Terebinthia.
2307.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Liliandil.
Liliandil stirred, the cold stone beneath her a stark contrast to the feverish heat of her skin. There was no window, no moonlight to mark the passing of time – only the wavering glow of a lone torch outside the iron bars. And yet, she knew it was night.
She could feel it in the clarity of her thoughts, in the way her mind sharpened after the sluggish haze of exhaustion.
Lifting her trembling hands, she traced her fingers over the faint constellation of freckles dusting her skin. In the dimness, they shimmered – soft pinpricks of silver light, pulsing in time with the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.
She exhaled shakily.
The presence of her glow should have been a comfort, proof that she was still herself, still tethered to the sky. But, in the damp, suffocating place, it only made her feel more like a caged creature.
A captured thing meant to be owned.
"Please…"
Liliandil flinched at the voice, raw and broken, barely more than a whisper.
The dryad.
Or at least, what remained of her.
Boltan's threat.
Her skin, once smooth as polished bark, was cracked and peeling, splitting apart as if her very essence was unravelling. Her hair, which should have been a cascade of vibrant green leaves, hung in withered strands. The scent of decay clung to her – not of death, but of something unnaturally severed from its roots.
Liliandil's throat tightened.
"Please," the dryad rasped, lifting a trembling hand, fingers curled like brittle twigs. "End me."
A lump formed in Liliandil's throat, thick with grief and horror. "I—I cannot," she whispered.
The dryad's breath shuddered from her lips, something between a sob and a sigh. "Then you are crueller than they."
Liliandil swallowed, her own helplessness suffocating. She reached forward, fingers brushing against the dryad's wrist – cold, so terribly cold.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, her father's words echoing through her mind.
Dryads are part of the land itself, my star. They are as much Narnia as the rivers and the wind. They cannot die—not truly—unless their tree burns or if they are consumed by the very darkness we protect the world from.
Fire.
The only thing that could sever them completely from the world.
Her gaze flickered to the torches lining the damp stone walls, the flames licking lazily at the air. The dungeon smelled of mildew and old despair, but beneath it all, she could sense the dryad's suffering, a presence that should have been vast and boundless was reduced to a crumbling husk of a form.
Liliandil's hands trembled.
She had never taken a life, not even in mercy.
And yet—
To leave the dryad as she was, to let her continue unravelling into nothingness… That was a cruelty she could not abide.
But she could not reach the fire – she could do nothing but watch as the dryad trembled, caught between life and something far worse.
Her mind raced. There had to be another way.
The faint glow of her own freckles caught her eye. It was dim, barely visible in the darkness, but it was there. A memory stirred – distant, half-forgotten.
You are not like them, my star, her father had once said. Your light is a gift. You must learn to wield it.
Liliandil had never tried.
She had never needed to.
Her light had been second nature to her.
A thing that just happened.
She took a steadying breath.
She pressed her bound hands together, closing her eyes.
She reached inward, toward the warmth that had always dwelled within her, toward the light that was as much a part of her as breath and bone. To that flicker, that spark.
And then she pushed.
A soft glow shimmered at her fingertips, fragile and uncertain. It wavered like a candle in the wind, flickering as doubt gnawed at the edges of her resolve. Liliandil gritted her teeth, pushing past the fear, willing the light to grow.
She had to do it.
She had to help.
Warmth spread through her, gentle at first, then stronger, like sunlight breaking through a storm. She thought of the great halls of her father's home, of stars that never faded, of kindness and mercy. She thought of the dryad before her, broken and pleading, and she willed the glow to stretch outward, to embrace rather than consume.
The dryad gasped, her breath catching as the light touched her. The glow swelled, spreading like the first tender rays of dawn, curling around the dryad's withered form. It was not fire – not exactly – but it was enough.
It was warm.
A shudder ran through the dryad's body, her features slackening, pain melting into something like peace. Her form flickered, edges dissolving into golden embers, soft and slow, drifting upward like autumn leaves caught in a breeze.
Tiny flecks of light scattered into the air, winking out one by one.
For a long moment, Liliandil knelt there, bathed in the lingering warmth, her hands still outstretched. Then the last ember faded, and the cell was dark once more.
Ashes scattered across the stone floor, a whisper of wind rustling through the still air.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
The sound of footsteps sent a jolt of fear through Liliandil's body. She tensed, pressing herself against the damp stone wall, her breath shallow. The flickering torch outside the cell cast long shadows, and for one terrible moment, she was certain it would be him.
Boltan.
Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms as she braced for whatever cruelty he might bring. But when the figure stepped into view, it was not the prince.
It was the slave girl.
She carried a wooden tray, her steps light and careful, her eyes darting toward the corridor behind her. She knelt and set the tray down, the scent of stale bread and weak broth filling the cell.
Liliandil exhaled shakily, though her body remained taut, her instincts slow to release their grip.
"You did it," the girl murmured, her gaze flicking to the pile of ashes at Liliandil's feet. There was something unreadable in her eyes—fear, awe, perhaps both.
Liliandil, still breathless from the effort, finally turned to look at the girl. "Your name," she said, voice hoarse. "I never asked."
The girl hesitated. Then, after a moment, she straightened her back. "Luciel," she said. "Named for one of the old queens."
Liliandil almost snorted, wondering what Lucy would say to being called old. Though she had met the queen but once, she did not think the woman would take kindly to it. But before she could ask more, Luciel pushed the tray toward her.
"Eat," she said. "You'll need your strength."
Liliandil eyed the food warily. "Why are you helping me?"
Luciel's lips pressed into a thin line. She glanced toward the barred door, listening for movement beyond it before whispering, "Because you're not the only one who wants to get out of here."
