Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
Sapphyre sat across from her sister at the long dining table, the flickering candlelight casting strange shadows on the emerald silk of Emerylda's gown. The queen sat with the effortless, her expression unreadable as she swirled the goblet in her hand.
Beside her, the Dark Knight dined in silence.
Sapphyre observed him carefully as she pushed a bite of roasted pheasant around her plate. His movements were precise, deliberate, but there was no evidence of him in his gaze. The bumbling questions, the teasing glances, the warmth that made her scowl whenever he smiled – gone.
Instead, there was only a stillness.
A void.
"You are quiet tonight, dear sister," Emerylda mused, setting her goblet down with a soft clink. Her too-green eyes shimmered in the candlelight as they flicked between them, sharp with amusement. "Is the food not to your liking?"
Sapphyre forced a polite smile. "I was merely thinking."
Emerylda arched a delicate brow. "On what?"
She set her goblet down with a soft clink, watching Emerylda with measured intent. "A dryad and one of my squires are missing," she said at last, her voice smooth, but laced with quiet scrutiny.
Emerylda met her gaze, the corner of her lips curling in something that was not quite amusement. "It is not our concern if two young lovers ran off together."
Sapphyre did not immediately respond. She lifted her goblet again, swirling the dark liquid within. "Perhaps," she murmured. "And yet—"
"And yet," Emerylda cut in smoothly, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a silken napkin, "you waste your thoughts on something so trivial." She leaned back in her chair, her deep green eyes gleaming. "Why does it concern you, sister?"
Sapphyre held her gaze, searching, but Emerylda was unreadable as ever.
She let the silence stretch, then finally, she murmured, "it doesn't."
Because her queen had said so.
The tension hung in the air like a delicate thread, fragile yet taut, as Sapphyre held her sister's gaze. Emerylda's smile softened, but only just, as if she knew something Sapphyre did not.
"Good," Emerylda said, her voice light, almost playful, though there was a cold edge beneath it. "I would hate for you to waste your talents on something so... beneath you."
Sapphyre's fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet, but she said nothing.
Her thoughts churned beneath the surface, the familiar pull of duty creeping into her mind like a slow tide. As a knight, she was sworn to protect, to uphold the law, and to ensure the well-being of those within her charge – especially those under the queen's command. The dryad and the squire's disappearance, no matter how trivial it seemed in Emerylda's eyes, was a breach of that duty.
The echo of her oath stirred within her, quiet but resolute.
Duty was not something to be ignored.
Sapphyre's fingers tightened around the edge of her goblet once more, the delicate glass threatening to crack under her grip, but she kept her expression impassive, letting the silence stretch.
"I need you to go west. There have been reports of the witches congregating. I want to know what is happening," Emerylda said, her voice shifting swiftly to a new subject, as if the matter had lost all significance in a heartbeat. "They are becoming bolder. I wonder…" Her gaze shifted to Rilian, who had not spoken a word since the meal had begun. "What do you think, my knight, do you think they are a threat to my power?"
He paused, setting down his knife. His deep indigo eyes lifted, but there was no spark in them. No recognition, no hesitation.
Only obedience.
"As you say, my queen," he answered, his voice even.
Sapphyre clenched her jaw, fingers tightening around her fork.
There was no evidence of Rilian in him at all.
She had to tell herself that it did not bother her.
That it did not unsettle her to see him like he was – vacant, empty.
As handsome as his face was, there was nothing in it. No mischief, no warmth, not even the faintest flicker of recognition when he looked at her.
Just the smooth, unreadable mask of the queen's perfect knight.
Sapphyre forced another bite past her lips, barely tasting it. Across the table, Emerylda sipped her wine with languid amusement, as if she knew exactly what thoughts churned beneath her sister's composed expression.
And perhaps she did.
The black-armoured, stone-faced queensguard stood at the door, silent as statues. Their presence was a constant reminder – of the power Emerylda wielded, of the control she maintained.
Sapphyre's grip tightened around her goblet as she studied Rilian once more from beneath her lashes. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across his sharp features, but there was no flicker of awareness in those deep indigo eyes. No hint of the man who, just hours passed, had grinned at her, teased her, sparred with her.
He was nothing more than a shadow of himself. A knight carved from the same cold stone as the guards who flanked the hall.
Sapphyre set her goblet down carefully, her expression unreadable. Across the table, Emerylda regarded her with that unnerving, too-knowing gaze, fingers tapping idly against the stem of her own glass.
"You will go," her sister said, voice smooth as silk, yet heavy with command. "You will find out what they are doing."
Sapphyre inclined her head slightly, though she did not immediately speak.
"I trust no one else to face them and not fall under their enchantments," Emerylda continued, her green eyes gleaming. "The magic of Narnia does not touch us as it does others."
Sapphyre's gaze flickered briefly to Rilian. He had not reacted. He had not spoken. He had barely moved all evening, aside from the quiet, mechanical motions of eating.
Sapphyre inclined her head, her answer given, but inwardly, relief coursed through her veins.
She would breathe air that was not thick with magic and mist. She would feel the warmth of the sun upon her skin, unfiltered by the glow of the Heart.
…
Cair Paravel. The City surrounding the Cair.
Drinian.
Drinian adjusted his cloak against the evening chill as he made his way back to the castle, his mind still lingering on the school he had visited earlier that day.
It had been one of the last endeavours of dear Queen Liliandil, a place where any child – highborn or low – could learn their letters, their histories, and the ways of Narnia. It had been a place she had cherished, a dream she had nurtured, and seeing it flourish even after her passing had warmed something in Drinian's chest. The young ones had greeted him with eager eyes, reciting passages of old Narnian law, tracing maps of the lands beyond the Lone Islands with ink-stained fingers. It had been good work, honest work, and for the first time in a long while, Drinian had felt some small hope stir within him.
The night should have been peaceful.
The stars stretched endlessly above, their silver glow casting a quiet sheen over the streets. A fresh sea breeze rolled in from the east, carrying the scent of salt and damp stone, stirring the leaves in the trees that lined the outer courtyards of Cair Paravel. It was the kind of night meant for contemplation, for hushed conversation beneath the watchful gaze of the heavens.
But peace was not to be found.
The loud, raucous laughter of the knights shattered the stillness like a hammer striking glass. Their voices rose and echoed down the narrow streets, heedless of the hour, heedless of the city around them..
Drinian stood at a distance, watching, listening.
For down a side street, just beyond the lantern-lit path, a cluster of men laughed boisterously as they slipped into a dimly lit establishment. The heavy scent of spiced wine and cheap perfume wafted from within, mingling with the acrid smoke that curled from the door left ajar. Drinian recognized some of them – newly made knights, still fresh from their victories in the tournament.
And at their head, as bold as ever, was Sir Dustan.
Sir Dustan and his companions swaggered through the thoroughfare, their boots striking the cobblestones with unhurried, unthinking arrogance. One of them burst into drunken song—some crude, half-slurred tavern tune—and the others roared their approval, clapping him on the back.
The young knight strode forward with the same easy arrogance he had carried in the ballroom, the same roguish charm that had ensnared the noblewomen's fancies. But there was something else in him – something unchecked, something careless. He had removed his cloak, revealing the fine embroidery of his tunic, the gold threads catching the lamplight. He was flaunting his success, revelling in it, as if knighthood were a prize to be worn rather than a duty to uphold.
Drinian's jaw tightened.
Caspian's knights – those who had fought for Narnia's restoration, those who had bled and toiled to reclaim the land – had carried themselves with a quiet dignity. Even in celebration, they had known restraint, had understood the weight of their oaths. But the men before him, the newly made knights, seemed to treat their titles as mere ornamentation, their victories as license to indulge.
Dustan's voice rang out above the others, as bold and assured as if he already commanded them all. "Come, come! Are we not knights of Narnia?" he jeered, spreading his arms wide. "And does not a knight deserve his pleasures?"
More cheers followed, and one of the men shoved another toward the door of the ill-reputed house.
Drinian's hands clenched at his sides.
A woman wrapped in a thin shawl scurried past, her head down, arms clutching a small bundle to her chest. A merchant, closing his stall for the night, gave the knights a wary glance before hurrying to gather his wares. An old man, likely a servant running an errand, paused to let them pass rather than risk walking through their midst.
The knights paid them no mind.
Dustan threw his head back and laughed, utterly unconcerned with those forced to step aside for him. He was drunk on victory, on the cheers of the crowds, on the power that had so recently been bestowed upon him.
Drinian remained where he stood, watching the flickering light from the windows.
He had seen enough.
With a slow breath, he turned back toward the castle.