Terebinthia.

2307.

4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Liliandil.

Liliandil sat on the cold marble floor, her fingers wrapped around the golden chain at her throat. She tugged at it, over and over, the links biting into her skin but refusing to yield. It was heavier than she remembered, as if Boltan had reinforced it somehow, as if he had sensed her growing defiance.

Her wrists ached, her body bore the dull echoes of exhaustion, but she would not let herself rest. She could still hear the sharp crack of Boltan's fists against Luciel's fragile frame. Could still see the blood.

The door creaked open, and Liliandil stiffened.

Her heart hammered painfully in her chest. Was it him?

But it wasn't.

A girl slipped into the room, a small, trembling figure carrying a tray. She barely made a sound, moving with the hesitance of a rabbit caught in a predator's gaze. She set the tray down and stepped back hurriedly, her head bowed so deeply that her dark hair fell forward, obscuring her face.

Liliandil sat up, her throat dry. "What's your name?"

The girl flinched.

She did not answer.

Liliandil frowned. "Where is Luciel?"

Still, silence.

Something in the girl's posture, the rigid tension in her shoulders, made Liliandil's stomach twist. She would not look at her. Would not even glance her way.

Fear.

Liliandil stared at the girl, a cold unease settling in her chest.

She moved carefully, keeping her voice gentle. "Please," she tried again, watching as the girl methodically scrubbed at a perfectly clean table, refusing to even glance in her direction. "Where is Luciel?"

The girl did not answer.

Liliandil stood, the chain at her throat rattling softly. She took a slow step forward. "Is she alright?"

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

She reached out, just the barest touch against the girl's wrist—

The reaction was immediate. The girl yanked away as though burned, stumbling back with wide, panicked eyes.

Liliandil's breath caught. It hadn't been magic. She hadn't done anything.

The girl was terrified.

Of her.

"He killed her." A broken whisper was all the response she got.

Liliandil swayed where she stood, the weight of the chain at her throat nothing compared to the crushing guilt that wrapped around her chest. The girl had been so small, so kind – her only ally in that wretched place.

Dead.

Because of her.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. She wanted to scream, to rage, to burn everything around her to ash.

But she could do nothing but tug on that golden chain.

Not yet.

But she would.