Somewhere in the Great Eastern Ocean.
2307.
Two-score and four nights til the full moon.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Liliandil.
The first rays of sunlight spilled through the small window, painting the State Room in hues of gold and pale rose.
Liliandil sat before the vanity, gazing at her reflection in the polished glass. Loose strands of white hair framed her face, softened by sleep and salt air, but it was not her hair that held her attention.
Her fingers drifted over the bridge of her nose, tracing the small silver freckles dusted across her skin. They did not sparkle like the dryads' or the naiads' – not in the daylight. Their pigment was not woven through with magic that shimmered like the surface of a river or the petals of enchanted flowers. But under the starlight, they would shine, faint and soft, like echoes of the sky she had once called home.
A quiet sigh escaped her lips.
Liliandil gathered her hair in her hands, the long white strands slipping like silk through her fingers as she began to braid them once more. On her father's island, she had left it unbound, free to catch the breeze and spill over her shoulders like starlight. But aboard the ship, it was different. The wind could turn fierce in an instant, and the rigging was no friend to loose hair.
Rising from her seat, she moved to where she had laid out her clothing: a fresh linen shirtand a pair of breeches like the men wore. She had never worn such things before setting foot on the Dawn Treader, but she had quickly learned their value. Skirts, for all their beauty, were impractical upon a ship – too easily caught in the wind, too easily tangled when climbing the steps or moving about the deck.
Still, she loved them. Loved the way they flared when she twirled, the way they whispered around her legs when she walked. Perhaps, when they reached land again, she would wear them once more.
Her hand hovered over the hairpin. Long and golden, it gleamed softly in the morning light, catching the sun's rays like a drop of fire.
A gift from her father.
She traced its smooth surface with her fingertips, remembering the moment he had pressed it into her palm, though it had been in a different form.
It had been a knife – used to kill the Great Lion.
Her father's voice had trembled with tenderness as he had placed the knife in her hands. "My sweet, sweet Lili," he had murmured, his gaze lingering on her face as if memorizing every detail. The knife gleamed faintly in the dim light of the garden, its jagged edges and cruel shape at odds with the gentle hands that held it.
Liliandil had turned it over slowly, her delicate fingers tracing its harsh lines. The blade felt cold, almost foreign, as if it carried a weight that did not belong to her. It was a relic of darker times, a weapon meant for sacrifice, not protection.
Yet, as she held it, something began to shift.
The change was subtle at first – a faint warmth spreading through her palm, the knife's edges softening, smoothing. A glow, gentle and golden, began to emanate from the blade, and as she watched in awe, it transformed before her eyes.
Where once there had been a crude and brutal weapon, there was something elegant and beautiful. The knife had become slender and delicate, its shape no longer menacing but refined. Its hilt shimmered with an intricate design that reminded her of constellations, and its blade – thinner, lighter – seemed to hum softly with a quiet power.
As she stared in wonder, the weapon reshaped itself again, its form shifting to fit her perfectly. It was no longer a blade but a hairpin, exquisitely crafted, with a delicate point and a spiralled design that mirrored the patterns of the stars she had once called home.
She had held it up, the golden pin catching the starlight, and for a moment, she could almost feel Aslan's presence, warm and reassuring. It was no ordinary transformation, nor was it the touch of her own father's magic. It was as though the Great Lion himself had touched it, shaping it into something not only practical but also a reflection of her own grace and strength.
Ramandu had stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Go, my sweet Lili. See the world, as you have always longed to. Shine your light where it is needed most."
With a quiet breath, she fastened the pin into her braid, securing the starlight strands in place. The gold nestled there like a piece of the sun caught in moonlight.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She straightened, smoothing a hand over the simple linen of her gown.
"Come in," she said, her voice quiet.
The door creaked open, and when she turned, Caspian stood in the threshold, framed by the warm morning light. His dark hair was tousled from sleep or the wind, and for a moment, he simply looked at her, as if caught between words he had not yet decided whether to speak.
Liliandil's heart gave a quiet, steady beat.
"The crew is gathering to break their fast," he said, his voice steady, but there was a softness to it, an ease that had not always been there. "Don't wait too long before getting something from the galley."
Liliandil turned to face him fully, tilting her head slightly. "I won't," she replied.
He nodded but did not move. For a moment, he stood there, his fingers flexing at his side as though he were on the verge of saying something more. His lips parted – then closed again.
Whatever words had hovered on the edge of his tongue, he swallowed them.
Instead, he gave her a small, unreadable smile, then turned and stepped back through the door, leaving her alone once more.
…
Caspian.
The sun had barely risen, the sky still laced with the last traces of night. A cool breeze rolled in from the east, carrying the scent of salt and the promise of another long day at sea.
The rhythmic sounds of training filled the deck – the clash of steel against steel, the heavy thud of boots as the men shifted and lunged, the sharp bark of commands exchanged between them. Caspian had settled into the motions, into the familiar burn of exertion that drove out unwanted thoughts, when the murmurs began.
Sweat gathered at his brow, but he welcomed the burn in his muscles, the sharp focus that came with each strike and parry.
And yet, he could not shake the image from his mind.
Liliandil, sitting before the vanity in the soft morning light. The gentle way her fingers had pinned up her hair. The quiet thoughtfulness in her gaze, as though she carried some unspoken weight within her.
She had looked so soft.
So mortal.
It unsettled him.
Not because she did not belong – she did, more than he had ever expected. But because the thought of her vanishing, of her returning to the sky and leaving nothing behind but the memory of her laughter, unsettled him in a way he did not have the words for.
His next strike landed harder than necessary, knocking his opponent back a step.
"Steady, Your Majesty," the minotaur grunted, shaking out his arm. "Did I do something to offend you?"
Caspian exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders to release the tension coiled there. "No," he said, lowering his blade. "Again."
The rhythmic sounds of training filled the deck – the clash of steel against steel, the heavy thud of boots as the men shifted and lunged, the sharp bark of commands exchanged between them. Caspian had settled into the motions, into the familiar burn of exertion that drove out unwanted thoughts, when the murmurs began.
He barely had time to turn before Liliandil emerged from below deck.
She moved with the same effortless grace she always did, the morning sun catching in her white hair, in the golden pin that held it back. But it was not her hair that had drawn the sudden, collective attention of the crew.
She was wearing breeches.
Not skirts that twirled about her legs, not flowing gowns or soft silks. Breeches, fitted to her slender frame, the fabric moulding to the shape of her thighs as she walked.
Aslan, help me.
Caspian tore his gaze away with effort, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter than necessary. He could feel the weight of the crew's stares as well, could see the way they faltered in their movements. It was only when he cleared his throat – loud and deliberate – that they all hastily looked away, resuming their training with exaggerated focus.
Liliandil, oblivious to the disruption she had caused, stepped lightly onto the deck, watching them with bright, curious eyes.
Caspian forced himself to take a steadying breath. The voyage home was going to test his discipline in ways he had never anticipated.
He had barely gathered himself when Liliandil stepped closer, tilting her head slightly as she observed the sparring men.
"May I join?" she asked, her voice light with curiosity.
For a moment, Caspian could only blink at her. He had not imagined her as someone who fought – her hands were made for gentler things, weren't they? And yet, he realized with some unease, he did not know. She had lived an existence entirely apart from anything he understood.
Perhaps the stars had their own battles.
Before he could formulate a response, her gaze drifted downward, and he felt rather than saw the shift in her expression. Her eyes, deep and full of knowing, rested upon his sword.
Rhindon.
The blade of High King Peter the Magnificent.
The sword of a legend.
Battles had been won with that blade, kingdoms defended, evils vanquished. It had cut through enemies, carved paths to victory, and stood as a symbol of Narnia's might.
Her fingers hovered just above the hilt, not touching, simply acknowledging.
"Even the stars speak of Aslan's blade," she murmured, a note of reverence in her voice.
A ripple of silence passed through those nearby, a quiet recognition of the weight of her words.
Caspian found his grip tightening around the hilt. He had known Rhindon's history, its legacy, but to hear it spoken of as something even the heavens acknowledged sent an unfamiliar shiver down his spine.
He swallowed, searching her face. "Do they?"
She met his gaze, something distant and thoughtful passing through her expression. "Oh, yes." A small, knowing smile touched her lips. "There are legends even we look to."
Caspian exhaled, forcing himself to focus. "You truly wish to train?"
She nodded.
He hesitated.
Of course, she was still barefoot. But then, perhaps it was foolish to expect a star to tread the upon the land like the rest of them.
"…Very well," he said at last, motioning to Tavros, the minotaur he had been sparing with. "Find her a blade."
The minotaur returned with a sword – a slender blade, lighter than most, but still made for a warrior's grip. Liliandil took it without hesitation, testing the weight in her hands.
The moment she lifted it; Caspian could see it.
Too heavy.
Her grip was wrong, her wrists too delicate for the balance of steel. She frowned in concentration, adjusting her hold, but when she made a hesitant swing, it was clear – it was not her weapon.
Caspian stepped forward before she could try again. Gently, he reached out, his hands closing over hers as he guided the blade back down. "It's too much," he said, not unkindly. "You don't have the strength for it."
She lifted her chin, undeterred. "Then I will learn."
Stubborn.
A breath of laughter escaped him. Of course she would say that. But this was not a matter of determination alone. A sword was a cruel teacher – it had no patience for those who wielded it without the proper foundation.
He glanced to the side, spotting a shield resting against the railing.
A thought struck him.
"If you cannot wield a weapon," he mused, stepping away to retrieve it, "then you should learn how to protect yourself."
She watched him curiously as he lifted the shield and carried it back to her. When he held it out, she hesitated only a moment before sliding her arm through the straps.
Caspian positioned himself before her, tapping his own blade against the wood. "A shield is not just for defence," he told her. "It's an extension of you. Used properly, it can turn an enemy's strength against them."
She nodded, her indigo eyes flickering with interest.
Caspian found himself caught in her gaze, unable – or perhaps unwilling – to look away.
Her eyes were wide, slightly upturned at the corners, almost feline in their shape. Thick lashes framed them, dark against the glow of her skin, but it was not their shape nor their lashes that held him spellbound. It was their colour.
Somewhere betwixt deep blue and deep violet, like the sky at the very edge of twilight. A shade that did not belong to the world but to something beyond it, to the heavens themselves. He had seen many wonders in his travels – the gilded shores of the Lone Islands, the silver trees of Avra, the endless horizon of the Eastern Ocean – but nothing had ever made him feel as untethered as the way she looked at him.
He stepped closer, adjusting her grip, his fingers brushing against hers. "Keep your stance firm," he murmured, guiding her feet into position. "And always brace for impact."
The sun rose higher, casting golden light across the deck. The crew had returned to their sparring, though Caspian noted the occasional glance thrown in their direction. He ignored them.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Liliandil met his gaze, determination bright in her beautiful eyes.
"Yes."
Caspian had trained countless men before, guiding their hands, adjusting their stances – but it was different in that moment.
It was her.
Liliandil stood before him, her slender frame braced behind the shield, her gaze sharp with focus. Yet, there was something else in her eyes – something that made the air between them feel too thick, too warm.
He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing her arm as he reached for the shield, his fingers grazing the inside of her wrist. She drew in a sharp breath, so quiet he might have imagined it, but he didn't think he had.
"Aslan help me," he muttered under his breath.
She tilted her head slightly, oblivious to what she was doing to him. "What?"
"Nothing," he said too quickly.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to concentrate. The shield. That was what mattered. Not the way her indigo eyes flickered up at him through her lashes, not the way her lips parted slightly as she adjusted her stance. Not way her tongue darted out to wet those full lips.
"Here," he murmured, stepping behind her. His arm brushed along hers as he guided her grip. "You must hold it firm – keep your weight balanced, or–"
She shifted, and suddenly her back was pressed against his chest.
Caspian stilled.
Liliandil went utterly still, too, her breath catching.
His hand was still over hers, his fingers curled around the strap. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the delicate flutter of her pulse just beneath it. The scent of her hair – something soft and clean, like starlight and salt – was far too distracting.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then – deliberately – she turned her head, just enough that she could see him over her shoulder. Close. Too close.
A challenge gleamed in her eyes, as if she was daring him to step back first.
But Caspian didn't move.
Instead, his fingers tightened ever so slightly around hers. "Like this," he murmured, voice lower than he intended.
Her lips parted.
And for one reckless moment, he thought she might turn fully, thought – thought –
A shout from across the deck shattered the moment.
They jerked apart.
Caspian took a step back, hands falling to his sides as if burned. Liliandil exhaled, blinking rapidly, as though waking from a dream.
Drinian strode toward them, utterly unaware of what he had just interrupted. Or what he had not interrupted? "Majesty, the men are asking if we'll be continuing south or cutting east."
Caspian forced his voice to remain steady. "East," he answered, clearing his throat. "Our course has not changed."
Drinian nodded and walked off, but Caspian hardly noticed.
Liliandil still stood there, her fingers flexing around the shield strap, as if remembering the ghost of his touch.
She met his gaze once more.
He turned on his heel before he could do something utterly foolish.