Somewhere in the Great Eastern Ocean.
2307.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Caspian.
The crew were weary. Battered.
Bloodied and bruised, they had managed to fend off the pirates.
But at what cost?
He'd not been able to protect Liliandil.
The ship groaned as it rocked on the restless waves, its timbers splintered and scarred by cannon fire and cutlasses. The once-proud sails hung in tatters, flapping weakly in the sea breeze. Smoke still lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of salt and blood. The deck was a chaos of debris—broken barrels, shattered crates, and discarded weapons scattered among the bodies of the fallen.
Some limped, clutching hastily bandaged wounds, while others worked with trembling hands to tend to the injured. Cries of pain and whispered prayers punctuated the silence as the men tried to keep each other alive.
He stepped over the remains of a broken mast, his boots sticky with blood and seawater. His eyes scanned the scene, his heart heavy with guilt and exhaustion.
A young sailor lay propped against the railing, his face pale and slick with sweat. Another crewman knelt beside him, pressing a cloth against a deep gash in his side. Caspian stopped, placing a steadying hand on the older man's shoulder. "Will he make it?"
The medic shook his head slowly, his face drawn. "I'll do what I can, but..."
He nodded grimly, his mind already spinning with calculations – supplies, manpower, time. Every choice seemed insurmountable, yet none compared to the ache in his chest.
Liliandil.
He had failed her. He could still see her wide, terrified eyes, the way she had clutched at him before being wrenched away. A part of him hoped, desperately, that she had survived – that she had somehow escaped the carnage. Another part of him dreaded what he might find if he searched the waters.
The thought made his stomach turn, but there was no time for hesitation. He turned toward his first mate, who stood grim-faced near the wheel. "Start taking stock of the ship. Figure out what we can salvage and what's beyond repair. We'll need to make for the nearest port—if she can still sail."
Terebinthia, by his calculations. An island marked by plague. The thought alone was enough to turn his stomach, but they had little choice. Supplies were dangerously low, the wounded needed care, and the Dawn Treader was barely holding together. He felt the weight of the decision pressing down on him, but he shoved it aside. First, they needed to survive the night.
Drinian nodded, his expression grim but composed, and began shouting orders to the men. They stirred to action, their movements slow and laboured, every step betraying their exhaustion. One by one, the wounded were carried below deck, their groans echoing in the cavernous hold. Others began clearing the remains of the battle – shattered wood, tangled ropes, bloodied swords – working in solemn silence.
Caspian made his way to the stern, where the rail had been blown apart by cannon fire. The jagged edges of the wood framed the horizon, the setting sun casting its golden light across the restless waves. It should have been beautiful, but that eve it felt like a cruel mockery. The sea, his constant companion and ally, felt like an unrelenting foe, dragging him deeper into despair.
He gripped the railing, his knuckles white against the darkening sky.
Liliandil's face flashed before his mind again, her wide, frightened eyes haunting him. He should have done more, been faster, fought harder. The thought of her lost to the sea, or worse, in the hands of the pirates, clawed at his heart.
A faint cough behind him broke his thoughts. He turned to see a young deckhand, no older than fifteen, clutching a bandaged arm. The boy hesitated, then spoke in a trembling voice. "Captain, if we're heading for Terebinthia... what if the plague...?"
He placed a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. "One storm at a time, lad. First, we see if this ship can still carry us. Then we worry about what lies ahead."
The boy nodded, though his eyes were still wide with fear. He hurried off to join the others, leaving the captain alone once more.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the first stars began to appear, faint pinpricks of light in the growing darkness. He stared up at them, searching for some sign of hope, some guiding light to lead them out of this nightmare. But the stars remained silent, cold and indifferent.
Clenching his jaw, he turned back toward the deck. There was work to be done, decisions to be made. And somewhere out there, he prayed, Liliandil still lived.
…
Unknown.
Liliandil.
Liliandil's head throbbed as her eyes fluttered open, the salty tang of the sea air filling her senses. Her body ached, her wrists raw from the coarse rope binding her hands. The deck beneath her swayed gently, and she realized she was aboard a ship – though not one she recognized. The dark sails above bore no sigil she could identify, but the men around her, with their weathered faces and crude laughter, left no doubt in her mind.
Pirates.
They had attacked the Dawn Treader.
She dimly recalled the sound of cannon-fire.
The sound of death.
She barely had time to adjust to her surroundings before rough hands yanked her to her feet. "On your feet, girl," one of the pirates growled, his grip bruising her arm. Liliandil winced but bit her lip to suppress a cry.
She would not show weakness, not to them.
They dragged her ashore as the ship docked, the bustling activity of the port hitting her senses all at once. Shouts of merchants hawking their wares, the clang of hammers on wood, the cries of gulls overhead – it was a cacophony she did not recognize.
Any other time she would have marvelled at the new sights, at the myriad of smell and people.
The pirates pulled her roughly through the crowds, ignoring the curious glances of passersby. Liliandil stumbled as they moved quickly, her bare feet scraping against the splintered wood of the dock. She glanced around desperately, searching for anything familiar, anything that could offer hope of escape.
But the faces were foreign, the language spoken around her unfamiliar.
A stout man with a patch over one eye barked orders to the crew, who moved with practiced efficiency, unloading barrels and crates. He turned to her captors and sneered. "Take her to the auction house. We'll fetch a fine price for this one."
Liliandil's stomach dropped.
Auction house.
Slavers.
But, Caspian had closed the salve market at Narrowhaven.
Where was she?
She tugged at her bindings, panic bubbling beneath her calm exterior. "Please," she began, her voice steady despite her fear, "you don't have to do this."
The pirate holding her laughed, a sound devoid of kindness. "Oh, we do, lass. The coin's worth more than whatever tale you've got."
They dragged Liliandil through the winding streets of the bustling port, their grip unyielding as they guided her toward an imposing structure at the heart of the market district. Unlike the grimy chaos of the docks, this building stood out – a clean, whitewashed facade with intricate wooden carvings along its arched entrance.
Despite its outward appearance of civility, the air around it felt heavy, as if the walls themselves held the weight of countless unspoken horrors.
Liliandil struggled against her captors, her bare feet scuffing against the cobblestones, but their hold on her arms remained firm. She was forced inside, where the brightness of the sun gave way to the dim, flickering glow of lanterns. The interior was far from what she had expected. The floors were polished wood, gleaming as if scrubbed daily. Rows of chairs were neatly arranged before a raised platform at the far end of the room.
Curtains of deep crimson framed the stage, giving the space an air of grim formality. It was a place meant to instill order, not mercy.
And then with a sinking heart she realised what such order, such care meant.
It was no operation that people were ashamed of – trading people in secret; it was an institution, carefully maintained and patronized by people who hid their depravity beneath the guise of sophistication.
A sharp tug on her arm jolted her from her thoughts as her captors led her past a line of others, shackled and waiting their turn to be paraded before the crowd. Some were silent, their faces hollow and resigned, while others wept quietly or whispered prayers to gods who seemed deaf to their pleas.
Aslan help us.
Liliandil's heart pounded as she was ushered into a smaller room adjacent to the main hall. Here, a matronly woman with a tight bun and piercing eyes sat behind a desk, inspecting documents. The woman looked up and examined Liliandil with a practiced eye, as though appraising a piece of jewellery.
"She's a beauty," the woman said coldly, jotting something down in a ledger. "Exotic, too. She'll fetch a high price."
"She's strong," one of the pirates added, his tone eager, as if advertising her virtues might earn him a better cut. "And she holds a spark of magic."
The woman raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "That remains to be seen." She gestured toward another doorway, where a younger attendant stood waiting. "Take her to be prepared."
As Liliandil was led through the doorway, her mind raced, her thoughts tangled in a web of fear and desperation. She tried to focus, to summon the light within her – her magic that had saved her before – but her body betrayed her. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out every attempt at calm. The room spun slightly as she stumbled forward, her captors muttering irritably behind her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to summon even a flicker of the magic that had come so easily to her in the sky. Please, she thought desperately, just a spark.
Nothing.
Her connection to her light felt distant, unreachable. Her frazzled mind couldn't grasp the calm and clarity she needed to call it forth.
And then there was the daylight.
The beams of sunlight streaming through high, narrow windows seemed to mock her. The daytime had always made her magic harder to access, as if the light around her drowned out her own. It was at night, under the moon, when her power burned brightest—when she felt most like herself. In the cold brightness of the day, surrounded by fear and chaos, she felt powerless.
Her captors shoved her forward again, and she stumbled, barely catching herself. A low growl came from the pirate behind her. "Keep moving, or I'll carry you." The threat, paired with his rough shove, made her stomach churn.
She bit her lip, forcing herself to stay upright, even though her legs felt like they might give out beneath her.
The young attendant, who stood waiting at the doorway, led her into another small chamber. This one was bare except for a simple stool and a basin of water.
"Sit," the attendant commanded, her voice firm but devoid of cruelty.
Liliandil obeyed, her mind still grasping. She couldn't access her magic, not like this. Not now. The panic would have to subside first, but how could it?
She was trapped, far from home, without an ally in sight.
As the attendant poured water into the basin and handed her a cloth to wipe away the dirt of captivity, Liliandil stared down at the water's surface, her reflection blurred by the ripples. She barely recognized herself.
Her wide eye, usually brimming and bright with a celestial glow, were rimmed with red, the deep blue-violet of her irises dulled like a clouded evening sky. They darted back and forth, scanning the reflection as though trying to reconcile the face before her with the one she remembered.
Her white-blond hair, normally sleek and radiant as moonlight, hung in wild, tangled strands around her face, clinging to her damp skin. Dirt streaked the starlight-pale locks, dimming their usual brilliance. She tried to brush a few strands away from her cheek, but her fingers trembled, and the movement felt futile.
Her lips, once soft and rosy, were cracked and dry, faint traces of blood marking where the skin had split. She ran her tongue over them absentmindedly, wincing at the sting. Her face, delicate and heart-shaped, bore smudges of grime from her journey and captivity, marring the porcelain-like complexion. Her cheekbones, high and sharp, cast soft shadows on her face, and her chin, though slightly quivering now, was small and elegant, betraying a quiet strength. But it was her eyes – wide and searching – that revealed the depth of her fear, and the faint spark of resilience that refused to be extinguished, no matter how broken she seemed.
She stared at her reflection for a long moment, her breathing shallow.
The face before her was not the proud star's daughter, a beacon of light and hope. It was the face of someone lost, battered, and desperate. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, she reminded herself: even the stars were born in darkness.
Somewhere deep inside, she clung to that smallest sliver of hope.
She was a daughter of the stars. Her light was not gone—it was just out of reach. She would find it again, but first, she had to survive.
…
Somewhere in the Great Eastern Ocean.
Caspian.
Caspian stood at the prow of the longboat, the steady splash of oars cutting through the waves the only sound in the uneasy silence among his crew. Behind them, the Dawn Treader sat anchored in the distance, her battered hull listing slightly as she fought to stay afloat. His heart clenched at the sight of her.
As the longboat drew closer to shore, Caspian adjusted the cloth covering his face, his eyes narrowing at the distant coastline for Terebinthia was rife with plague. The sickness had spread across the land like wildfire, leaving towns abandoned, docks empty, and the island steeped in fear. Yet, with no other options and dwindling supplies, they had no choice but to make landfall.
"We shouldn't stay long," Drinian muttered from Caspian's side, his voice muffled by the cloth tied around his mouth.
"I know," Caspian replied grimly, his eyes scanning the shoreline. "But we need timber to repair the ship and food for the crew. Let's hope we find it quickly."
The boat scraped against the sand, and the crew leapt out to haul it ashore, boots sinking into the soft, wet ground. Caspian stepped onto the beach last, his boots crunching against the pebbles. He took a moment to glance around, his senses on high alert.
The air smelled faintly of salt and seaweed.
As they moved inland, the faint hum of activity reached their ears, growing louder with each step. Caspian frowned beneath his cloth mask. A plague-stricken island should be eerily silent, abandoned, with only the cries of gulls to accompany them. Instead, the sound of voices – lively, bustling, and unmistakably human – filtered through the air.
They emerged from the tree line into what should have been a ghost town, only to find a thriving market spread before them. Stalls of colourful fabrics, baskets of fruits and fish, and barrels of spices lined the cobblestone streets. Merchants shouted their wares, haggling with eager customers, while children darted between them, laughing as they played. It was as though the plague had never touched them.
Or indeed, there had never been a plague.
Caspian paused, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. "This… doesn't make sense," he murmured, his voice tight with confusion.
"Where's the plague?" one of the crewmen whispered, voicing what they were all thinking.
"Perhaps the rumours were exaggerated," Drinian offered, though his tone was uncertain.
Caspian shook his head. "No. Something feels… off." He couldn't shake the unease creeping over him. The market was too lively, too perfect, like a facade hiding something darker.
Still, they had come ashore for a purpose. He straightened, motioning for the others to stay close. "Let's move quickly. Gather what we need and get back to the ship."
As they ventured into the bustling market, Caspian kept his hood low and his mask firmly in place. He couldn't help but feel as though they were being watched, the eyes of the crowd lingering on them for just a moment too long.
As Caspian shifted his gaze to the harbor, something caught his eye. A ship moored at the farthest dock – a sleek, menacing vessel with dark sails that rippled in the breeze. His stomach twisted, his fingers tightening instinctively on the hilt of his sword.
He knew that ship.
The black hull cutting through the mist like a predator in the water, the roar of cannon fire, the splintering wood of the Dawn Treader's deck. This was the ship that had attacked them.
Pirates, he had thought.
Caspian's breath quickened as his mind raced.
"We shouldn't be here," he muttered under his breath, his voice taut with urgency. "That ship–" He nodded toward the dark vessel, his eyes narrowing. "It's the one that attacked us. They'll recognize the Dawn Treader if they see her."
Drinian followed his gaze, his face darkening as he recognized the ship. "Then it's good we left her anchored offshore," he said grimly. "But if they find out we're here–"
"They won't," Caspian interrupted, his voice firm despite the dread curling in his gut. "We get the supplies we need and go."
His instincts, honed over years of battles and diplomacy, screamed at him that they were walking a knife's edge. One misstep, one wrong glance, and their enemies would descend upon them like wolves.
"Gather the crew," Caspian ordered, his voice low but commanding. "We need to move quickly. We'll get what we need and be gone before they have a chance to notice us."
Caspian's hands tightened into fists as he stood at the edge of the bustling dock, his gaze fixed on that enemy ship moored in the distance. Its dark sails and menacing silhouette loomed like a curse over the harbor.
The realization hit him like a blow to the chest – if that ship was there, then so was she.
Liliandil.
Somewhere on that island.
His heart clenched at the thought of her – afraid, alone, and surrounded by enemies.
"Caspian?" Drinian's voice broke through his thoughts, low and cautious.
Caspian didn't look at him, his eyes still locked on the ship. "She's here," he said quietly, his voice laced with both determination and despair.
Drinian's brow furrowed. "Liliandil?"
Caspian nodded, exhaling a shaky breath. "If that ship is here, then they've brought her ashore. She could be anywhere–" His voice faltered as the weight of their predicament pressed down on him.
Drinian hesitated, glancing around to ensure no one was listening. "Caspian, we're already risking enough being here at all…"
"I know!" Caspian snapped, his frustration boiling over. "Do you think I don't know? Do you think I don't want to tear apart every street, every market, every cursed building on this island to find her?" His voice cracked, and he lowered it, forcing himself to calm. "But I can't. Not without risking the lives of everyone else."
Drinian placed a steady hand on his shoulder, his tone firm but sympathetic. "She wouldn't want you to throw away the lives of your crew for her. You know that."
Caspian swallowed hard, the truth of Drinian's words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. Liliandil's safety mattered to him more than anything, but his responsibility as king – to his crew, to his people – was heavier still. Every choice he made carried the weight of lives, and this one was no different.
"We'll gather what we need and leave," Drinian continued. "But if we try to stage a rescue here, we'll never make it out alive. Not us, and not her."
Caspian clenched his jaw, his heart warring with his reason. He couldn't abandon her. But if he acted rashly, he wouldn't just lose her—he'd lose them all.
His eyes drifted once more to the enemy ship, its shadow looming over the harbor like a spectre. "We'll come back for her," he said quietly, more to himself than to Drinian. "One way or another, we'll find her."
Drinian nodded, his grip firm on Caspian's shoulder. "We will. But not today."
Caspian tore his gaze away from the ship and turned toward the market, each step a battle against the instinct to run in the opposite direction.
…
Terebinthia.
Liliandil.
The cool water in the basin had washed away the grime of her captivity, but it did little to soothe the growing panic within her. Her hair, hastily combed and left to fall in loose waves around her shoulders, framed her pale face, while a plain yet clean dress had replaced her tattered clothing. It was simple, unadorned, meant only to emphasize her natural beauty – though she felt like a doll, dressed and displayed for someone else's amusement.
The attendant didn't speak as she led Liliandil through the quiet halls of the austere building, the only sounds the soft shuffle of feet and the faint murmur of distant voices.
Liliandil's heart thudded against her ribs, her pulse quickening as the realization of what awaited her sank in.
She fought the trembling in her hands, fought to steady her breathing, but it was no use.
Every step felt like a march toward doom.
They entered a grand chamber, lit by shafts of sunlight streaming through high windows. The space was unnervingly pristine, its polished floors and gleaming wood contrasting starkly with the vile purpose it served.
Rows of finely dressed bidders, men and women alike, filled the seats, their chatter humming through the air like the drone of locusts.
Liliandil's stomach twisted as her captors pushed her forward, onto a raised platform at the room's centre. The auction block.
She stumbled slightly, catching herself before she fell, her cheeks flushing with humiliation as every eye turned toward her. The murmurs stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence as the crowd's attention fixed on her.
She stood there, exposed and vulnerable, the weight of their stares pressing down on her like a physical force. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the urge to shield herself overwhelming, but she refused to cower. Instead, she raised her chin, eyes scanning the room. Fear burned in her chest, but so did defiance.
She would not let them see her break.
"She's a rare one," the auctioneer's voice boomed, cutting through the silence. A man of sharp features and a calculating smile, he gestured toward her as though she were a prize to be won. "Beauty like this is not often found, even among the finest offerings. Take a good look, my friends – this is an opportunity you won't see again."
The crowd murmured appreciatively, their eyes raking over her as though she were a jewel under inspection. Liliandil felt her skin crawl, her breath hitching as she fought the urge to recoil.
She tried again to summon her magic, to call forth the light within her, but it was no use. Her panic clouded her mind, and the sunlight filtering into the room weakened her connection further. She felt trapped, powerless, her light buried beneath layers of fear and exhaustion.
Liliandil's vision blurred slightly, her mind retreating as she tried to block out his words.
The auctioneer's voice rang out through the grand chamber, commanding attention as the bids climbed higher. Each bid was like a hammer blow to Liliandil's resolve, the numbers thrown into the air reducing her to nothing more than a prize to be bought and sold. She stood rigid, her wide eyes fixed on the floor as she fought to keep her composure.
Then, suddenly, the room grew quiet.
A hush fell over the gathered crowd, a ripple of unease spreading through the bidders. Liliandil sensed it before she saw it—an unnatural stillness that made the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise. Slowly, she lifted her gaze and spotted the figure at the edge of the chamber.
A man had entered, cloaked and shrouded in shadow, his presence commanding the room without a word. The rich fabric of his dark cloak fell in clean lines, hiding his face and form save for the glint of polished boots beneath its hem. Whoever he was, he exuded an air of quiet authority, his movements deliberate as he stepped forward into the light.
The auctioneer paused, his confident demeanour faltering for the briefest moment before he plastered a strained smile across his face. "Ah, a new bidder," he said, his voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "Welcome, sir. You join us at a most opportune moment."
The stranger said nothing, merely tilted his head slightly. Though his face remained hidden beneath his hood, his presence seemed to demand silence from the room. Even the bidders, many of whom were accustomed to wielding power, shifted uneasily in their seats, their earlier bravado dimmed.
The auctioneer cleared his throat and resumed his spiel, though his tone had lost some of its flourish. As the bidding continued, Liliandil couldn't tear her eyes from the cloaked figure.
Then, as the bidding reached its peak, the stranger raised a gloved hand.
The room froze.
The auctioneer blinked, momentarily thrown by the simple yet commanding gesture. "A new bid from our esteemed guest," he said quickly, recovering his composure. "A bold one, no doubt!" He named a figure that drew murmurs from the crowd, but the stranger remained silent, unmoving.
One by one, the other bidders hesitated, casting glances toward the cloaked figure. It was as though his presence alone had drained their confidence. None dared to outbid him, and the tension in the room grew thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Going once," the auctioneer called, his voice ringing out like a challenge.
No response.
"Going twice…"
Silence.
"Sold!" The auctioneer's gavel came down with a decisive crack. He let out a relieved breath, though his eyes flicked nervously toward the stranger. "To our most discerning guest. A fine choice, indeed."
Liliandil's heart pounded as the attendants moved to escort her from the platform. Her mind whirled with questions and fears.
Who was he?
Why had he bid on her?
And what awaited her?
The stranger stepped forward, his face still obscured by the shadow of his hood. As the attendants brought her to him, she felt the weight of his unseen gaze upon her.
He led her from the chamber, her wrists bound in chains, and the weight of his presence pressed down on her like a storm cloud. Her heart pounded in her chest as the murmurs of the crowd faded behind them. She tried to catch glimpses of his face beneath the hood, but the shadows obscured him entirely.
They stepped out into the bright sunlight of the bustling street, and the stranger turned sharply, guiding her toward a waiting carriage. It was an elegant vehicle, its black lacquered surface glinting in the sun, with gilded wheels that spoke of wealth and power. A driver stood at attention, bowing slightly as the figure approached. The air around them buzzed with the energy of the market, but it was as though an invisible bubble of silence surrounded him, parting the crowd like waves as they passed.
Liliandil stumbled slightly, the weight of the chains around her wrists throwing her off balance. The man's gloved hand shot out, gripping her arm with a force that made her wince. "Walk," he said, his voice low and sharp.
Fear and anger battled within her.
She kept her chin raised, refusing to let him see the tears that threatened to well in her eyes.
She would not crumble.
The driver opened the door of the carriage, and the stranger motioned for her to step inside. She hesitated for a moment, but the firm tug on her arm left her no choice. She climbed into the carriage, the soft cushions beneath her a stark contrast to the cold chains around her wrists. The stranger followed, his movements deliberate as he seated himself across from her.
With a flick of the driver's reins, the carriage lurched forward. Liliandil's gaze darted around the interior, taking in the luxurious furnishings. Every detail spoke of wealth and power, but none of it offered any comfort. She forced herself to look up, meeting his hooded gaze.
The hood slipped back slightly with the jolt of the carriage, and for the first time, she caught a glimpse of his face. His features were sharp and striking, his amber eyes cold and calculating, his expression a perfect blend of arrogance and menace.
Handsome, but cold.
Liliandil frowned, her heart pounding as she studied him. She didn't recognize him – not his face, nor his bearing.
The silence in the carriage stretched unbearably until he finally spoke. "You're quiet," he said, his voice smooth but edged with a dangerous undertone. "Perhaps you understand your situation after all."
She bit back the retort that rose to her lips, her mind racing. Whoever he was, he had just bought her, and she had no idea what he intended to do. But her silence only seemed to amuse him.
Boltan leaned back in his seat, his lips curling into a smirk. "I'm Prince Boltan of Terebinthia," he said, his tone both casual and dripping with menace. "And you, my dear, are now under my care. Consider yourself fortunate – had they discovered what you are, you would have been in for a far worse fate."
Liliandil's breath caught.
Boltan's smirk widened as he watched her reaction, his amber eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Don't worry," he said, his voice almost mocking. "We'll find a use for you, star."