Chapter 6: The Night Watch
The gentle rhythm of breathing coming from Lucien’s chair had deepened into a soft, even cadence some time ago. Alistair had drifted, cross-legged on the floor, into a state of utter stillness that was either meditative trance or he’d simply… powered down. Rhydian, seated opposite her, hadn’t moved from his position in over an hour. He was awake, watching her over the small table that now held her sketchbook, an empty blueberry bowl, and his two unstrapped vambraces. He had said nothing, simply observing. She’d redrawn the shadow, adjusted the highlights, and filled in the finer details of the library’s cluttered warmth under the unyielding focus of his gaze.
When she finally set her charcoal aside, flexing her fingers with a satisfied ache, the silence wasn’t empty. It was full. Too full of the quiet fire crackle, the rare certainty of a finished piece, and Rhydian’s undivided attention.
“Are you pleased with it?” he asked. His voice was a low rasp, worn thinner by the late hour and the hushed quiet.
Sera looked at the sketch. She’d captured it—Alistair’s innate chaotic intensity contained within a still moment, Lucien’s peaceful slumber, the way the firelight carved security into the lines of Rhydian’s face, softened but not diminished. “It’s… done,” she said, which was her version of ‘yes.’ “The parts work together.”
He nodded. It seemed to be his primary form of communication.
Moments later, Lucien stirred, blinking owlishly before giving a wide yawn. “Oh.Apologies. The fire hypnotized me.” Alistair stirred a second after, as if coming out of a different time zone entirely. His eyes focused, zeroing in on Sera’s sketchbook. He leaned forward, peering at the drawing.
“Ah,” he breathed. “You’ve managed to translate the inherent vibrational dissonance of this room into a visual medium without losing the underlying harmony.” He nodded once, sharply. “Excellent work.”
It was the highest praise Sera had ever received in either of her lives.
The spell of the evening was ending. Practicalities returned. Lucien, ever the coordinator, insisted on overseeing her journey home, but Rhydian was already standing, buckling his vambraces back on with practiced efficiency. “I’ll see her to her carriage.” It wasn’t a question.
“Rhydian, your soldiers...”
“Are stationed at the perimeter as per my standing orders. My second has the watch. I can walk forty paces to a courtyard.” His tone brooked no argument.
Sera’s return to Seraphina’s cottage was a silent, velvet rush in the comfortable carriage. She watched Rhydian’s dark silhouette recede in the window, standing at attention until the curve of the road stole him from sight. Her sketchbook lay heavy in her lap, a page turned, her world a notch further altered. The bond in her chest felt deeper, anchored by three distinct tethers: Lucien’s hearthfire warmth, Alistair’s humming static, and now, trailing her home like a silent guardian, a new tether—as taut and strong as a bowstring, as fine and dangerous as a honed blade's edge.
Her dreams that night were not of accounting.
She was walking along a narrow stone walkway between two impossibly high, sheer walls. Behind her, she could feel the heat of Alistair’s curiosity pressing forward, a friendlier kind of shadow. Beside her, hand brushing hers, was Lucien’s patient comfort. Under her feet, she felt the shivering engine of the keep, Cas’ presence. And somewhere in the sun-baked alleys ahead, she could sense Dorian’s amused regard. But above her, on the parapets, a shadow moved with her pace, keeping parallel. Rhydian’s presence, always a little ahead, scanning, aware, protective.
When she woke with the dawn, she saw him standing there on the parapet of her own bedroom, clear as her own window frame. The vision faded with the sunlight, but the sensation remained. An annotation made on her soul in fresh, clear ink.
The week that followed the day at Everwood found Sera pacing her own cozy rooms. The sketches of comfort and linen had been folded away. Her current design emerged on fresh pages. A formal dress. The piece was complicated. A lapis lazuli blue fabric she’d been saving, its texture implying depths. The cut was for freedom of motion, but the silhouette spoke of an assertion she hadn't needed before. There were beaded accents, geometric and sharp, catching the light like the facets of the crystals she'd seen, woven from the evermore gel that looked like captured twilight blue bridal silk surfaces. For whom she was making it, she didn't specify, even to herself.
Her world wasn’t peaceful. It was something else. It was becomeing... known?
Three days later, a new kind of message appeared. It was delivered not by courier but by an unfamiliar guard in the somber black-and-silver livery of the Citadel. It was a small, fine wooden case about the size of a brick. Inside, nestled on dark velvet, was a dagger.
Her heart lurched.
It was a weapon, yes, but it was also a work of impossible art. The blade was no longer than her hand, slender and double-edged, a wickedly graceful curve from point to hilt. The metal was a peculiar shade of dark blue steel, like a stormy evening sky, hand-rubbed and gleaming dully. The hilt was wrapped in deep, midnight-blue leather, tapered perfectly for a smaller grip. The guard and pommel were forged from something paler, almost silver, forming the elegant, minimalist suggestion of thorns wrapping a rose.
There was no flowery invitation, no explanation. Only a small, square piece of thick parchment underneath the dagger, with a single line of tidy, uncompromising script, printed in what looked like professional military shorthand. She understood the meaning: for the trivial purposes ahead, get deadly soon, as men speculated left and right.
She picked the weapon up. It weighed far less than she expected, perfectly balanced. It felt like cold promise in her hand. She found a place for it—not hidden, but not displayed—on the high shelf beside her drafting table, leaning against her other tools.A next order.
Later that afternoon, she received Dorian’s weekly update on her business finance landscape. He included a note suggesting she appoint a warehouse man facility somewhere midway between estate territories in Calmount Top. He hoped it might consolidate operations. Sera found herself drafting a reluctant introduction letter to local land representatives. Another piece of paper on her life slowly found routing shift. The pleading quality he excelled at she was suspicious of and tempted.
For now, part of her resistance apparently bending to logistics friction beyond recognition.