter. "You're hopeless."
They wandered deeper into the heart of the market, Fletcher's guards trailing respectfully behind, close enough for safety, but far enough to give the boy space. It was rare, this sort of freedom.
At a colorful stall stacked with pastries, Sapphire paused, eyeing a tray of powdered cakes. "Try this," she said, tearing one in half and offering it to Fletcher.
He took it, chewed thoughtfully, then blinked. "This is… really good."
"Told you," she said, handing him the other half.
He chewed with renewed energy. "Can I get more?"
"Only if you stop calling my bread a kitchen-floor meal," she teased.
The two of them strolled between stands and stalls, Fletcher with a small paper cone of cakes in one hand, Sapphire with her eyes always watching, gentle, amused, and quietly protective.
The noble guards glanced at each other, murmuring something about the strange peasant woman who had somehow won the young Lord's heart and favor, not through title or wealth, but through something far rarer.
Genuine care.
"You'll grow up to be a good knight, Fletcher," Sapphire said softly as they strolled past the busy stalls, her fingers dusted with powdered sugar. "One who fights for both the rich and the poor."
Fletcher tilted his head, skepticism clouding his young face. "How do you know that?" he asked, the bitterness of experience already beginning to chip at his childhood.
She stopped walking and gently took his calloused hands into hers, small, rough palms scarred from wooden swords and relentless drills. She smiled, warm and sure. "Just call it instinct."
He didn't reply. But something flickered in his eyes.
Then, the clatter of hooves and the creak of a polished carriage wheels stole the moment. The crowd parted with reverence and a flash of apprehension as a dark, lacquered carriage rolled to a halt before them.
The footman climbed down swiftly, opening the door with a bow. From within stepped a man who needed no introduction, tall, statuesque, and carved from cold marble. Pale skin, eyes like worn silver, and hair the shade of storm-soaked night. Lord Damien Waydell.
His noble attire bore no crest, only the quiet, unspoken weight of old bloodlines and unapologetic power. His gaze swept the crowd like a predator bored by its prey. It stopped, as if by accident, on Sapphire.
Fletcher stood straight as a rod. "Dad," he said, voice barely a whisper, all the warmth he had shared with Sapphire just moments ago bleeding out of him.
Lord Damien didn't acknowledge the boy's greeting. He simply motioned with one gloved hand. A command, not an invitation.
Fletcher obeyed.
The boy gave Sapphire one final glance, full of something between regret and resignation, before he climbed into the carriage. The footman shut the door behind him with a soft thud.
Lord Damien turned to leave. His foot had barely touched the step when a hand, soft but firm , caught his wrist.
The silence that fell was instant and taut.
The nobleman turned slowly, gaze dropping to the hand that dared touch him, then lifting to the face of the woman it belonged to.
Her.
A peasant. A woman he had tolerated in the periphery of his son's life, but never bothered to consider.
Her eyes didn't flinch from his glare. "Lord Waydell," she said, confidently, not entirely certain if she'd gotten the name right, and not caring.
He blinked, amused. So the street rat had claws.
She took a step closer, chin lifted, voice quiet but sharp as polished steel. "You missed the tournament today. Your son won. He hit every target and bested every boy twice his size."
A pause.
"You weren't there."
He said nothing, but the air around him grew colder.
"I suppose for men like you," she continued, tone not disrespectful but entirely unapologetic, "love is inconvenient. You command with fingers instead of words and think duty is a substitute for presence."
Now his eyes narrowed.
"But that boy," she said, tilting her head toward the carriage, "still looks for you in every crowd. Still straightens up at the sound of your name. Still hopes."
She stepped back, hand dropping. Her final words were quiet, but laced with defiance. "You don't deserve him. But perhaps one day, if you're lucky, he might still forgive you."
Lord Damien didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He simply studied her, as one might an insect that had crawled too close to a feast, contempt mingling with curiosity. A nobleman, a vampire, a predator, bested, for a moment, by a girl with fire in her soul and nothing to lose.
He turned without a word and entered the carriage.
The door shut.
The carriage rolled away.
And Sapphire, heart still pounding, stood at the edge of the market — an ant that dared to speak to a lion.
But she didn't shake.
She smiled.
Because she knew Fletcher had seen everything.
And that was enough.
***
Lady Ixora POV:
Ixora paced the length of the corridor outside her father's study, her heels clicking softly against the polished stone floor. Dressed in her finest sapphire silk, her hair pinned with gold combs and tiny crystal beads, she looked every inch the noble lady she was expected to be. But looks were never enough in Lord Hugh's household, especially not today.
Inside the study, the meeting of Lords was underway. She could hear the low, measured tones of power: Lord Typhon's iron-clad voice, Lord Cassian's sharp remarks, the subtle rasp of Lord Rhydell's few words, and her father's calculated responses. She had been explicitly told to stay out of sight, to avoid Lord Cassian in particular, as if she were some naïve pawn who didn't understand what the man wanted.
Ixora rolled her eyes. As if.
Still, she obeyed. At least partially. She leaned closer, ear to the door, straining to catch a few phrases about the droughts and the failing alliances,
"Eavesdropping, milady?"
She froze.
That voice, familiar, amused, and entirely too confident.
Ixora turned, regaining composure instantly, and met Asahel's mischievous gaze. The knight stood tall in his dark uniform, silver hilted sword at his hip, his expression bordering on smug.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people," she whispered sharply.
"You shouldn't eavesdrop on vampire lords with enhanced hearing," he countered.
Before another word could pass, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him with her. "Not here," she hissed.
Startled but compliant, Asahel let her drag him down the corridor, around a bend, and beneath the old stone stairwell, hidden from view. She let go and sighed in relief.
That's when he leaned slightly toward her and said, low and teasing, "If you wanted to get me alone in a dark corner, you could've just asked."
Ixora's head whipped toward him, eyes narrowing. "You're insufferable."
"And yet, here I am. Under the stairs. With you."
She gave him a deadpan stare, but the faintest smirk tugged at her lips. "You forget I outrank you."
Asahel stepped a little closer, his voice dropping. "And you forget I don't scare easy, Lady Ixora."
A heartbeat passed between them, silence and tension laced together, until Ixora turned her face away, shaking her head.
"You're lucky the Lords are too busy with politics to hear your insolence."
"Lucky, or blessed?" he teased.
She glared. "Push me further, and I'll tell my father you kissed me."
He raised a brow, amused. "Would that be a lie?"
Her breath caught for half a second before she rolled her eyes and pushed past him, muttering, "You're impossible."
But Asahel followed, that same devilish grin still painted on his face, the kind that said he very much enjoyed being her distraction.
Rosella narrowed her eyes at him, arms crossing as she stops to face him. "Why are you even here?"
He gave her a playful smirk, leaning casually against the wall. "Stalking you," he said with a wink.
She didn't smile.
Her sharp glare made him lift his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I'm here with Lord Typhon, as usual. You know, bodyguard duties, lurking in shadows, brooding like a proper knight."
Her expression softened just a little.
"I'm Sir Asahel of House Typhon," he added with a mock-formal bow, then stepped closer and took her hand gently. "And it's an honor, Lady Rosella."
Before she could stop him, he bent low and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, slow, deliberate.
Rosella's breath hitched slightly, a soft blush blooming on her cheeks.
She snatched her hand back a second too late.
"Hmph," she muttered, trying to turn away so he wouldn't see the smile threatening to curl her lips. "You're trouble."
"And yet, you keep pulling me into dark corners," he murmured, eyes gleaming.