Terebinthia.
2307.
Ten and one nights til the full moon.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Liliandil.
Liliandil awoke with a start, the first light of dawn creeping through the gaps in the stone above. The soft glow of the rising sun flickered across the surface of the river, casting ripples of pale light that barely touched her hidden form beneath the bridge. She could feel the weight of the morning settling in around her – the chill of the earth beneath her, the ache in her muscles, the pounding of her heart as it slowly regained its rhythm.
It wasn't the quiet of dawn that jolted her awake- it was the sound of footsteps. Heavy, purposeful, echoing across the stone bridge above. A group of men, their boots pounding against the surface, moving with the kind of urgency that made her blood run cold.
She held her breath, curling further into the shadows beneath the bridge. The sounds of their movements reverberated down to her like the clanging of iron against stone.
They were searching for her.
Liliandil's mind raced, panic fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird. She had to get out, had to flee Terebinthia before they found her. The idea of being trapped, of being caught and dragged back to Boltan, made her skin crawl.
There was no time to think, no time to hesitate.
She couldn't stay hidden under the bridge for long.
For a moment, a flash of Caspian flickered in her mind. The man who might have been searching for her too. She had no doubt that if given the chance, Caspian would come for her.
But no. She couldn't afford the luxury of hope.
She couldn't wait around to be rescued.
She didn't even know if Caspian would ever make it there.
She didn't even know where he was.
There was a war on the horizon, and every second that passed only made the risk greater. She couldn't rely on anyone else to get her out.
The responsibility was hers and hers alone.
The sound of footsteps grew louder, and she knew she had no more time. Without a second thought, she pushed herself up from the ground, careful to keep her movements as quiet as possible. Her heart was a drum in her chest, but she forced herself to breathe evenly, to think clearly.
The jungle felt too calm.
As if it, too, were holding its breath.
The scent of smoke clung to the air, acrid and sharp, mingling with the damp earth and salt of the nearby salt-river. Every nerve in her body was alight, every breath shallow and quick. Her heart pounded against her ribs, insistent and urgent, yet she forced herself to move slowly.
Deliberately.
She crept away from the bridge, pressing herself low beneath the twisted branches of the trees, their leaves rustling faintly above her. The narrow streets ahead were slick with moisture, shadows pooling in every crevice. She made no sound as she moved, each step calculated, swift, and silent. Her muscles were tight with the need to run, to flee, but she knew better. Sudden movement could be her undoing.
The dock was so close.
She could still picture the small boat moored further down, tethered to the wooden planks like an afterthought. She had spotted it when they had dragged her, bound and broken, from the pirate ship. A lifeline, unnoticed in the chaos. If she could reach it – if she could just get across the water – she could be free.
She would find her way to Galma.
A gust of wind swept through the jungle, carrying with it the distant crackling of flames, the shouts of men scrambling still, to contain the fire she had left in her wake.
Her fire.
She swallowed.
But there was no time to think of that.
She had to move.
…
Galma.
Lezlea.
Lezlea sat by her father's side, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The chamber was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the lanterns, casting long shadows against the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and medicine, but none of it seemed to help.
He was pale, his once-strong frame reduced to frailty. Sweat beaded on his brow, though the healers had said it was not enough to break the fever. He had not stirred in days, not even to greet her.
That silence, more than anything, unsettled her.
Lezlea reached for his hand – rough, calloused from years of ruling, of wielding both sword and diplomacy. But it lay limp in hers. His pulse fluttered beneath her fingertips, weak, uncertain.
He was fighting, she knew.
Fighting to stay alive.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Father," she whispered, leaning closer, "please… hold on."
But there was no response.
Only the slow, uneven rise and fall of his chest.
And so, she remained by his side, waiting, hoping, though fear curled like a serpent in her heart.
The soft knock on the door startled her, but she didn't turn her head. Her eyes remained fixed on her father's pale face, unwilling to break the fragile silence that hung in the room.
"Come in," she called quietly, her voice hoarse.
The door creaked open, and Nandu entered, his presence like a quiet storm. He closed the door behind him with a soft thud and moved to her side without a word, crouching down beside her. His dark gaze flicked briefly to her father, but he didn't linger there long.
"You need to sleep," her first-mate said gently, his voice filled with an urgency she couldn't ignore.
Lezlea shook her head, her throat tight. "I can't leave him, not now."
Nandu's expression softened, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and something deeper – that something that she couldn't quite name. "I understand," he said, his tone steady. "But you need to look after yourself too. If you break, if you lose yourself here, who will be left to lead us?"
Her chest tightened at the thought. She couldn't afford to break. Not now. "I... I can't," she whispered. "Not when he needs me."
Nandu's hand rested briefly on hers, grounding her. "He needs you strong, Lezlea. And we need you too. You are more than just the captain of the Syren's Dagger. This... it's not just about him. It's about all of us."
The weight of his words settled heavily on her. For a moment, she closed her eyes, drawing in a shaky breath.
"I don't know if I can be strong," she murmured, barely audible.
"You don't have to do it alone," Nandu said, his voice firm yet kind. "We're all here. But you need rest. Just a little time, so you can be the leader you were born to be."
She nodded slowly, her eyes still on her father's still form. She longed to stay, but the exhaustion pressing on her body and mind was becoming too much to fight.
"Just a moment," she said quietly, standing up from her chair. She moved to the small cot in the corner, where she would allow herself to rest for a moment.
Nandu lingered for a moment before standing as well, a quiet promise in his eyes. He would stand guard while she found the strength to rest.
…
Terebinthia.
Liliandil.
Liliandil crouched in the shadows near the docks, hidden behind a stack of crates that smelled of salt and mildew, nestled at the edge where city met jungle. The sounds of the river swirled around her – the creak of ships moored to the pier, the shouts of dockhands loading goods, the occasional clink of coin as traders exchanged wares. It was a world of motion and noise, yet she remained still, her eyes darting between the men speaking in low voices just a few paces away.
The hours stretched, each one pressing against her with unbearable weight. Hidden beneath the thick canopy, she remained still, forcing herself to ignore the ache in her limbs, the tremble of exhaustion threatening to take hold. The fire had long since died down, leaving only the scent of charred wood lingering in the humid air. But the city had not yet settled.
Boltan's men would be searching for her.
The jungle, thick and tangled, cloaked her in its damp embrace. The heat clung to her skin, beads of sweat tracing slow paths down her spine. She barely dared to breathe. From her hiding place, she watched the docks, the way torches flickered against the inky blackness of the river, their golden glow casting long, dancing shadows.
She could not move yet. Not until the darkness was absolute.
And so, she waited.
Cicadas sang in steady waves, their cries weaving into the hush of rustling leaves. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance. A branch snapped – a monkey, perhaps, or something else slinking through the undergrowth.
She did not flinch.
She had learned long ago to fear men more than beasts.
Then, at last, the night fell. A thick, endless black, swallowing the city whole.
Heart pounding, she rose to a crouch, her limbs stiff from inaction. The jungle, so calm and unbothered by human concerns, shifted as she did, its breath steady, eternal. She moved carefully, letting the shadows envelop her, her bare feet soundless against the damp earth.
The boat.
Freedom.
She reached for the magic, that strange, simmering force within her.
It was different that time. Before, it had erupted from her in desperation. But under the Terebinthian moon, she called upon it with intent, with control. She closed her eyes and reached, feeling the heat of the torches along the docks, the flickering flames dancing in their sconces.
And she took their light.
One by one, the torches sputtered, their flames stretching toward her before vanishing into nothing. Darkness swallowed the docks in an instant. A chorus of startled cries rang out – sailors and merchants shouting, scrambling, knocking into crates and barrels.
"What happened?"
"Get a lantern!"
"Who put out the damn torches?"
Panic rippled through them like a wave. She moved with it, silent and swift, slipping between shadows as they fumbled to relight their lamps.
Closer.
She kept her breath steady, her focus sharp. A man stumbled past her, cursing, but his eyes were blind in the sudden dark.
Closer.
The boat rocked gently in the water ahead, tethered loosely to the dock. Small, but sturdy. It would have to do.
She darted forward, the scent of salt and damp wood filling her lungs. The sound of boots scuffing against planks told her they were regaining control, but it didn't matter.
Fingers like iron clamped around her upper arm, yanking her back into the shadows just as the nearest torch flared back to life.
She barely bit back a gasp, her heart slamming against her ribs.
The sudden brightness cast long, jagged shadows across the dock, revealing figures rushing about, desperate to restore order. But she did not look at them. She looked at the man standing just beyond the edge of darkness, where the firelight painted his features in flickering gold and crimson.
The broad brim of his hat cast a partial shadow over his face, but she could still see the pale gleam of his left eye, the heavy scars that twisted the skin around it. The pirate captain. Boltan's ally.
Her captor's grip was firm, but not cruel. Not dragging her forward – pulling her back. Away from the firelight. Away from Milir's piercing gaze.
The captain hadn't seen her yet. He stood at the edge of the dock, watching the chaos unfold, the flames from the distant palace still licking at the sky. The firelight flickered across his scarred face, his unreadable expression cast in shades of crimson and gold.
Liliandil barely breathed, her heart hammering as she twisted slightly, trying to glimpse the one who held her.
Not a soldier.
Not a pirate.
Then who?
Liliandil barely had time to react before a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the gasp that had nearly escaped her lips. Her pulse roared in her ears, her body tensing to fight, to flee – until she turned and found herself staring into a familiar face.
Drinian.
Relief flooded through her, but he gave her no time to react. His expression was urgent, his finger pressed firmly against his lips in silent command. Do not make a sound. She swallowed hard and nodded. Slowly, he released her, but his grip on her arm remained firm as he guided her deeper into the shadows of the narrow alley.
Beyond the cover of darkness, Captain Milir prowled the dock like a wolf on the scent, his pale blue eyes scanning the shadows, his head turning sharply at the slightest sound. He moved with the unsettling patience of a predator, his gloved fingers twitching toward the hilt of his cutlass.
Liliandil barely dared to breathe. The scent of salt and charred wood clung to the air, mingling with the distant smoke still curling from the burning palace. The shouts of sailors and merchants rang through the night as they scrambled to relight the torches she had snuffed out with her magic, but even amid the noise, Milir remained eerily focused, his gaze shifting along the dock as if he could sense her presence.
Drinian's grip on her wrist tightened, anchoring her, as they watched the pirate captain pause at the very edge of the pier. He stood motionless for a moment, listening. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and strode away, disappearing into the night.
Liliandil exhaled shakily, her body still thrumming with adrenaline.
Drinian turned to her, his eyes dark with urgency. "We need to move. Now."
They moved like shadows, every step measured and quiet. The village-city, abandoned by its earlier chaos, lay silent behind them, but Liliandil could still feel the heat of the fire licking at her skin, the crackle of flames in the distance a constant reminder of the destruction she had left behind.
Drinian's hand was a steady presence on her arm, guiding her forward, his movements smooth and practiced. They stayed low, crouching behind crates and barrels, dodging the occasional sailor who wandered past, none of them looking closely enough to notice the two figures slipping through the darkness.
The sailboat was anchored at the far end of the dock, barely visible under the dim moonlight. It was small, but sturdy, the sails still furled and waiting. They didn't need much – just enough to get them far from the chaos of Terebinthia, away from the hell they had narrowly escaped.
Liliandil felt her heart hammering in her chest as they approached, each of her movements deliberate, trying to make as little noise as possible. Her fingers tingled with the need to do something, anything, to help them. But she refrained. The magic that had burned so brightly earlier was now a steady hum beneath her skin, coiled tight, waiting for her command.
But there was no need for it – yet.
Drinian reached the boat first, his hands nimble as he untied the ropes holding it in place. He turned to her, his expression tense but focused. "Get in. I'll push it out."
Liliandil nodded, sliding into the small boat with careful grace. The wood creaked under her weight, but it held steady. As she crouched low in the boat, her eyes caught the distant glow of torches moving in their direction.
"Quickly," Drinian whispered, his voice low and urgent.
She didn't need to be told twice. Her hands found the edge of the boat as Drinian pushed it into the water with a quiet grunt. The boat slid away from the dock, the water softly lapping against its sides. They moved silently, away from the dock and into the dark expanse of the river.
The village receded behind them, its smoke and chaos fading into the night. With each passing moment, they put more distance between themselves and the nightmare that had unfolded there. The only sounds now were the soft dip of oars in water and the faint, rhythmic pulse of their hearts.
They had escaped.
For now.