Terebinthia.
2307.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Liliandil.
The mansion burned, a pyre against the night sky as she fled.
Flames licked hungrily at the walls, turning white stone black, devouring the lush tapestries and gilded wood that adorned Boltan's seat of power. Smoke billowed upward, thick and choking, blotting out the stars.
The jungle was alive with noise – panicked shouts, the crackling of fire, the distant clang of bells. But Liliandil did not stop. She did not look back.
Her bare feet pounded against the earth, her breath ragged, her skin still glowing faintly, embers of power curling at her fingertips.
Liliandil moved swiftly through the narrow streets, her heart pounding in her chest as she pulled her dark cloak tighter around her shoulders. The night air was cold against her skin, but the chill didn't bother her – her mind was far too consumed with the chaos she had just unleashed.
Every step took her farther from Boltan, farther from the grip of Terebinthia's oppressive walls.
As she ran, she discarded the diaphanous silk and gold that had adorned her like a prisoner's uniform, the fluttering fabric left to trail behind her like forgotten promises. The city was full of life, yet her movement through it felt surreal, as if she were a shadow passing through a world of living statues. Her hair, once flowing and radiant, she wrapped tightly in a dark cloth she had snatched from a clothesline, secured with her golden pin, and she had pulled bits of torn fabric from other lines to obscure her features.
She couldn't risk being recognized.
Too many had seen her at the feet of their king.
Too many had seen her paraded about behind the prince.
The bells tolling in the distance broke through her fog of concentration; the deep, mournful clangs sending a ripple of dread through her.
The fire had spread.
They would find Boltan and the chain and realise it had been her.
Her pulse quickened, and her steps faltered.
She couldn't outrun them forever, but she had to try.
…
Drinian.
Drinian woke to chaos. The tolling of bells clashed with frantic shouts, echoing through the stone streets like a war cry. He bolted upright, his pulse quickening. Something was wrong.
Throwing on his coat, he rushed to the door of the modest inn where he had been staying. The moment he stepped outside, a wave of humid air, thick with the acrid scent of smoke, hit him. People ran past in a frenzy, their voices overlapping in panicked cries.
"The palace is on fire!" a man shouted as he rushed by.
Drinian's breath hitched.
The palace.
His first thought was Caspian and Lezlea – had they made their move? Had the plan begun without him? He turned his head toward the horizon, and there it was: an ominous red glow, flickering angrily against the night sky.
The jungle sounds had changed – no longer just the constant hum of insects and the rustling of unseen creatures. The city itself felt alive with fear, the firelight painting long, distorted shadows along the white-stone walls.
Drinian pushed forward, weaving through the throng of people spilling into the streets. The city, which had been so eerily serene just the day before, now trembled with hysteria. Merchants abandoned their stalls, goods trampled beneath fleeing feet. Women clutched their children, dragging them away from the looming inferno, their cries sharp against the cacophony. Men shouted orders at one another, some running toward the palace with buckets, others standing frozen, their faces illuminated by the glow of the flames.
The bells continued their frantic tolling, their deep clangs reverberating through the domed rooftops. Smoke curled through the streets, thick and suffocating, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of burning wood and something far worse—charred stone, melted gold, the remnants of whatever lavish excess had once filled the palace halls.
A man shoved past Drinian, his face streaked with soot. "The fire—it's not natural!" he gasped. "It's— it's—" He trailed off, his eyes wide with terror before he stumbled forward, disappearing into the mass of bodies.
Not natural? Drinian's gut twisted. If it wasn't Caspian's doing, then whose?
"We can't put it out!"
"A cursed fire, sent by Tash!"
He forced his way through the chaos, but the closer he got to the palace, the harder it became. The heat pressed down like a living force, suffocating, relentless. More guards flooded the streets now, barking orders.
"Get to the wells!" one of them roared. "Douse the buildings before it spreads!"
But the fire was already spreading. Flames licked up the white stone walls, devouring the rare jungle vines that the Terebinthians had once boasted about. The palace, built to defy time and war, had become a pyre against the night.
And then, between the gaps in the frantic crowd, Drinian saw her.
A lone figure, wrapped in the glow of the inferno, slipping into the shadows beyond the flames. Her silhouette wavered like a mirage, but he knew.
Liliandil.
His pulse thundered.
She was alive.
And she was running.
But just as quickly as he'd glimpsed her, she was gone – swallowed by the chaos and terror that gripped the city.
The streets were thick with smoke, the acrid scent burning his lungs as he pushed through the panicked crowd. Terebinthians shouted over one another, their voices rising in fear and confusion. Some ran toward the fire, buckets in hand, while others fled in the opposite direction, clutching their children and valuables. The clang of the alarm bells was relentless, their tolling merging with the frantic cries of the people.
Drinian's gaze darted through the sea of bodies, searching for another glimpse of her, for any sign that he had not imagined the glowing figure against the inferno.
But the shifting crowd swallowed everything whole.
…
Liliandil.
She took a sharp turn down an alley and found herself beside a bridge, its stone pillars rising like ancient guardians above a fast-moving stream. The sound of the water crashing below was oddly soothing, as if it whispered of escape and freedom, of a world beyond Terebinthia's cruel hands.
Liliandil crouched beneath the bridge, hidden from the view of the streets. Her breath was shallow, her body trembling from both the run and the overwhelming weight of what she had done.
And the stars above her were so distant, they did not lend to her their glow.
She only had herself.
She pulled herself closer to the stone, curling up beneath the shadows where the damp earth seeped into her clothes. She had never allowed herself to rest in such a way before – not since the days of her childhood, when she had slept beneath the glow of her father's table. But there was no time to search for a more secure place. She was exhausted, her body sore from the tension and fear of her escape.
Her eyelids fluttered as the cold and the darkness enveloped her.
The sounds of the city faded, the distant tolling of the bells growing faint as sleep stole over her, pulling her deeper into its embrace.
Her thoughts tangled together like strands of thread. One moment, she was aware of the cold stone beneath her, the sound of the river rushing past. The next, the world blurred, and the lines between dreams and reality disappeared. Her breath slowed, and sleep claimed her at last, her body still but her heart beating the rhythm of freedom.
When she awoke, she would be alone again, but she would be one step closer to stopping Boltan's dark ambitions. One step closer to returning to Caspian. But for that moment, beneath the bridge and wrapped in stolen cloth, Liliandil let the darkness comfort her, for it was the only thing she could trust.