Terebinthia.
2307.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Liliandil.
She watched him silently, her bound wrists resting lightly in her lap as her wide eyes remained fixed on the prince. He paced before her with the restless energy of a predator, his sharp features cast in flickering shadows by the single lantern that illuminated the room.
Boltan was smug.
He had his fleet of pirates, and he had his star.
He had drained the dryad of magic.
He had killed Luciel.
He had killed countless others.
All for his greed.
"We will crush Galma, yes, and Narnia after that," his voice filled the air, smooth and self-assured, yet laced with contempt. He spoke to himself rather than to her, his tone dripping with disdain. "And you, little star, you will help me burn the world to start anew. You will uphold the legacy of the stars."
Liliandil remained perfectly still, her expression calm, her lips pressed into a neutral line. But beneath her composed exterior, her thoughts churned like a storm. She had been naïve, yes – naïve to believe she could wander through the world unnoticed, that her light could escape the attention of the darkness lurking within it.
But naïve was not the same as stupid.
Her mind raced, weighing her options, searching for cracks in the armour of the man who loomed over her. Boltan was clever, she could see that. He spoke with the confidence of someone who believed himself invincible, untouchable.
"You think me a fool, don't you?" Boltan's voice cut through her thoughts like a blade.
Liliandil blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. He had stopped pacing and now stood directly before her, his piercing gaze boring into hers.
She didn't flinch. "I think," she said softly, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart, "that you have a vision your father lacks."
His father had only wanted to conquer Galma.
Boltan wanted to conquer the world.
Boltan's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his face. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a smirk. "You're smarter than you look," he said, his voice laced with both amusement and menace. "Perhaps there's hope for you yet."
Liliandil said nothing, her gaze unwavering.
She could feel the weight of his ego pressing down on her, but she refused to let it crush her. If she could keep him talking, keep him focused on his own grand plans, she might find a way to turn the tide.
Her gaze drifted to the table beside his bed, where her hairpin lay. The gift from her father. From Aslan. The sight of it sparked a flicker of hope and resolve. She remembered how upon her first night, his hands had taken it from her hair, how he had admired the strands tumbling through his fingers as though she were some fragile thing to be unravelled.
Boltan turned his back to her, his attention momentarily on the map spread across his desk. He continued to speak, his words dripping with arrogance, oblivious to her quiet movements.
She rose silently, her fingers closing around the pin. It was smooth and cold against her skin, deceptively delicate yet sharp at the tip. Boltan's voice filled the space, unbroken by the sound of her soft steps.
In one fluid motion, she struck.
The pin pierced the side of his neck, just above the collarbone. His words faltered, his body tensing as his hand flew to the wound. But instead of fighting back, he swayed, his eyes fluttering closed as his body crumpled to the floor.
Liliandil exhaled sharply, her heart pounding as she knelt beside him.
The sleep was deep and instantaneous, just as she had seen before when her father's table had been filled with quarrelsome lords. Boltan would not wake for hours, perhaps even longer.
Her hands trembled as she worked the hairpin against the golden chain around her neck. The links were sturdy, but the pin was sharp, and her determination sharper. With a final, desperate twist, the chain snapped, falling to the floor with a faint metallic clink.
She didn't pause to savour her small victory.
The chain was discarded like the shackles it symbolized, left in the shadows where it belonged.
Liliandil straightened, her eyes scanning the room.
She would need a cloak, something to hide her distinctive appearance. She grabbed a dark mantle from the back of the chair and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the map on Boltan's desk, and she hesitated. The markings were detailed, and the plans for the attack on Galma were unmistakable. She could not carry the map itself, but she committed it to memory, her celestial mind absorbing every detail.
Without another glance at Boltan's unconscious form, she slipped out of the chamber. The corridors were dim and quiet, the castle's inhabitants either asleep or too drunk to notice her light footsteps.
She knew she had to flee the city, to find a way to Caspian and stop the attack. The thought of the sea stretching before her, endless and uncertain, was daunting.
But she was no ordinary woman.
She was a star, and stars were meant to shine in the darkest of skies.
She fled.
…
Drinian.
Drinian tightened his cloak around his shoulders as he walked through the winding streets of Terebinthia's capital. The humid night pressed down on him, thick with the scent of spiced meats, burning oil, and the ever-present salt of the river.
The sounds of the jungle were inescapable, woven seamlessly into the city's heartbeat. Even in the depths of the bustling streets, beneath the clatter of carts and the murmur of trade, the jungle breathed.
Cicadas droned in an endless, pulsing hum, their cries rising and falling like the tide. Hidden among the thick canopy, unseen birds called out in shrill, haunting cries, their voices echoing between the stone buildings. Now and then, a distant roar or the rustle of heavy foliage hinted at something larger moving beyond the city's edge.
Water was everywhere, cascading down from unseen heights, trickling through moss-covered stonework, and pooling in carved basins. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers, the mingling perfumes almost overwhelming.
He had found nothing. No sign of pirates, no whisper of a woman with silver hair and star-kissed skin.
Had Lezlea been wrong? Had Liliandil been taken somewhere else entirely?
But there was one truth he had uncovered – one undeniable fact that made his skin crawl.
The plague had been a lie.
He had wandered the streets, spoken to merchants, listened to dock workers, watched the people move through their daily lives with no hint of sickness. The markets bustled, the inns were full, and the harbor teemed with life.
The Terebinthians were not suffering.
They were thriving.
And that, more than anything, told him something was deeply wrong on the island.
…
Liliandil
Her breath ragged and her heart pounding, Liliandil stumbled to the palace gate – to the cold white stone walls that had imprisoned her just as surely as the golden chain around her throat.
And she stopped, her feet stopping as if they had taken root in the very ground.
Luciel.
The girl's small frame swayed slightly in the humid night air, limp and lifeless against the cold stone. The flickering torchlight cast cruel shadows over her delicate features, twisting them into something unrecognizable. Blood had dried at the corner of her mouth, her arms hung unnaturally at her sides, and her eyes—once so full of quiet kindness—were closed forever.
Liliandil's stomach twisted violently. The golden chain at her throat suddenly felt tighter, suffocating.
She had done this.
Not by her own hands, but by her very existence. By the simple fact that Luciel had shown her mercy. Boltan had made an example of her, a brutal warning to any who dared defy him.
No.
She had not caused it.
Boltan had done this.
Boltan had killed the young girl simply for showing her kindness.
He had killed the dryad simply for her power.
She needed to stop him.
She needed to protect those who could not protect themselves.
Liliandil reached into herself.
Deeper.
Past the fear, past the sorrow, past the weight of the golden chain that had shackled her for too long.
She reached for the magic.
And it was as if she were coming home.
It surged within her, warm and brilliant, a light unburdened by darkness. It was not rage that fed it, nor vengeance – it was the need to protect, to shield those who could not shield themselves.
She felt it bubbling to the surface, like an unstoppered well, overflowing, unstoppable.
At first, it was only her hands.
A soft shimmer, like moonlight reflected on water, pulsed beneath her skin. But it grew, spreading up her arms, pooling in the hollows of her collarbones, threading through the strands of her hair like woven starlight.
She was glowing.
The golden chain around her neck gleamed in the growing light, its cruel weight still there, but powerless against the light rising within her. She lifted her hands, and the light swelled, heat rolling off her in waves, distorting the air like the hottest summer haze.
And then—
A spark.
The rare plants Boltan had once boasted of, the ones he had paraded as treasures from far-off lands, began to smoulder. Delicate, foreign petals blackened and curled inward. Leaves withered, vines shrivelled, and the scent of burning greenery filled the air. The light that poured from Liliandil did not illuminate the night.
It consumed it.
And Liliandil did not just shine.
She burned.