Atlantis. The Heartland.
2791.
215th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
Sapphyre stood at the edge of the arena, the scent of dust and sweat thick in the air. The Heartland was alive with energy, filled with spectators all eager for the spectacle that would unfold before them. There were those who gathered for the glimmer of the royal knights, and there were those who sought a fleeting moment of glory in the tournament's fierce battles.
But Sapphyre, at eight and ten, was neither there for glory nor for the adulation of the crowd.
She had been a knight of Atlantis for near a year now, but had spent more time standing in parades, attending feasts, and being presented like some polished artifact than doing what she had been born to do – fight, protect, prove her worth.
Sapphyre could hardly stand it.
She had sworn her oath with everything she had, ready to face the trials of a knight's life – the Path of Knighthood. And yet, there she was, standing on the periphery, watching others fight battles she was capable of facing herself.
She would force them to see her.
The tournament held in the Heartland was one she could not sit out. She had quietly joined the ranks of the anonymous knights, a faceless warrior in the throngs of competitors, none the wiser to who she truly was. She had deliberately kept her name out of the proceedings, wanting to prove herself in her own right, not as a princess, not as a royal, but as a knight, as a warrior.
The roar of the crowd surged through her like a wave.
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the sounds, the tension that rippled through the air. It was what she had trained for. It was where she would show her worth. Not through her status, not through her parents, but through the edge of her blade and the strength in her heart.
She adjusted her armour, the weight of it both familiar and constricting – the leather still stiff from lack of use. As she gazed out at the other knights preparing for battle, a fire sparked deep inside her. It was her arena, not just to prove her skill but to prove that she was more than just the title.
As the horn sounded, announcing the start of the tournament, she moved forward, blending into the sea of knights. She took her place on the field, preparing herself for what was to come.
She raised her sword, her heart pounding in her chest. It would not be about royal titles. This would be about skill, honour, and determination. She would show them all what it meant to be a Knight of Atlantis.
She would honour the Heart.
The arena was a cacophony of clashing swords, the clang of shields, and the roar of the crowd. Warriors from all corners of the Heartland and beyond had gathered, each one eager to prove their worth.
Yet, in the chaos, Sapphyre stood apart.
She was wild.
She felt free.
She had excelled in her studies, but her body had never been moulded by rigid rules. She didn't fight with the grace of a trained blade-master. No – she fought with the ferocity of someone who had been denied for too long, with the raw strength of someone desperate to prove herself.
And she enjoyed it.
Her movements were unpredictable – flashes of speed, sudden twists, strikes that seemed almost reckless, yet each one landed with a force that sent opponents staggering back, dazed. She spun and lunged with a ferocity that was animalistic, a whirlwind of motion that left her opponents unsure of what would come next.
Sapphyre did not care about form or elegance. She used the momentum of her own body to drive her blade, her strikes fuelled by sheer force and adrenaline. Each swing was an instinct, a wild, sweeping arc meant to overwhelm.
Her shield wasn't held at a careful angle, but was used as a battering ram, crashing into her foes with the weight of her determination.
She was a force of nature.
Unpredictable.
Unfettered.
She did not wait for her enemies to make their move. She made the first strike, forcing them onto the defensive, taking control of the fight from the first breath. When one of her opponents attempted a feint, she barely noticed, spinning with a savage grace, knocking their sword aside and landing a blow to their side that had them reeling.
It was chaos.
Beautiful chaos.
By the time the last round arrived, the arena was a cacophony of voices shouting her name. Her leather armour was scuffed, dirt-streaked, and battered, but she was far from slowing. She stood at the centre of the arena, her chest heaving, sweat glistening on her brow.
And when she faced her final opponent, a towering knight who had proven himself in the earlier rounds, she didn't hesitate. She rushed him, her blade flashing in a streak of silver. He tried to raise his shield to block, but she saw the opening – an inch too wide. Without thinking, she lowered her shoulder, slamming into him with all the force of her body, sending them both crashing to the sand.
The crowd gasped.
Her opponent struggled beneath her, but before he could right himself, Sapphyre swung her sword in a downward arc, catching him off guard and knocking his blade from his hand. With a swift movement, she pinned him to the ground, her sword held to his throat.
For a heartbeat, all was still.
Then, the crowd erupted. The roar was deafening, a wave of sound that washed over her. She blinked, breathless, her heart pounding, but she stood, victorious, but she didn't lower her sword. She hadn't won just for herself – she had won for something greater. Her eyes flicked to the Emperor and Empress in their box, their faces unreadable, their eyes watching her intently. They were silent, but their presence loomed over the arena, like a weight pressing down on her chest.
She couldn't resist the moment any longer.
With a swift movement, Sapphyre reached up, pulling off her helm. Her fiery copper hair tumbled loose, and her face – bare, unmasked – was revealed to the crowd.
They gasped, a collective shock rippling through the arena.
And then, realization hit.
Their princess.
Whispers spread like wildfire: Apollyon's Heir.
Sapphyre looked up at her parents, her heart pounding. The emperor's expression was stern, unreadable, but she could see the faintest flicker of something—pride? Regret? Disappointment? She couldn't tell. The empress' face was softer, though no less stern. Both of them were watching her, waiting for her next move.
And for the first time, Sapphyre felt a shift deep within her.
She wasn't just the young 'princess knight' any longer. She was no longer the knight who had been held back by royal constraints, standing on the sidelines while others proved themselves. She was a force in her own right.
She raised her sword, her voice steady and loud for the first time: "For Shield and for Stone!"
The roar of the crowd was deafening. They hadn't recognized her at first, but now they did. She had proven herself – no longer just a figurehead, no longer just a princess – but a knight, a warrior.
Blessed by the Heart.
Apollyon's Heir.
And she would show them all what she could do.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
As Sapphyre descended into Underland, the air grew colder, damp with the weight of the stone above. The dim glow of the Heart was fading as it prepared for slumber, casting long, wavering shadows over the city. The streets of the Dark City stretched out before her, lined with twisting alleys and structures carved directly from the cavern walls.
Pale lanterns flickered like distant stars, the only points of warmth in the subterranean gloom.
She moved through the streets without hesitation, her boots striking the stone in a steady rhythm. The denizens of the Dark City turned to watch her pass, some bowing their heads in respect, others murmuring amongst themselves.
Whispers trailed after her, half-heard words of speculation and relief—The Knight Commander has returned.
The barracks loomed ahead, a fortress within a fortress. The dark stone walls were seamless, unyielding, a testament to the strength of those who dwelled within. Sapphyre had spent more nights here than in the castle itself. As she stepped inside, the scent of steel and oil filled her senses, a familiar reassurance. The echoes of sparring rang through the halls – swords clashing, boots pounding against stone. Her knights were hard at work, as they should be.
The warmth of the sun felt like a distant memory, and the cold, damp air of Underland seemed to cling to her with every step.
She was a knight.
She was a leader.
Once more she was the Knight Commander.
As she walked past the doors, she caught sight of the queensguard standing sentinel at their posts. Tall, grim-faced men, their black armour nearly blending into the darkness. Their shields bore the unmistakable insignia of the Emerald Queen, a gleaming emerald stone encased in the figure of a serpent. They did not move, did not speak, their eyes never leaving their vigil.
They were as much a part of Underland as the stone itself, an immovable reminder that their loyalty was not to her, but to Emerylda alone.
Sapphyre felt their eyes on her, though none of them shifted their posture. A shiver of tension snaked through her, but she pressed on. She didn't acknowledge them, though she could feel their silent scrutiny at her back.
When Sapphyre came into view, Acastin immediately straightened. He raised his forearm and pressed it firmly across his chest, giving her a sharp, respectful salute. His head bowed slightly, acknowledging her presence, before he straightened up again.
"Your return is welcome, Commander," he said, his voice steady.
Sapphyre studied Acastin for a moment, taking in the rigid set of his shoulders, the sharp lines of his posture. Always the disciplined one. She inclined her head in acknowledgment, stepping further into the barracks. The flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows along the walls, the scent of sweat and oiled steel lingering in the air.
"Report," she said, her voice cool, clipped – falling into the role as easily as breathing.
Acastin's expression remained unreadable, but there was something in his stance, a tension coiled just beneath the surface.
"Commander," he began, his tone tight, as if holding back a surge of concern. "There's something you need to know. Some of the dryads, those who gather the herbs and supplies from the woods near the northern entrance, have gone missing. A small group, but enough to raise alarm."
Sapphyre paused in her steps, her expression instantly shifting to one of sharp focus. "Missing?" she asked, her voice colder than the chill creeping into the stone halls. "Taken?"
Acastin hesitated, his jaw tightening. "We don't know for certain. There were no signs of a struggle – no blood, no tracks leading away. It's as if they vanished into the air."
Sapphyre's lips pressed into a thin line. That was worse than an attack. An attack meant an enemy with a motive, a trail to follow. But silence, emptiness – it reeked of something far more insidious.
"How long?" she demanded.
"Three nights passed," Acastin replied. "They were expected back by dawn yesterday, but no one has seen or heard from them since."
Sapphyre's gaze flicked toward the entrance of the barracks, her mind already working through possibilities. "Search parties?"
"They found nothing. Even the forest itself seems... quiet. It's as if they vanished into the dark. If it had been one or two, we might have assumed they wandered too far, but an entire gathering party? It doesn't sit right. Petra has returned from the merchant run, and even she saw nothing on her way back."
That gave her pause. The woods were never silent. The roots, the wind, the trees—they always carried whispers, breaths of life. If even the land had fallen mute, then something unnatural was at work.
Her fingers curled at her side. "Double the watch," she ordered. "No one leaves alone."
Acastin gave a sharp nod. "Understood, Commander."
Acastin's words lingered in her thoughts – the missing dryads, the unnatural silence that followed their disappearance. The dryad girl and the squire who had gone missing in the tunnel before she had even been sent to scour the surface on Emerylda's orders – vanished without a trace, as though the caverns themselves had swallowed them whole.
Sapphyre turned back to the training grounds, watching as the knights continued their relentless drills. They would learn that Sapphyre and her knights were not so easily undone.
She exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. "If the dryads were taken, I want to know by whom, and for what purpose."
Acastin's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. "I'll see to it personally."
Sapphyre inclined her head in acknowledgment.
She knew he would.
Beyond the training grounds, the tunnels stretched into darkness.
She had spent years learning its every passage, memorizing its twisting arteries, and yet there were still places that even she did not tread lightly.
And something was moving in those depths.
She could feel it, a slow, creeping certainty. The caverns were watching, waiting. The silence was not empty.
She clenched her fists at her sides, the weight of a familiar, gnawing fear creeping up her spine. She couldn't help but feel as if the strange, tangled threads of the events were all leading somewhere. To something dark.
The rhythmic clash of swords faded behind her as she moved through the dim corridors of Underland, her steps measured and purposeful. The torches lining the walls flickered in the faint drafts that whispered through the stone tunnels, casting jagged shadows that danced along the uneven surfaces.
The path to the Dark Castle was well-worn beneath her boots, though few dared to walk it without purpose. Its towering spires, carved from the very rock of Underland, loomed in the distance, their obsidian surfaces glistening with the faint, fading eerie glow from the Heart. The fortress stood as a silent sentinel over the cavernous expanse, its presence undeniable, unshakable – a testament to Emerylda's dominion over the buried world.
The guards stationed at either side of the door did not even nod their heads in silent acknowledgment, but both stepped aside to allow her entry. They knew better than to question her arrival.
The halls of the Dark Castle were hushed, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of the torches. Sapphyre strode through the winding corridors, navigating them with the ease of one who had long since memorized their twists and turns.
At last, she reached her destination – her sister's private parlour.
"Enter."
She'd not even knocked before the door swept open as if by enchantment.
Towering pillars of polished black stone reached toward the vaulted ceiling, their cold, unyielding surfaces reflecting the dim glow of the crystal chandelier above. The vast fixture hung like a frozen constellation, its eerie pale light casting spectral shadows along the walls, a pale replication of the Heart, but one that shone, nonetheless. Rich emerald and silver draperies cascaded down from the heights, embroidered with twisting serpents, curling vines, and battle scenes so ancient their histories were all but forgotten.
Beneath her boots, the marble floor gleamed, veined with dark patterns that swirled like ink in water.
Sapphyre, still clad in her dust-streaked leather armour, felt an immediate contrast between herself and the chamber's cultivated grandeur. Sweat clung to her skin from her journey, the scent of steel and earth clinging to her like an unwanted second skin. In this place of curated elegance and whispered power, she felt all at once rough-edged and out of place, a mere knight amidst the trappings of a queen.
There, reclining on an elegant chaise, was Emerylda. Dressed in flowing jade silk, she lounged with the effortless grace of a serpent at rest, a goblet in one hand, the other idly tracing patterns on the arm of her chair.
Her sister wore her hair loose – a rare sight. Free of her usual intricate braids, the silken waves tumbled past her shoulders, gleaming dark as a raven's wing in the flickering light. It softened her in a way Sapphyre was not accustomed to seeing. Without the sharp, regal precision of her usual styling, Emerylda looked almost ethereal, as though she had stepped from some half-remembered dream.
Her lips, bare of the deep plum paint she favoured, were a natural rose, parted in a smile that was equal parts charming and knowing. The absence of cosmetics only served to highlight the sculpted elegance of her features – the high sweep of her cheekbones, the arch of her brow, the ever-calculating intelligence in her emerald gaze.
There was a languid ease to her posture, a studied nonchalance, yet Sapphyre knew better. Emerylda was never truly at rest. Even with one arm draped across the chaise and the other idly toying with the stem of her goblet, there was a coiled awareness in her, like a predator waiting to strike.
Sapphyre stopped just short of the hearth, inclining her head in greeting. "Sister."
Emerylda's gaze flickered up, her striking green eyes glinting with amusement as she took in Sapphyre's expression. "Sapphyre. You look troubled."
"Your Majesty," she began, her voice measured, "I need to speak with you."
There was no preamble. Sapphyre snapped to attention, bowing to her sister. "We've had dryads go missing. Taken, Acastin thinks."
Emerylda's brow arched, a slow, deliberate motion that spoke volumes. "And your knights have not been able to locate a few missing dryads?" The words were smooth, effortless, but edged with that quiet, unshakable judgment that sent a chill down Sapphyre's spine.
Sapphyre's heart plummeted. She clenched her jaw to steel herself, refusing to waver beneath that piercing gaze. "Not yet. They disappeared near the forests, the same as before."
Emerylda swirled the wine in her goblet, watching the slow, lazy turn of the liquid as though the matter was nothing more than a passing inconvenience. "Mm. The same as before," she echoed, her voice almost lilting, a mockery of concern. Her gaze lifted, sharp as a dagger. "And yet, here you stand before me instead of bringing me answers."
Sapphyre stiffened. "Acastin has already deployed scouting parties. I came to inform you of the situation personally."
Emerylda studied her, silent for a long moment. Then, a small, knowing smile curved her lips, almost indulgent. She set her goblet down on a nearby table with a soft clink, unfolding herself from the chaise with practiced elegance. Even standing, she moved with the liquid grace of a serpent uncoiling.
"It is unfortunate," she said quietly, her voice devoid of the warmth Sapphyre had come to expect. "But it is a loss we cannot change. The dryads will have to be left to their fate. We have more pressing matters to attend to."
Sapphyre's jaw tightened, her frustration boiling beneath the surface. "More pressing matters? Then protecting our people?"
Emerylda's eyes narrowed slightly, but her expression remained calm, controlled. "You do not need to concern yourself with such things."
Sapphyre swallowed hard, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Of course, your Majesty."
"Enough of that," Emerylda said coolly, her voice like ice. "Tell me of the witches."
Sapphyre, took a steadying breath, pushing down the emotion that threatened to rise. She couldn't afford to show weakness, not now.
Sapphyre was about to continue, her thoughts carefully aligning to report what she'd discovered about the witches' journey west, but before she could speak further, the soft rustling of fabric broke through the tense silence of the room. The heavy curtains that separated Emerylda's sleeping chambers from the parlour were pushed aside, and a figure emerged.
The woman who entered the room moved with an unhurried grace. She was breathtakingly beautiful, though dishevelled – her long, dark hair cascading in waves, unbound and tangled, like a wild forest untamed. woman wore nothing but a thin, loosely wrapped sheet, which barely covered her, leaving much of her flushed bare body visible, the fabric slipping dangerously with each step.
The woman's dark eyes were fixed on Emerylda as she finally reached the centre of the room, her lips curving into a sultry smile that seemed to unsettle the air itself. She didn't acknowledge Sapphyre at all, her gaze never leaving Emerylda's.
"Well," the woman purred, her voice soft but laden with an intoxicating allure, "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
"No," Emerylda murmured, placing her goblet down with a delicate clink. Her tone was smooth, cool, and entirely unbothered. "My Commander was just leaving. She needs to bathe—her reports can wait."
Sapphyre recoiled, the sting of her sister's words cutting deeper than she expected. Despite her outwards appearance in that moment, Sapphyre was not looking at her sister, she saw only the Emerald Queen – the cold, calculating ruler who would do anything to maintain her grip on power.
Emerylda rose from her seat with deliberate grace, her eyes never leaving the woman, never looking at Sapphyre. She moved toward her, and the air around them seemed to shift. With an almost predatory ease, Emerylda reached the woman's side and placed her hands on her exposed shoulder. She leaned in, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the woman's bare skin.
The woman let out a breathy moan, her body arching ever so slightly into Emerylda's touch, her eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.
Sapphyre stood frozen for a moment, anger and disbelief warring inside of her. She turned sharply, her heart pounding in her ears. And as the door closed behind her, the muffled sounds of the room beyond seemed to echo, lingering in the silence of the hall.
As Sapphyre stepped away from the cold doors of her sister's chambers, her heart felt like a stone in her chest, heavy and uncertain. The hallway before her seemed to stretch endlessly, the stone walls closing in around her as she grappled with the turmoil swirling inside.
Her Code – the vow she had sworn to uphold – whispered in her mind, a constant reminder of who she was and what she had pledged to become. A knight, regardless of what world she was in. A protector of those who could not protect themselves. It had always been her guiding light, her compass in the darkness. But the more she thought of Emerylda's words, the more she felt the fracture between them growing, an irreparable chasm she wasn't sure how to cross.
To follow her Code – that was what she had trained for. What she had sworn to do. It was the righteous path, the one that led to justice and to truth. To find the missing dryads, to uncover the shadows creeping beneath their lands – it was her duty as a knight, as one who had taken an oath to defend her people.
But to follow her queen, her sister, was the path she had walked for years. Emerylda had been the one to raise her, the one to shape her destiny, the one whose word was law. The queen's vision, though colder and more distant than Sapphyre had ever hoped for, had always been unquestionable. Or so it had seemed. The bonds of blood, of loyalty, ran deep, and no matter how much Sapphyre wanted to defy her sister, the weight of her position, of her authority, kept pulling her back.
Her fingers tightened into fists at her sides.
A flash of indigo eyes filled her mind. Rilian's face, once a symbol of camaraderie and understanding, now a reminder of the chasm between her and the path she once thought she was meant to walk. She had tried to walk it with Emerylda, but now it seemed that path was closing off before her eyes.
Sapphyre stopped in the middle of the hallway, her back pressed against the cold stone. She closed her eyes, letting the chill of the walls ground her, trying to steady her thoughts.
She needed to meditate, to calm herself and her thoughts.
She could not act on her emotions.
She needed to calm.