Galma.
2307.
Eight nights til the full moon.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Liliandil.
Liliandil awoke with a soft gasp, her mind still heavy with the remnants of a dream still clinging to her like morning mist. Her breath was uneven, and for a moment, she could not tell where the dream ended, and reality began. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, as the memories of the dream swirled.
She had been in the sky again.
The vast, unending stretch of the heavens that she had once called home. The sense of freedom was overwhelming – limitless, bound only by the boundaries of her own thoughts. She had danced among the other stars, drifting through constellations.
She had been pure light, unshackled and unburdened, able to stretch her essence across the cosmos.
She had known herself, known her magic.
There had been no time, no obligation, only the endless sky, full of possibility.
She pressed her hand to her chest, the familiar thrum of her heart grounding her in the moment once more. The sky, so distant, felt both near and impossibly far. She had chosen to remain in the world of men, to feel the weight of the ground beneath her feet, to learn what it meant to live as one of them.
She could still feel the echoes of it, deep within her.
The freedom, the vastness.
And she yearned for that.
She had stayed in her mortal form to explore, to discover, to feel. She had chosen this life to understand what it meant to be more than just light in the sky – to be a part of something grounded, something real.
But with that choice came a price.
A price she had not quite realised when she had told her father that she would not go back to the sky.
She had never expected it to be easy, of course. She had known the joy of seeing new places, experiencing the warmth of companionship, the thrill of watching the world from the deck of the Dawn Treader, feeling the pulse of life beneath her feet.
But, she was beginning to understand that in order to truly live, she would also have to feel the darkness that came with it.
She had felt fear for the first time.
The kind of gut-wrenching terror that threatened to steal the breath from her lungs, to paralyse her in place. It had come in waves, crashing over her when the black sails appeared on the horizon, when she realized the danger they were in, when she knew that she was vulnerable in a way she never had been before.
Then there was the anger.
A hot, searing fire that had burned its way through her chest, blinding her. It was a raw, primal kind of anger – anger at Boltan, anger at the helplessness she felt, and a sharp, aching anger at herself for not being able to do more.
To not be the star she once was, to not be able to shine like she used to.
And it had scared her, how quickly it consumed her.
How quickly the burning fury had threatened to drown out everything else.
But, in the quiet of her room, in the wake of her dreams, she had begun to see it differently. Those feelings – fear, anger, sorrow – were all part of what it meant to truly live. They were part of the world, part of what she had chosen when she had chosen to stay. She couldn't simply discard them, any more than she could ignore the beauty of the dawn or the warmth of the sun.
She pressed her hand to her chest again, taking in a slow breath, trying to centre herself. The star inside her still burned, still flickered with the light of the heavens, but it also pulsed with something more – something mortal.
Something fragile.
Something alive.
The soft tap on the door jolted her from her thoughts, and Liliandil quickly wiped the remnants of the storm from her mind. She hadn't even realized how deeply she'd sunk into her reflections. It took her a moment to recognize the room around her – the soft, golden light filtering through the curtains, the warmth of the bed beneath her, the sense of comfort she hadn't known in so long.
The door creaked open, and the same maid from the day before entered. She was slightly out of breath, her cheeks flushed with the effort of climbing the stairs and her dark eyes seemed bright with a mix of concern and curiosity., but she smiled when she saw Liliandil sitting upon her bed.
A lady's maid stood by the side of the bed, holding a gown in her hands with a polite smile. "Good morning, my lady," she said softly, her voice warm but with the professional distance of someone used to serving. "I hope you slept well."
Liliandil blinked, taken aback by the maid's bright smile. There was an effortless brightness to the girl, her chestnut hair spilling in waves down her back, her cheeks flushed with health. She was quick to attend to the room, fluffing the pillows and adjusting the curtains, all while maintaining that same easy smile.
"Thank you, I did," Liliandil replied, watching the maid with curiosity as she sat up and rubbing her eyes. Her body felt both heavy with exhaustion and light with the comfort of safety. There was something about the girl that struck her – how well-cared for she was, how free and light she appeared. Her movements were fluid, her expressions easy and unburdened.
Liliandil watched the maid bustle about, her graceful movements filling the room with lightness. She had to admit, there was something calming in the girl's cheerful energy and to Liliandil that revealed far more about Lady Lezlea than any of her cutting words that had been directly toward the star.
She ensured her maids were looked after.
"May I ask your name?" she said softly, breaking the silence.
The maid paused, looking up with a bright smile. "Of course, my lady. My name is Haemia."
"Haemia," Liliandil repeated, letting the name linger in the air. It sounded gentle, like the soft melody of a distant song. "Thank you for your kindness, Haemia. You've been very considerate."
The maid – Haemia's – smile grew wider, if such a thing were possible, her cheeks flushing a little at the compliment. "It's my pleasure, my lady. I'm happy to help in any way I can." The maid stepped forward, picking out and laying a gown over the chair beside the bed. "I'll help you dress, if that pleases you. The king and the duke's advisors are expecting you soon."
"Of course," she said, smoothing her hair back from her face and rising from the bed. She glanced at the gown the maid had laid out – rich and elegant, with intricate embroidery at the sleeves and bodice.
Haemia, noticing her hesitance, smiled reassuringly. "I'll take care of it, my lady. You need not worry."
She made a mental note to ask Caspian for something a little more practical – something she could move in with ease. But she was content to let the maid work, focusing instead on what she would need to say.
By the time Haemia was finished, Liliandil was clothed in the fine gown, feeling both out of place and yet... a little more herself.
Haemia gently guided Liliandil to sit down at the vanity, her soft hands urging her into the seat with a quiet confidence. Liliandil complied, her body moving almost automatically as she took her place before the mirror. The cool wood of the vanity felt solid beneath her, a grounding presence that contrasted the fluttering uncertainty that still lingered in her chest.
The maid stepped behind her, her fingers brushing lightly against Liliandil's shoulders as she prepared to begin. "Shall I leave it loose again, my lady?" Haemia asked, her voice light and soothing, like a gentle breeze.
Liliandil's eyes lingered on the reflection in the mirror – the small, delicate face framed by her long, silken white hair, the softness of her features almost ethereal.
Her mind wandered back to her father's island, to the silken gowns she had worn there, unadorned and flowing, made to move with her effortlessly. The clothes she wore felt so foreign in comparison – heavier, binding. She longed for that weightlessness again, that ability to glide through life without the restraints of the ground beneath her.
But, on land, it was a different kind of freedom.
Different, but not necessarily less.
For she could experience things, rather than simply watch from the heavens.
Liliandil picked up the long golden pin that had survived all her journeys thus far with her, its surface smooth and cool in her hand. The delicate craftsmanship of it gleamed softly, a sharp contrast to the ethereal nature of her own being. She extended it toward Haemia, her gaze meeting the maids in the mirror.
"Would you mind?" Liliandil asked gently, offering the pin.
Haemia hesitated, her fingers hovering near it as though uncertain. There was a brief flicker in her dark eyes – an unspoken wariness.
The air seemed to thrum around them as Haemia's fingers finally touched the pin, the softest shiver running through her. She paused again, her touch lingering on the pin for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if testing it – feeling its magic.
Liliandil watched her in the mirror, the faintest smile playing at her lips, though she did not speak. Haemia didn't seem to notice, her gaze still focused on the pin, her hand trembling just slightly.
"Is everything well?" Liliandil asked, though she suspected the answer already.
Haemia blinked, her attention returning to the task at hand. "Y-yes, my lady," she stammered, quickly smoothing her expression. "It's just—this pin. It... feels strange."
The unspoken weight of what Haemia had sensed hung in the air between them, but Liliandil said nothing. She understood. The pin was not merely a gift from her father, nor simply a beautiful adornment—it held a piece of magic, from Aslan himself.
"Don't worry," Liliandil reassured her softly, her voice almost a whisper. "It will not harm you."
Haemia nodded slowly, still unsure but trusting. With a quiet breath, she threaded the pin into Liliandil's hair, the weight of it settling against the silken strands. The magic pulsed again, faint but present, as if it were content to remain hidden, wrapped in the stillness of the moment.
And Liliandil—feeling the familiar weight of it, this small piece of her essence – smiled softly to herself.
Once she was ready, Haemia led her through the corridors of the castle and with every bare-footed step Liliandil felt her pulse quicken with every step. The grand hall loomed ahead, its towering doors ajar, revealing a bustling crowd gathered inside. Liliandil's gaze flitted briefly toward the shadowy figures, their eyes flickering over her as they whispered in hushed tones. She could sense their curiosity, their judgment, and the weight of it pressed heavily on her chest, tightening with every breath.
The echoes of footsteps ahead, Haemia's soft chatter, seemed distant to her now. She was growing more aware of the space around her, the long corridor stretching ahead like an endless path leading toward the unknown. Liliandil's heart beat steadily in her chest, but there was a tension beneath the rhythm, a nervousness that tightened her stomach with every passing step.
She had to tell them.
She had to tell them everything – about Boltan, about Terebinthia, about her escape. The memory of that night was still sharp in her mind, the panic, the pain of her chains, and the hatred in Boltan's eyes as he had tried to break her.
Her footsteps echoed louder than usual, each step seeming to echo the weight of the words she would need to speak.
How will they believe me?
Her hands, clasped together nervously, trembled slightly at the thought. She had seen the scepticism – the doubt in Lady Lezlea's eyes, the questions she had asked.
She could feel the eyes of the people who would hear her story, even if they were not yet in sight. The shadowy figures, waiting to see her, waiting for answers. It was as if they already doubted her before she had even said a word.
What if they think I'm mad? What if they think I'm lying?
And yet, she knew she had no choice but to speak. There was too much at stake. She had seen what Boltan was capable of, the lives he had destroyed. His fleet was growing, his ambitions stretching beyond what anyone could imagine. She had to make them see it. She had to make them understand.
When they reached the Duke's parlour, she hesitated just before the door.
There was no going back.
She had to walk into that room, stand before them, and lay her tale bare. She had to show them that she wasn't just a girl who had fallen from the sky, but someone who had lived through horrors, someone who had seen the darkness that lingered in the hearts of those who craved power above all else.
The door opened, and Liliandil stepped into the room, her breath hitching slightly as her gaze met the faces of those gathered. Her eyes swept across the room, landing finally on Caspian. He was waiting by the hearth, his dark eyes already locked on hers. There was something in his gaze – something warm, something comforting – that made her feel as if she weren't quite so alone in that moment.
"Ah, there you are," Caspian greeted her, his voice steady. "Come, sit."
Liliandil nodded, her heart beating a little faster as she took a seat before them.
The room seemed to grow quiet, the shadows looming around her as the flickering light from the hearth cast a soft glow on the faces of those gathered.
Her hands were clenched in her lap, a subtle tremor running through her fingers. She glanced quickly at Caspian, his eyes warm but filled with the same uncertainty she felt. He gave her a reassuring smile, but his brow furrowed slightly, the weight of her presence in the room not lost on him.
Liliandil took a deep breath, steadying herself. The room was silent, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. All eyes were on her, waiting. She felt as though the eyes of the world were bearing down on her – eyes that expected answers, that demanded truth.
Liliandil's heart skipped a beat as her eyes met Lezlea's dark, piercing gaze. The Lady of Galma's intense stare seemed to penetrate her very soul, as if searching for the truth buried deep within her. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, and Liliandil felt the weight of the room pressing on her shoulders.
The pressure was suffocating, but she knew what she had to do.
Lezlea didn't speak, but her gaze alone was enough to demand more from her – more than just the broad strokes of her escape, more than just the threat Boltan posed. Liliandil swallowed, a knot tightening in her throat.
She shifted in her seat, nervousness bubbling up inside her.
There was no more room for half-truths, no more room for hesitation.
She could not protect Caspian from it any longer.
If they were to believe her, truly believe her, she had to give them the whole story – the nightmare she had lived through, the horrors she had witnessed. She had to trust them with the darkest parts of her tale.
Taking a deep breath, Liliandil began. Her voice was quiet, soft, as though she were confessing a secret too painful to share, recounting the events that had led her to Galma. She spoke of the pirates who had captured her, of the prince and his cruelty, and of her narrow escape. As she spoke, her hands moved in subtle gestures, painting the scene with her words.
She told them of how he tried to force her magic from her, to use it as a weapon as part of his attack on Galma. She told them of the golden chain he had kept around her neck. She told them of Captain Milir, of the fleet he was gathering at Boltan's behest.
She told them of the dryad.
She told them of Luciel's broken and bloodied body.
She told them of the fire she had started, how it had burned from within her until the very night was burning.
The advisers listened intently, some exchanging quiet murmurs, others nodding in agreement. Liliandil noticed the flickers of surprise and disbelief in their eyes as she spoke, but they didn't interrupt. They waited until she finished before the room erupted into discussion.
It was Lezlea who spoke first. "Why should we trust your words?"
Liliandil held her gaze steady, her voice unwavering as she answered, "You don't have to trust me, Lady Lezlea. But you must trust the threat that Boltan poses. The storm he's preparing to unleash will not wait for your doubts."
Lezlea's sharp eyes narrowed, her hands resting on the edge of the table as she leaned forward. "You are a stranger, a prisoner of Terebinthia, and yet you expect us to believe this – this tale? What proof do you have?"
The tension in the room thickened, and Liliandil could feel every pair of eyes trained on her.
They were waiting for something tangible, something that would confirm her claims. But she had no maps, no documents. All she had was her knowledge of Boltan's tactics, and the urgency that had driven her across the seas.
Caspian remained silent.
He did not need to defend her words, nor offer any further assurances. His steady gaze met hers from across the room, his dark eyes warm but unwavering. He wasn't going to fight the battle for her, but the encouragement in his gaze gave her strength. He was giving her the space to prove herself, to make her case.
It was her fight, not his.
In that moment, Liliandil felt a surge of something – strength, perhaps, or a sense of purpose – rising within her. She swallowed, but her voice remained calm. "You'll find it in the movements of his forces. The man he's hired, Captain Milir, has an entire fleet that will sail under Boltan's flag."
Her words hung in the air, but it was clear that the council was still divided. Some exchanged uneasy glances, others seemed sceptical, and a few looked like they might already be plotting their next moves based on her words.
Lezlea remained unmoved. "So, you're saying that Boltan has secured the alliance of the bloodthirsty Captain Milir, and we should prepare for an attack, with no further proof other than your word?" She raised an eyebrow, challenging her.
Liliandil met her challenge with a quiet, determined nod. "Milir will want more than just riches. He'll want destruction. And Boltan will give it to him."
The room seemed to grow quieter, though Lezlea's scepticism didn't fade entirely. "And how do we defend against such a threat? You are not a general, Liliandil. You are not a strategist. You're just a woman who escaped from Terebinthia. What can you do to help us?"
Liliandil's breath caught for a moment, the weight of Lezlea's words pressing against her chest. She understood the doubt in the woman's eyes. She wasn't a soldier, not a general. She was a star—once a being of light, now a fragile echo of that light trapped in a mortal form. How could she stand before them and claim to have a part to play in the war that was coming?
But her resolve didn't falter.
Liliandil's voice was steady, but beneath it, a simmering tension rose. She met Lezlea's eyes, the challenge there unwavering, as she spoke the words that had been weighing on her heart.
"He wanted to use my magic to destroy you," she said, her gaze sharp, unwavering. "Use me. Use my light to protect your island."
The room fell still, and for a moment, the silence seemed to stretch on forever. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, and Liliandil could feel the full weight of the truth settle between them.
"He thought he could control me, bend my will to his desires," she continued, the bitterness in her voice betraying the memory. "But he was wrong. You are not the only ones with a stake in this. I may not have been able to protect myself, but I will not allow him to use me against you—or anyone else."
Her hands clenched at her sides, her mind replaying the days under Boltan's rule, the suffocating presence of the golden chain, the weight of it around her neck. How he had tried to bend her magic, to make her a tool of war. How it had felt to have her own light held captive by the darkness of his greed.
Liliandil's breath hitched, but her resolve was clear, her voice unwavering as she faced Lezlea as if there were none else in the room. She dared not look at Caspian.
Lezlea studied her, eyes searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt in Liliandil's expression. Finding none, she finally spoke, her tone softer, but no less determined. "If this is true... if you can help us prepare for Boltan's wrath, we'll listen. But don't think we will go blindly into this. You have to earn our trust, just as we will earn yours."
She met her gaze, unwavering and unflinching. And in that moment Liliandil decided that Lezlea was a woman she would like – even if she was a rival for Caspian's affections.
"This is dire news," one man said, his voice sharp, his brow furrowed in concern. "If the privateers have already set sail, it may be too late to stop them!"
"We must act quickly," another voice added, the sense of urgency clear. "Galma could be caught unawares. We must rally the forces, fortify the walls, and prepare for the worst."
The voices began to overlap, all speaking at once, some with questions, some with suggestions, some with heated arguments about how best to respond to the threat. Liliandil felt a surge of helplessness in the chaos, but then she heard a voice rise above the rest.
"It is settled, then," Caspian's voice cut through the noise, commanding attention. "We'll begin preparations immediately. Thank you for your help, Liliandil. You've done well."
Liliandil turned toward him, her heart skipping at the smile he gave her. There was no mockery in his eyes, no patronizing tone. He was genuine, and in that moment, she could see the trust he had placed in her.
Caspian's voice broke through the murmurs of the council, his tone decisive. "You may leave, Liliandil. We will need time to strategize."
His words, though not unkind, hit her like a blow.
Leave? Her heart stuttered in her chest. Was that it? Was that all she had contributed? Her warnings, her journey, everything she had sacrificed – and, after all that, she was to be set aside?
I don't belong here, she realized with a bitter pang. I'm nothing more than a messenger, a means to an end. I have nothing to offer them, nothing that could make a difference. All I can give them is a magic I cannot control.
A bitter frustration bubbled up inside her, and her fingers tightened into fists at her sides. She opened her mouth to protest, to demand to be part of the plan, to make her presence known, but before she could say a word, Lezlea's voice cut through the tension.
"No," Lezlea said, her voice firm and unyielding. The council members paused, all eyes shifting to the Lady of Galma. "Liliandil should stay. She has proven her knowledge of Boltan's tactics, and more importantly, she has a unique perspective. She might yet have something valuable to offer us. Let her remain."
Caspian turned toward Lezlea, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, the room held its breath. Liliandil, too, felt her pulse quicken. She wasn't sure what to make of the sudden shift in dynamics – but the relief flooding through her was undeniable.
Caspian met her gaze then, and while his eyes held the usual warmth, there was something deeper there – a quiet acknowledgment that she had earned her place in the room.
…
Unknown.
Drinian.
Hunger gnawed at Drinian's belly, a constant, biting reminder of his captivity. The stale air of the ship's hold seemed to close in around him, making each breath feel heavy, laboured. The ache in his stomach was sharp, but he barely noticed it compared to the searing pain in his wrists, still bound tight to the rough wood.
The hours had blurred together, the weight of his situation sinking deeper with each passing moment. But it wasn't just the hunger that wore him down.
It was the pirate captain.
The man – grizzled, scarred, with eyes that burned with the intensity of a flame left too long untended – had taken to torturing Drinian for information.
"Where is King Caspian?" The captain's voice was low, like the rumble of a storm on the horizon. "Where is the usurper hiding?"
Drinian met his gaze, refusing to break, even as the sting of the whip cracked across his back. His skin burned, but he did not cry out.
He would not.
He knew the pirate wanted something – something personal, some twisted vendetta against Caspian. He could see it in the captain's eyes: the hatred, the obsession that went beyond mere duty. The man didn't just want to find the king.
No.
It was deeper.
More dangerous.
The captain circled him like a predator, his steps slow, deliberate. "You don't understand, do you, sailor?" he muttered, voice rough with contempt. "What your king took from me… he will pay for it."
Drinian's brow furrowed in confusion, but he said nothing. He didn't dare speak, didn't dare offer the man any ammunition for his cruel game.
The captain paused in front of him, the stench of salt and sweat heavy in the air. "Caspian destroyed everything," he continued, his voice suddenly more measured, almost cold.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"Now, I take what's his."
Drinian's mind raced, piecing together the captain's words. The king… Caspian…
It was revenge.
"Why?" Drinian found his voice, though it was raw with pain. "What did Caspian ever do to you?"
The pirate's livelihood, his very way of life, had been shattered by Caspian's decree.
"Narrowhaven," the captain sneered, pacing back and forth in front of Drinian. "That filthy little market where we sold slaves like cattle. Your king—Caspian—came in with his righteous morals, his so-called vision of a better world, and ruined everything. He destroyed the auction house, burned it to the ground. And with it, my income, my power, my crew."
Drinian's stomach churned at the mention of the auction house, the memories of the slaves' terrified faces – of the horrors of what it meant for a life to be bought and sold.
Caspian's abolition of the slave trade had hit the man before him where it had hurt most.
His business, his source of wealth.
"And," the captain spat, his fists clenched with fury, "he had the audacity to proclaim it for the greater good. That no one should be sold. That no one should be owned."
Drinian felt a surge of disgust at the captain's words, but he kept his face neutral, his thoughts focused. It was personal for the pirate. His rage wasn't about conquest or gain—it was about revenge for a lost empire, a life that had crumbled beneath the weight of a moral decision.
The pirate captain's words came in jagged bursts, thick with venom, his anger rising with every sentence. Drinian kept his gaze steady, unwilling to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him break.
"You think you can talk back to me, boy?" The captain's voice was low, seething with fury, though Drinian had not uttered a word. "I'll make you regret that."
Drinian didn't flinch, but before he could speak again, the captain's hand shot out, striking him across the face with a force that snapped his head to the side. Pain exploded in his skull. His vision blurred for a moment, but he blinked it away, focusing on the pirate's hate-filled eyes.
"Not so talkative now, are we?" The captain sneered. His breath came heavy, hot against Drinian's ear as he stepped in closer. "Do you think I care about your moral high ground? Your king made a choice, and he ruined me. I won't stop until I ruin him in turn."
Drinian, throat raw, managed a low chuckle, though it was edged with pain. "You won't get that satisfaction from me," he rasped.
The captain's fury was immediate. With a growl, he backhanded Drinian across the other cheek, the sting of the blow sending a flare of fire through his jaw. "You think you're better than me?" The captain's words dripped with malice. "You think you can hide behind that honour, that patriotism of yours?"
Drinian's lip quivered with the impact, but he refused to give the captain the satisfaction of seeing him falter. Instead, he lifted his chin defiantly. "I don't need to hide. I'm not the one who's afraid to face the truth of my actions."
"Enough!" The captain's voice shook with rage. He lifted his hand again, but before he could strike, a heavy shout echoed through the air.
"Captain!" A voice shouted from the deck. "Ship on the horizon!"
The captain froze, his fist still raised. His eyes burned with fury, but a flicker of calculation replaced the wildness in them. He stood there for a long moment, staring down at Drinian, his chest heaving.
"I'll finish with you later," the pirate captain muttered darkly before turning on his heel.
Drinian breathed heavily, his head spinning from the blows, but he forced himself to stay conscious. The silence that followed felt heavy. His face burned where the pirate had struck him, but he focused on the new voice, the new direction—the distraction. Maybe, just maybe, this would be his chance. He couldn't afford to let the captain's personal vendetta destroy him—there was too much at stake.
He needed to find his way back to Galma.
Back to Caspian.
The ship's deck groaned beneath the weight of the men scrambling to their posts, the sails flapping wildly in the wind. Drinian remained where they had left him, bound and bruised, but his mind was working. He could still feel the pull of the sea—the storm was coming, and so was a chance at escape.
He would remain silent. But when the time came, he wouldn't let this pirate's hatred break him. He would survive, for Caspian and for Liliandil.