Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
Sapphyre stood in the dim hallway; her eyes fixed on the door to Rilian's chambers. The silence stretched on, pressing in around her like a weight. She had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, but there was no response from within. No sound, no movement, not even the flicker of a shadow through the crack beneath the door.
Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of the sword at her waist, a habit she hadn't been able to shake since her days in the bright halls of Atlantis.
She had expected him to answer.
It wasn't like Rilian to ignore a knock, especially not from her.
She'd been expecting the door to swing open immediately, for him to greet her with that familiar grin, his deep indigo eyes gleaming with mischief, and laughter that always seemed to fill the space between them.
But there was nothing. The silence stretched on, growing thicker, heavier.
Sapphyre leaned her ear against the cool wood, straining for any sound – any sign of movement – but there was none. No shifting footsteps, no rustling. Only the haunting echo of her own breath.
Sapphyre's gaze flicked briefly to the stone walls around her, the long corridor stretching both ways into the darkened recesses of the palace. She could hear the distant echoes of voices, the faint hum of life still stirring in the depths of the Dark Castle, but nothing from Rilian.
With a soft exhale, she stepped closer to the door, her senses sharpening.
She knocked again, this time with more force, her knuckles rapping sharply against the wood.
"Rilian," she called quietly, her voice steady despite the unease that lingered in her chest. "I need to speak with you."
Still, there was no response.
Sapphyre's patience snapped, and with a quiet exhale, she pushed the door open, stepping into the room. The air inside was colder than it should have been, as if the silence itself had drained the warmth from the space. She barely noticed the soft creak of the door as it closed behind her.
The room felt... off.
The deep-toned silks that draped over the furniture and the carved obsidian that adorned the walls seemed darker than usual, more oppressive, as if the shadows themselves had taken root. Even the flickering light from the high-arched window – the only source of illumination – did little to chase the gloom away.
Sapphyre's brow furrowed as she moved swiftly across the room, her eyes scanning every corner, every piece of furniture. She drew back the thick black curtains, and the heavy fabric slid with a rasping sound, revealing the outside world – dim, grey, and shrouded in the remnants of an early morning fog. The light that poured through was barely enough to illuminate the farthest reaches of his chambers.
She needed more.
With a single motion, Sapphyre struck a flint against the stone wall and lit the first of the torches that stood in iron sconces along the walls. The flame sputtered for a moment before catching, its light spilling into the room like a hesitant promise. As she lit the next one, the golden glow filled the space, casting long shadows against the dark walls, but the room still felt too empty, too still.
Something wasn't right.
Moving with purpose, she crossed to the large, carved desk – papers and books strewn about in an apparent disarray. She swept them aside with one swift motion, her fingers brushing against the cold, smooth surface beneath. Nothing seemed to explain the weight in the air.
Sapphyre's gaze swept the room, pausing as her eyes landed on the corner where Rilian's black armour still stood, gleaming in the dim light of the torches she'd lit. Her heart skipped a beat. The sight of it, placed neatly in its usual spot, was an eerie comfort. It meant he wasn't under Emerylda's enchantment.
But if he wasn't enchanted, then where was he?
She's already been to the training yards that morning and he was not with her knights.
The question gnawed at her as she stepped closer to the armour, her fingers brushing lightly over the polished plates of black metal. There was something unsettling about the way the suit of armour sat there so perfectly, untouched and still. It should have felt like a sign of his presence, a reassurance that he was close by, but instead, it deepened her unease.
Sapphyre moved away from it, eyes scanning the rest of the room, searching for any hint of where he might have gone. His cloak was still draped over the chair by the desk, the fabric seemingly undisturbed.
"Rilian," she called again, her voice almost a whisper, as though she feared that raising it too much would shatter the fragile tension in the room. "Where are you?"
Sapphyre moved toward his desk, her eyes scanning the surface. There, among the papers, she noticed something peculiar – a piece of parchment, half-crumpled, wedged under the edge of a book. She slid it out, smoothing the paper in her hands.
It was a map of the tunnels, and of the woods where the dryads had gone missing. A route was marked in a bold, hurried stroke.
Her heart skipped a beat as her mind raced.
Sapphyre's pulse quickened as she tucked the map into her cloak, her mind already racing through the possibilities. What had Rilian found?
Of course, he had been investigating the disappearances of the squire and the dryad, the two who had vanished so suddenly from Underland's outskirts. Rilian would not have given up in her absence.
Her heart beat faster, the air around her seeming to thrum Rilian was thorough, determined and undoubtedly stubborn.
Sapphyre's mind turned to her sister. Emerylda had made it clear that she did not want Sapphyre to pursue the matter of the dryads, but that was before she had uncovered more. Before she had discovered that Rilian had disappeared, too.
Sapphyre's frustration simmered as she made her way through the palace corridors, her footsteps echoing in the cold stone halls.
She had to find Rilian.
Her thoughts raced ahead of her, piecing together the unsettling fragments of the morning: the vacant room, the unscathed armour, the silence where there should have been a voice.
She reached her sister's chambers, her hand tightening around the hilt of her sword. The guards at the entrance straightened as she approached, their faces unreadable. Sapphyre met their eyes, but they didn't budge. Did not acknowledge her presence.
"I need to speak with the Queen," she said, her voice cold and composed, despite the tension knotting in her chest.
"The Queen is occupied." The voice was bland. Empty.
"Occupied?" she repeated, her voice tight with barely contained irritation.
"Yes, Lady Sapphyre. She is not to be disturbed." The guard's tone was unyielding, and he made no move to allow her entrance.
Sapphyre's gaze hardened.
She knew exactly what occupied meant. Her sister was likely lost in long creamy legs and the tangled sheets with her dark-haired beauty of the month.
Sapphyre fought the urge to lash out, to demand answers from the guards, but she knew it would be pointless.
Instead, Sapphyre took a slow breath, steadying herself. "Very well," she said, the words falling from her lips like ice. "I'll return when the Queen is available."
She turned on her heel, not waiting for their response.
She had to clear her mind, centre herself.
She needed air, a moment of solitude where the tension could slip away, even if only for a while.
…
Cair Paravel.
Diamande.
Lord Drinian had left, and the whispers of the Court said that he had intensified his search for the lost prince. Outwards Sir Dustan had not let it affect him; he did not let it show that the whispers said it was because the kings most loyal advisor did not trust him. But Diamande knew the knight was surely enraged, for the advisors actions made people doubt him and his abilities.
For if he trusted him, why would he continue to search for the long-dead prince Rilian?
So instead, the new Knight Commander distracted the Court whilst he tightened his hold upon Narnia's knights. With celebrations, with feasts where they could lose themselves in their cups and in the skirts of the women that Dustan brought into the Cair.
Diamande found himself looking outside of the Court for answers; and that morning had found him in the city that surrounded the Cair, at the markets. For the people of the Cair had taken advantage of the lack of snowfall and though it was cold still, they braved the winter air.
The crisp air bit at Diamande's skin, but he didn't mind. He's long acclimatised himself to colder, harsher climates than the ones he'd been born into.
The crowd had a life of its own, vibrant silk shining in the early morning sunlight, the people moving like enchanting shoals of fish.
The Market Square was alive.
Diamande paused at this stall and that, knowing there wasn't anything he would purchase. He listened to the chatter between sellers and buyers, haggling prices. He listened to the murmurs and the whispers, that the Narnia was going to ruin for the prince was gone and the king would surely pass soon.
He blended in with the crowd, moving any which way fancy took him.
As he wandered through the labyrinth of stalls, his gaze swept over the vibrant colours of the market, the chatter of merchants and buyers blending into a symphony of life. But it was a single figure that caught his eye – a knight.
One of Sir Dustan's lackeys.
The man's posture was stiff, his eyes darting back and forth as if expecting someone to appear at any moment. He moved through the crowd with purpose, though there was a noticeable hesitation in his steps, a subtle indication that he was trying hard not to be followed. Diamande's lips curled into a smile.
The knight glanced over his shoulder again, and Diamande, with quiet steps, followed.
A florist, somewhere amongst the semi-permanent stalls – for the heady scent of flowers drifted throughout the people. And here and there, the spark of magic, the tingle that prickled down the back of his neck.
The narrow avenues were lined with sparse trees, their branches naked to the winters cold, reaching towards the weak sunlight. The buildings grew skyward, like the great trees of the northern forests. It was a beautiful image, one of joy and happiness.
So many people, unaware of the storm that approached.
They were close to the taverns; Diamande could tell by the smell in the air. Mead and vomit and sweat. It was that thought that was bubbling through his mind when his vision blackened, a sharp pain blooming on the back of his head.
The sounds were muffled as he was pulled roughly.
Stones scraping at his knees and shins.
Something had been pulled over his head. A bag or a cloth that covered only the upper part of his face? He couldn't tell.
It grew colder.
Darker.
The air was stale. Dank and damp.
Drip.
His body was thrust against the wall, let go to slump against the ground where the water lapped at his feet, a numbing chill seeped through him.
Near the river? Or a channel to the beach?
Drip.
The dripping increased neither its rate nor volume, but to Diamande it was a hammer to his ears, heard above his thundering heart. He had been sure the knight had not seen him.
"Why were you following him?" The voice growled, disjointed. "Who sent you?"
"No one sent me," Diamande ground out, trying to gather his bearings. The words hadn't even left Diamande's mouth before the first strike came – fast and brutal, a sharp blow to the side of his head. The force of it slammed him against the cold stone wall, and for a moment, his vision blurred, darkness threatening to pull him under.
His breath caught in his chest, but before he could fully react, another hit landed, this time against his ribs. The air was knocked from his lungs, a sickening crack echoing in his ears as the force sent him sprawling to the wet ground.
The dripping sound grew louder, almost mocking, as Diamande gasped for breath, trying to steady himself. His body ached, his limbs heavy and sluggish, but the blows kept coming, each one faster, sharper, relentless.
"You faun-fucking liar."
His tongue was soaked in the taste of blood; bruised and winded, with a leg in agony, he grabbed the foot of the nearest assailant and pulled him with him. His head pounded as the cloth was ripped from his face and light pierced his vision.
He brought a fist to the man's face, his nose giving way with a satisfying crunch, pain shooting through his arm at the connection.
A knife flashed.
His mind screamed out, as the pain drove through his side. Burning pain licked through his body like scorching fire, burning through that numbness.
His throat burned as he struggled to breathe, spitting blood. Sweat coated his body. It was merciless.
With each breath the pain flared anew.
And then with bated breath he pulled himself into a sitting position, clutching his side.
He couldn't do it.
He was too weak.
His head fell onto his shoulder and his eyes flickered, his vision dancing.
Footsteps echoed, but darkness reigned.
"Leave him. He won't last the night."
…
Underland. The Dark City.
Eirwyn.
Eirwyn floated through the strange gardens of the Dark Castle her wings beating silently in the still air. The ground beneath her remained untouched by the snow she knew was falling in the surface, the ground dark and cool, but the garden itself was something else entirely. The flowers, pale whites and blues, seemed to hang suspended in time, their colours washed out as if they, too, had been drained of life, leaving only fragile traces of their former beauty.
The blossoms, delicate and ghostly, appeared as if they'd been bleached by an unkind sun, their petals stark against the dark stone of the castle that loomed like an ancient sentry at the garden's edge.
The branches of the trees were twisted and barren, their gnarled forms stretching toward the sky, as if grasping for something long lost. The leaves had long since withered, leaving only thin, jagged twigs. There was no movement in the garden, no rustle of life, no whisper of the wind. A
She felt the change. She could feel it in the wind and in the air. She could feel it in the water that carved a path below the rivers frozen surface. A shift in the magic, in the very foundations of the land.
Something had changed.
Narnia was stirring once more.
She closed her eyes, her wings hovering in perfect stillness, and reached out with her senses. The wind, though quiet, carried a whisper – a shift, a tremor in the air. The land itself seemed to be responding, a subtle current of energy pulling through the garden, beneath the stone pathways, beneath the cold ground.
Narnia.
It was waking.
The power that had long slumbered, buried in the roots of the land, in the very essence of the world, was stirring. It was far from a whisper; it was a slow, steady pulse beneath her, growing stronger with each passing moment.
Responding to a threat.
But exactly what the threat was, even Eirwyn was not yet sure.
Would Aslan return?
It had been many, many years since the great lion had last been seen. The last time his mighty form had graced the land was at King Caspian's coronation – a moment of hope and renewal for the kingdom.
As Eirwyn rounded the corner of the garden, her wings slowing to a gentle flutter, she paused. The scene before her was unexpected – there, nestled in the shadow of a twisted, leafless tree, sat the Sapphire Knight.
Her back was straight, her posture as unyielding as the stone surrounding them. Eyes closed in serene concentration, she was meditating, her breath steady and calm despite the strange, charged atmosphere of the garden.
Eirwyn blinked, slightly taken aback. She had not realized the Sapphire Knight had returned to the Dark Castle. The presence of the knight was an unexpected one – what was she doing there, sitting in the barren garden, so far removed from the castle's dark corridors where duty and command usually kept her occupied?
Why was she not with the Dark Knight?
Eirwyn furrowed her brow, the quiet unease beginning to settle in her chest. She had heard nothing of the Knight Commander's return. In fact, her presence seemed out of place, considering the urgency of matters pressing upon the kingdom. The missing dryads.
Eirwyn knew little about their disappearance beyond the whispers she'd overheard in the halls.
Eirwyn tilted her head slightly, regarding the Sapphire Knight for a moment. "You've returned," she said, her voice cautious. "I did not realize you were back from your… travels."
The knight's eyes remained closed, but Eirwyn could sense her awareness without a single word spoken.
Eirwyn felt a tightness in her chest as the realization hit her. The Sapphire Knight had to know about the dryads. There was no way she could not. The stillness of the knight's posture, the way she sat so unmoving amidst the empty garden, felt almost wrong in the wake of the dryads' disappearance.
How many times had she watched the world shift, felt the change in the land, and yet chosen not to act?
How many times had she sat idly by?
Eirwyn, the detached, cold matriarch of the frost fae, had told herself she would simply be an observer, a guest and nothing more. She had long since shed any illusions of involvement in the affairs of Narnia, keeping her distance from the tumultuous currents of magic and politics.
Her people – silent and resolute – were not ones to meddle in the messy drama of the land's rulers. She had come to the Dark Castle with that very intention: to observe, to gather information.
The disappearance of the dryads, the tension in the air, the strange currents of magic, both Narnian and not, growing stronger by the day – it was hard for her to remain apart.
The Sapphire Knight, poised and composed, had chosen not to act, but Eirwyn could sense something stirring in her. Something far more volatile than the knight was willing to show. Beneath the knight's rigid control, behind her orders – her heart wanted to act.
And suddenly, Eirwyn realized she was no longer just observing.
You are already part of this story, she thought, her wings fluttering silently at her back. The pieces had already moved. The land had already chosen her path.
Eirwyn stood there, in the stark white garden with its pale flowers, feeling the undercurrent of power shift beneath her feet.
And she couldn't fight it.
"Wishful thoughts won't find them. But you can." The moment the words left her mouth; Eirwyn felt a shift in the air – an almost imperceptible change. The Sapphire Knight, who had appeared so calm, so detached, turned toward her with a sharpness that sent a chill down Eirwyn's spine. Her gaze was a blade, cutting through the silence between them.
For a heartbeat, Eirwyn stood frozen, her pulse quickening as she met the knight's intense, too-blue eyes. There was no mistaking the clarity in them now. No veil of indifference, no distance. The cold-faced knight, the one who had seemed so unfeeling, was not as detached as Eirwyn had believed.
Beneath the perfect knight's armour, there was a tempest waiting to be unleashed.