Terebinthia.
2307.
Ten and three nights til the full moon.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Drinian.
Drinian wiped the sweat from his brow as he emerged from the dense jungle, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The trek had been arduous, the humid air thick and cloying, the sounds of unseen creatures rustling in the undergrowth keeping him on edge. But nothing prepared him for the sight that lay ahead.
Terebinthia's city rose from the jungle like a vision from another world. White stone buildings gleamed under the afternoon sun, their domed roofs catching the golden light. Vines wove through archways, and great trees stood within courtyards, their emerald canopies offering shade to the bustling streets below. It was unlike any city he had seen before, both ancient and alive, the jungle and the stone seeming to coexist rather than battle for dominance.
But it was not the architecture that shocked him most – it was the people.
They moved freely through the markets, haggling with merchants and laughing in the streets. Children ran barefoot over the worn stone roads, and musicians played lively tunes in shaded alcoves. The air smelled of spiced meats and sweet fruit, and the ringing of a blacksmith's hammer echoed from somewhere nearby.
No plague.
No signs of sickness.
Had Caspian been lied to? Had the supposed pestilence been nothing more than a ruse? If so, then for what purpose? Drinian felt the weight of his mission settle more heavily upon his shoulders. Whatever was happening in Terebinthia, it was not what they had been led to believe.
Drinian's mind raced as he trudged through the narrow streets of Terebinthia's capital. If Caspian was correct then Liliandil was somewhere nearby, trapped in the same city, her fate twisted by forces beyond her control.
He was determined to find her, but where? The entire island was foreign to him, a place where the influence of Narnia had never quite reached, and Caspian's authority here was a mere whisper in the wind.
His thoughts spiralled as he passed towering stone structures that felt both oppressive and beautiful in their stillness. It was a city built on wealth and power, but there was a darker undertone to it all – one that gnawed at Drinian's gut. He had been trying to piece together the puzzle of the pirates, the plague, the sudden shift in power on the island. But nothing made sense.
Eventually, his footsteps led him to a tall, conspicuous building the centre of the market. The sign outside was ornate, its gold lettering stark against the white stone: The House of Exchange. An auction house.
A chill ran down Drinian's spine as he stepped inside. The place was eerily quiet, except for the soft murmur of hushed conversations and the faint clink of coins. There was no hiding the horror of what he saw – the trade of men, women, and children, commodities to be sold to the highest bidder, no different than the livestock that were sometimes carted through the streets.
It was Narrowhaven all over again.
But so worse.
Drinian's gaze hardened as he glanced over the pristine marble floors and gold-lined walls, knowing the wealth and prestige behind it all. And yet, there was nothing he or Caspian could do to stop it – not here, not in a foreign land where the laws of other kings held sway.
He clenched his fists in frustration. His loyalty to Narnia, to Caspian, felt like an echo in this place, hollow and weak. There were no Narnian laws here, no ancient magic or noble ideals that could shield the innocent from this cruel market.
Drinian knew he had to continue, to find Liliandil. There had to be something here that could help him, something that might lead him to her.
…
Liliandil.
Liliandil sat in the prison's cold, oppressive darkness, the only sound the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere far above. Her limbs were stiff, her wrists raw from the chains, but she remained as still as she could, straining for any sound, any sign of movement from outside her cell. The night felt heavy, pressing down on her, and with every breath, the silence seemed to deepen.
Luciel had come again, her small frame a familiar presence as she slid through the bars, carrying the usual meagre offering of food and water. Her footsteps were quiet, but the faint rustle of her shifting caused Liliandil's heart to tighten with anxiety.
"Here," Luciel whispered, placing the bowl of water just within reach. The dull scrape of metal against stone echoed slightly in the confined space.
But as Luciel turned to place the torch back on its holder, her hands shook, and the flame flickered wildly.
Liliandil's breath caught.
In a split second, the torch slipped from the stone wall, clattering loudly against the ground.
Luciel gasped, her small hands flying to her mouth in horror.
"No," Liliandil breathed.
The torch sputtered once, twice, its flame dancing wildly before it finally gasped its last, leaving only the faint, dying glow of embers, then darkness.
"Liliandil? Where are you?" Luciel's voice was soft, as if she did not dare to utter a sound louder than a whisper.
And then a gasp.
It started faintly, almost imperceptible at first – just a shimmer against the skin of her hands, like the first hint of dawn brushing against the world. But it began to spread. The glow was warm, gentle, radiating from her as if she were once more a guiding star. Not just the star-like freckles on her skin, but her entire being seemed to hum with life, faintly illuminated in the suffocating darkness.
It was as if the very magic that had been dormant within her had stirred, awakening and pushing out from her like a soft pulse.
Luciel stood frozen, her wide eyes reflecting the ethereal glow. "You… you're glowing," she whispered, her voice barely audible, like the sound of wind against leaves. Her voice held a mix of awe and fear. "How is this possible?"
Liliandil's breath hitched, her heart racing with a mix of wonder and trepidation.
She hadn't intended it; hadn't meant to call upon anything.
Her hand, trembling slightly, reached out instinctively, and the glow followed, expanding with her motion, reaching toward the walls and the shadows. It was soft, not harsh or blinding, but enough to fill the small cell with a faint, ethereal light. The dark corners of the dungeon seemed to shrink in response.
Luciel's smile was soft, almost shy, but it shone with a quiet, radiant joy. Her small face, once shadowed by the gloom of the dungeon, was illuminated by Liliandil's glow, her features glowing with the warm light that spilled from the star.
The faint shimmer of Liliandil's magic cast delicate patterns across Luciel's face, tracing the curve of her cheeks, the outline of her lips, the glint in her wide, wonder-filled eyes. It was a rare, unguarded smile – a moment of simple, pure happiness that lit her up from within.
"You've done it," Luciel whispered, her voice soft and full of wonder. "You've brought light here." Her eyes sparkled with something Liliandil couldn't quite place. It was more than just amazement. There was a quiet reverence there, a sort of hope that seemed to grow in the wake of the glow.
Liliandil met her gaze, her breath still shaky, the warmth in her chest still spreading out into the room, embracing them both in its gentle radiance. The pulse of the magic was soft, almost like a heartbeat, steady and reassuring.
"Maybe," Liliandil whispered, her voice trembling, "maybe we can escape this place after all."
Clack.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the cold, stone corridor, heavy and deliberate.
Clack.
Liliandil's glow faltered, as if it had heard the approach, and began to recede, dimming in on itself until there was nothing left but the faintest shimmer in the air.
The torch appeared through the doorway, casting long, sharp shadows across the stone walls. The light from the flickering flame forced Liliandil's glow to vanish completely, as though it had never been. Her breath caught in her throat, and she tensed, bracing herself for what was to come.
And then he was there.
Boltan, his presence filling the space like a storm, his face a mask of fury, eyes cold and hard like ice. His posture was stiff with anger, his jaw clenched tight, as if he were trying to hold back a tide of frustration that had nowhere to go but out.
He stepped into the dungeon with the kind of authority that made the air itself feel heavier. His gaze swept over Liliandil, flicking past the frightened Luciel without a second glance, and settled on her with a burning intensity that made her heart skip.
Bolton's gaze shifted from Liliandil's defiant face to the fallen torch, its flame sputtering weakly against the stone floor. His eyes flickered back to the space where the dryad had once been, and then to Luciel, who stood frozen, a pale shadow of terror on her face.
Liliandil's stomach twisted as she saw the way his fury hardened into something far more dangerous. He was connecting the dots, drawing conclusions that weren't there. His gaze sharpened on Luciel, a predator locking on its prey.
"You." The word was like a growl, low and filled with venom. His voice dropped to a dangerous, rasping tone as he took a step forward, his boots heavy against the stone floor. "You did this."
Luciel gasped, her wide eyes brimming with panic. She shook her head desperately, her hands wringing together. "No, no! I—I didn't do anything! I—I swear!"
But Boltan was no longer listening. His eyes, once narrowed in anger, now burned with accusation, his mouth twisted into a sneer of disbelief. "You scum," He advanced on her, his form a towering shadow over the girl.
Liliandil's breath caught, her pulse quickening as she realized what he thought.
He believed Luciel had set the dryad on fire, had tried to burn her to release her spirit. The injustice of the accusation made her heart tighten in her chest.
"Please, no!" Luciel's voice trembled, her face crumpling with fear. "I swear, I didn't—Liliandil… she…" She stumbled over her words, trying to explain, but the fear in her eyes made it clear that she knew it wouldn't matter.
Bolton wasn't listening. His eyes, wild with rage, were fixed entirely on the slave girl now. "You think you can play games with me, slave?" he spat, his voice rising with venom. "You'll regret this."
Liliandil's heart pounded in her chest as she saw Boltan's fury rise to dangerous heights.
Bolton's fury consumed him, and before Liliandil could even take another breath, his fist collided with Luciel's fragile form. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the dungeon as the girl let out a startled cry, her body stumbling back, only to be struck again.
Liliandil's heart screamed in agony, every punch ringing through her like a personal blow. The helplessness she felt in her chains, her inability to protect the girl, tore at her soul. "Stop!" she shrieked, her voice breaking, her chest tightening with the weight of the words. "Stop! Please!"
But Boltan didn't stop.
He was a whirlwind of rage, his fist connecting again and again, until Luciel was a crumpled heap on the cold stone floor. Each blow sent shivers of horror down Liliandil's spine, her heart writhing in empathy for the girl who had only tried to help.
"No!" Liliandil cried out, her voice desperate, shaking with fury and helplessness.
Bolton's face twisted in a cruel sneer, his anger only increasing with each strike. Luciel wasn't moving anymore, her body a broken mess on the floor, and Liliandil's breath was coming in ragged gasps. The sound of the blows was like thunder in her ears, deafening, relentless.
"STOP!"
The heat that shot through Liliandil was unlike anything she had ever felt before. It wasn't just a surge of magic—it was an overwhelming tide of emotion, of raw, primal instinct that coursed through her veins and ignited every nerve in her body. It started deep within her chest, a furnace of light and warmth that burned brighter with each passing second.
Her heart beat faster, a rhythmic drum of urgency, and with each pulse, the warmth expanded outward, flooding her limbs and gathering in her hands, her fingertips.
It was a force of will, fuelled by something stronger than just survival – desire. The desire to protect the girl who had shown her kindness, who had brought her food and water despite her own fear of Boltan's wrath. Luciel had risked so much for her, and the thought of her being hurt, of her being subjected to more pain, twisted something deep inside Liliandil.
It was like an ember had ignited in her chest, crackling and roaring as it spread through her entire being.
And then, the magic ignited.
The warmth she felt surged into a blinding heat, wrapping around her like a living thing. It was the heat of fierce determination, the heat of an undying need to protect. Liliandil's fingers trembled as she reached for it, willing it to form, to become something more. The heat surged to her palms, filling them with the raw power of her magic. The barrier she created from that energy was a testament to everything she felt: a glowing, searing shield of light and warmth that shot out like a force of nature, fuelled by the burning fury and protectiveness she could no longer contain.
The barrier wasn't just light.
It was her.
It was her love for the girl who had helped her, her need to shield her from Boltan's cruelty. The heat of the magic was almost unbearable, but she embraced it, wielding it with a strength she hadn't known she had. It wasn't just magic that surrounded her—it was her will, her desire to protect, and the deep, fierce need to stand her ground in the face of all that threatened her.
As the heat radiated outward and solidified into the shimmering barrier, she felt the power swell within her, filling her chest with fire and purpose. It was the heat of a thousand suns, a warmth that could burn through the darkness, a glow that could fend off even the most merciless of foes.
The moment Boltan's fist made contact with the shimmering barrier, a burst of light flared between them, bright enough to momentarily blind. It pulsed and crackled, radiating out from Liliandil as if the very air around her had become a conduit of pure, raw magic. Her heart raced as her power surged in response to her desperation. The force of his punch bounced off the barrier, the shockwave rattling through the chains that bound her.
Bolton staggered back, his hand burned by the force of the shield that Liliandil had summoned.
He paused. His gaze locked onto Liliandil, studying her with a strange, almost curious intensity. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Did he see the fury burning in her eyes, the wrath in her every breath?
Then, to her horror, he laughed.
It was not a quiet chuckle or a mocking sneer – it was a deep, raucous laugh that filled the cold stone room, echoing off the walls like the sound of a broken man's madness.
And he didn't stop.
He laughed and laughed and laughed.