Atlantis. Beyond the Heartland.
2790.
214th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
She would never be sick of the sight of green rolling hills, speckled with pines, and the barely wide enough road which they had been travelling upon for the better part of the day. The unicorn beneath her plodded along, following the others, unfazed by the lack of attention from its rider.
A beautiful creature, gifted to her by her parents upon her Knighthood. She watched it as it moved; the colour of snow falling upon a moonlit night. Yet the sun shining on its lovely coat made it the colour of the silvery moons, its mane and tail the same colour.
Allium uttered a small sigh, the knight plucking idly at the strings of his lute as Charoite hummed.
Sapphyre smiled, looking up at the clouds that rolled on and on, hiding the sky from his sight.
She'd spent the first few hours casting her gaze about, watching for movement, tensing at each and every animal that scuttled across her eyeline. But nothing that jumped out at them. Nothing had attacked. And the other knights laughed.
She was almost…disappointed.
For she'd heard nothing but tales of how wild the lands of the north were, riddled with brigands and bandits attacking people on the road.
She had imagined her first mission to be a proving ground, a chance to carve her place among the knights, to show them she was more than ceremony and spectacle. But the road was nothing like she had expected.
But if anything, the land she passed through was more peaceful than most of Atlantis, where noble rivalries turned deadly and ambition often walked hand in hand with betrayal. There were no bandits lying in wait over crests in the road, no competitive nobles hiring mercenaries to attack the Knights of the Heart.
Her gaze slid to her jovial-faced companions, laughing and joking together as only those who had fought by each other's side could.
The emperor had bade them to hunt down a traitor to the throne, one of the lords who had sat upon his council and shared in his wine.
The rolling hills gave way to flatter land.
Farmland. Dotted with low houses, each surrounded (as far as she could see) by a low white-stone wall, covered in moss and lichen instead of the beautiful blue-green domed roofs in the Heartland. And the further north they went, the more her skin prickled, the back of her neck tingled.
Something was different. Unseen eyes seemed to watch from beyond the fields, and though the road stretched empty ahead, she could not shake the feeling that they were not alone.
It was as if the very air was alive with magic.
She did not think it would be so, so far away from the Heart.
"Draw your weapons," Allium's voice was pitched low as they approached what looked to be little more than a larger farmhouse than the others they had passed. White rose lined the walls, brambling ivy crept up the sides of the house.
Lute and laughter were no longer in sight as the Knights of the Heart approached the house.
Sapphyre's fingers tightened around her sword hilt as she slid from her saddle. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and the faint aroma of freshly tilled soil. The knights moved in practiced formation; their steps silent on the packed dirt path leading to the door.
But as they drew closer, the tension ebbed. The house was quiet, but not ominous. No signs of battle or flight—only the peaceful stillness of a place long settled. A watering trough stood full, a pair of boots rested neatly by the door, and the ivy curling up the walls had been carefully tended rather than left to overtake the stone.
It was not what she had expected.
Not the lair of a desperate fugitive, not the husk of a battlefield—just a home. A place where people had lived, loved, and carried on with their lives, unaware of the hunt that had been declared against one of their own.
Movement from the corner of her eye alerted her to their small audience as the door opened. But her gaze was not on the man in the doorway as she slid off the unicorn; it was upon the small girl who approached her with a smile and some flowers in her hands.
The child could not have been more than six or seven, her wide eyes filled with innocent curiosity rather than fear. She stepped forward hesitantly, clutching a bundle of soft lavender and white blossoms. Sapphyre, so used to the rigid formality of court and the wary distance of strangers, found herself caught off guard by the simple offering.
The girl stopped a few paces away, tilting her head as though assessing her. Then, with a bright, gap-toothed grin, she extended the flowers upward, her small fingers smudged with dirt. "For you, Lady Knight."
The door creaked open wider, and the lord stepped forward, hands raised in supplication. "Spare my family, please!" his voice wavered, thick with desperation.
But Sapphyre barely heard him. Her gaze remained locked on the small girl before her – the unruly curls that had not been brushed, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her bones nearly protruded beneath her skin.
Then the world seemed to slow.
The knights moved with deadly precision, their blades flashing as they struck. The lord collapsed first, a strangled sound escaping his throat as he crumpled to the ground. The knights did not stop. Not for his pleading wife, nor for the lowliest of their maids.
Sapphyre's breath caught in her throat, her body rigid.
It was no battle.
It was slaughter.
Blood splattered across the white flowers.
Sapphyre reached for the girl as her eyes widened. But it was not the girls body that fell into Sapphyre's open hands.
It was her head.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Gwyneira.
Steel against steel rang through the training yard, a rhythmic cadence of strikes and parries, grunts and barks of instruction. Gwyneira stood at the periphery, her pale eyes keen as she observed the knights of Underland in their relentless drills. The scent of sweat and damp earth mixed with the ever-present chill that clung to her skin like a second layer.
She had found herself there once again.
A silent observer, a ghost on the edges of their world. Her kind did not often mix with others, yet something about their discipline intrigued her. They were creatures of structure and repetition, of brutal efficiency and unshaken loyalty. It was a stark contrast to the fae, whose existence was shaped by fluidity and instinct.
Neve, their ever-curious little Lorekeeper in training, had darted forward earlier, asking breathless questions about their weapons and techniques. Gwyn had let her go, content to linger at a distance, watching. She traced the way their bodies moved, how muscle and sinew worked in perfect concert, how some carried themselves with honed grace while others still bore the weight of inexperience.
One knight in particular caught her eye – a veteran by the way he carried himself, his movements honed to lethal precision. He fought with the ease of one who had done so a thousand times before, his blade an extension of his will. And yet, there was a weariness to him, a heaviness in the way he stepped back between strikes, as if something unseen burdened him more than the weight of his armour.
Acastin, the Knight Commanders second-in-command.
Gwyneira narrowed her eyes, intrigued.
What drove them, those warriors of Underland? Honor? Duty? Survival? Or something more?
A gust of cold air whispered past her, making the nearest knight shudder as frost curled at the edges of his gauntlet.
Every moment between them was charged, full of tension. Gwyneira had noticed it before, the way they gravitated toward each other. Rilian was always touching her – his hand at her shoulder, his fingers grazing her leg, small gestures that spoke of something deeper. And yet, Sapphyre did not seem to notice.
Or, if she did, she gave no sign of it.
Gwyneira tilted her head, thoughtful. Was it deliberate, this obliviousness? A refusal to acknowledge something dangerous? Or was it something else – something buried beneath the weight of duty and circumstance?
She lingered a moment longer, watching them, before moving on. Whatever lay between them, it was not hers to decipher. But she would keep observing, as she always did.
As Eirwyn had taught her to.
Then, the two stepped into the training ring. "For fun," Rilian had said, though Gwyneira doubted he would find much amusement in it.
Neither of them pulled their punches. Sapphyre moved like wildfire, unpredictable and merciless, her strikes swift and relentless. Rilian, to his credit, held his ground, blocking and countering with a tenacity that surprised her.
Yet, there was something beneath the violence, something charged.
The way Rilian caught her wrist mid-strike, the way Sapphyre twisted away only to return with equal force, their bodies too close, breaths mingling in the brief pauses between blows. Their touches lingered a fraction too long, their gazes burned with something unspoken.
Did no one else see it?
Sapphyre shifted, her sword flashing, and Rilian barely dodged in time. He twisted, catching her off balance for the briefest moment, but she righted herself before he could capitalize on it. She was quick, too quick, her strikes turning sharper. He met them, his breath coming faster, but he was grinning. He liked it. The challenge.
A half-second pause. He lunged, and she sidestepped, but not before his fingers grazed her wrist, as if drawn there by instinct. It was fleeting, but Gwyn saw it – saw the way Sapphyre hesitated, the way she almost pressed into the touch before yanking herself free and driving forward again, her sword arcing in a lethal curve. Rilian barely brought his blade up in time.
Neve had been wrong when she'd said Sapphyre was uptight. The youngest of the frost fae did not see how much the sapphire knight hid, how much she locked away beneath that carefully sculpted armour of hers. But Rilian saw it. He saw it in a way no one else did, and more importantly – he made her show it.
Gwyneira's gaze flickered to Neve, who stood off to the side, watching with rapt attention.
The girl's admiration for Rilian had been apparent from the start, the way she trailed after him, the way her eyes brightened when he spoke. But it was useless, wasn't it? Rilian would look at no other but Sapphyre.
A knight stepped up beside her, leaning casually against the fence. "They fight like they mean to kill each other," he mused, his voice edged with amusement. Acastin, his name was, she reminded herself. As if she would mistake the tall warrior for another.
Gwyneira did not look away from the ring. "Perhaps they do. Or perhaps that is the only way they know how to speak."
The knight chuckled, folding his arms as he, too, watched. "A dangerous language. But there are many who only listen to violence."
Rilian lunged, forcing Sapphyre to pivot sharply, her blade flashing as she met his strike. Their footwork wove tighter, circling, breathless, until it seemed less a fight and more a dance. A dangerous game, each testing the other, each refusing to yield. Rilian's arm ghosted over Sapphyre's waist as he passed, and though she shoved him back, Gwyn did not miss the flicker in her expression – something startled, something restrained.
Fascinating.
Gwyneira said nothing, but the frost curling along her fingers betrayed her thoughts. She would keep watching.
She would see where it led.
She found herself…curious.
…
Cair Paravel.
Drinian.
The castle of Cair Paravel rose in the distance, its white-stone turrets gleaming in the late afternoon sun. A pang of unease settled in his chest. He had been away too long, scouring the lands beyond Narnia's borders in search of the lost prince.
Rilian.
The boy he had watched grow into a man.
The prince who had vanished without a trace.
The castle was as grand as ever, but something about its silence unsettled him. The usual bustle of courtiers and servants seemed muted. Even the sea breeze carried an unfamiliar stillness.
When Drinian entered the great hall, he found Caspian seated upon his throne, though he looked more like a shadow of himself than a king. His face was gaunt, lined with an exhaustion Drinian had never seen before.
The king's dark eyes, once so full of life, now carried a strange, distant glaze.
Drinian strode forward, bowing briefly. "My king."
Caspian lifted his gaze, slow and heavy, as if roused from a dream. "Drinian." His voice was hoarse, almost slurred.
Drinian frowned. He had known Caspian since boyhood, had fought beside him, had sailed the Eastern Seas under his command. Never had he known him to drink beyond reason, yet now… Was it grief? Some dulling of the senses to keep the pain at bay?
"My lord," Drinian said carefully, "I have returned from my search."
At that, something flickered behind Caspian's eyes. Hope? Dread?
"You have news?"
Drinian hesitated. "No news worth rejoicing over, I fear."
The words seemed to sink into the king like stones in water. He exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping. "Then he is truly lost."
Drinian clenched his jaw. "Not lost. Only not yet found."
Caspian let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "You always were the hopeful one, old friend." He shifted in his seat, rubbing his temple as if warding off some invisible weight. "But I— I do not know how much longer I can hope."
The admission shook Drinian more than he cared to admit. Caspian was strong. He had endured war, treachery, loss. But this—this slow unravelling—was unlike him.
Drinian studied his friend carefully. The distant eyes. The weariness that seemed to cling to him like a shroud. There was something more at play here, something beyond grief. A cold feeling crept into Drinian's heart.
Something was very wrong.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
Sapphyre.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic, like the ghost of old blood. The black, gnarled trees stretched their limbs toward the sky, their skeletal branches adorned with faintly glowing frost where the chill of the Dark Castle lingered even in the gardens.
She had come to meditate, to clear her thoughts before returning to her sister's side. But even as she sought solace in the stillness, she was not alone.
"Pensive, Lady Knight?" The voice was like the whisper of wind over ice, delicate yet edged with something sharp.
Sapphyre turned to see Eirwyn watching her from the shadows of a frozen weeping willow. The fae's gown was spun from gossamer and frost, shimmering in the dim light. Her silver-white hair cascaded over her shoulders, nearly blending into the pale luminescence of her skin.
"Eirwyn," Sapphyre greeted, inclining her head slightly. She did not kneel, nor did Eirwyn seem to expect it.
"What weighs on your mind?" Eirwyn stepped forward, the frost blooming beneath her bare feet, delicate and ephemeral. "Surely it is not the simple beauty of the gardens."
"There is little beauty left in this world," she murmured. "I was only seeking quiet before I return to my duty."
Eirwyn studied her, those crystalline eyes piercing, seeing more than Sapphyre would ever say aloud. "Your duty," she echoed. "To the Emerald Witch?"
Witch, the frost-fae said.
Never queen.
Sapphyre's lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. "To my sister."
Eirwyn tilted her head, as though considering something deeper. "And yet, duty is not always devotion, is it?"
Sapphyre's fingers curled at her sides, but she forced herself to remain composed. "She is my purpose."
A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Then, Eirwyn's gaze flickered, just the barest shift of her crystalline eyes, but it was enough.
Had she seen it?
Had she stood in the icy shadows when the tithe was collected, when the dryad had been dragged away? The memory of the dryad's yells gnawed at Sapphyre. She had watched, impassive, as was expected of her.
Had Eirwyn?
"Some things leave stains deeper than blood," Eirwyn murmured, almost idly, her gaze trailing the frost-laced branches above them.
Sapphyre swallowed, her throat tightening. The frost fae had not left her, had not vanished into mist like before. Instead, she stood there, waiting, the silence between them pressing heavier than the dark sky above. Sapphyre did not ask if she had witnessed the tithe. She was not sure she wanted the answer.
Eirwyn finally turned her piercing gaze back to her. "And will you continue to call it duty when it carves into you like ice?"
Sapphyre did not answer. She was not sure she could.
Eirwyn did not move, did not shift away into the mist. Instead, she lingered, her gaze searching, measuring. "Tell me, then," she said at last, voice low and almost coaxing. "What do you think of him? Of your sister's Dark Knight?"
Sapphyre hesitated. Her thoughts tangled, knotted like the gnarled roots beneath their feet. She had spent so much time watching him, studying his movements, ensuring he did not escape – was it only duty? Only necessity? And yet, she knew the answer before she even spoke.
It had started that way.
But somewhere along that line had blurred.
And then it had ceased existing all together.
"He has hope." The words came softly, as if spoken into the frost-laden air might make them something real. "Even when everything seems dark, he never loses that. And there is something very beautiful in that, something far more sincere than in any of my oaths."
Eirwyn's expression did not change, but her eyes seemed to gleam, as though she had expected Sapphyre's answer. "Hope is a dangerous thing," she mused. "It can shatter, or it can shatter others."
Sapphyre looked away, unable to hold that gaze any longer. "Yes," she whispered. "I know."
Eirwyn smiled then, a slow, knowing thing. "Perhaps you do."