Atlantis. The Heartland. The River of Jewels.
2773.
197th Year of the Reign of Emperor and Empress Opallyne.
Diamande.
His sister had been born.
He did not remember Emerylda being born with such a crop of copper curls, but the baby that the Empress cradled seemed like such a small and fragile thing. Yet there was something luminous about her, as though her very presence shimmered faintly in the light.
The procession was a splendid affair, golden banners fluttering in the ocean breeze as the denizens of the city lined the streets for a glimpse at the new princess. They came not out of obligation, but out of wonder. There was a deep reverence in their eyes – commonfolk and nobility alike – showering petals into the air that fell like colourful snow around the royal chariot. The unicorns that pulled it trotted with graceful pride, their silver horns glinting in the sunlight.
His mother looked pale beneath her finely painted face, and Diamande could still hear her screams echoing in his memory – anguished cries that had stretched through the long night. The cost of birth had been great.
But the procession could not be delayed.
It was tradition, and tradition was sacred. For it was to the River of Jewels they travelled. For a child's eyes did not open nor colour until they'd called to them the stone that will colour their life – to dictate their future Path and profession.
And soon the River of Jewels was in sight – its bed strewn with no mere stones, but with gleaming gems of every hue. Rubies, emeralds, opals, and stones even rarer still, glittering beneath crystal waters. The sight alone could steal the breath from one's lungs.
When the Emperor stepped into the shallows and slowly lowered the infant into the water – wrapped in a single length of white silk – the entire city seemed to hold its breath. No sound but the gentle babble of the river.
Diamande's heart pounded. He leaned forward slightly, eyes wide. He had seen many such ceremonies, but it felt different. It felt vast.
And then the sky split with light.
A blinding beam, pure and blue, shot across the heavens from the Tower of the Heart. Even the birds fell silent. The light touched the river, shimmered along its surface like lightning crawling over glass, and wrapped around the child like a cocoon.
The crowd gasped as one.
Then silence again.
His parents fell to their knees in the water, robes soaking through. The empress clutched the babe to her chest, weeping openly. The emperor looked up, his expression one of humbled awe.
The babe did not cry.
She only opened her eyes.
Atlantean blue. Deep, endless, and glowing from within. The colour of the Heart.
A murmur passed through the crowd like a wave.
Diamande trembled as his own knees touched the earth. He felt it. A pulse through the air, through his bones. The Heart had answered. For the first time in living memory, the Heart had chosen.
"Sapphyre," their parents breathed as one as they named her.
"Blessed by the Heart."
"Apollyon's Heir."
"Hope."
The awe that rippled through the crowd was not simple reverence.
It was wonder.
It was fear.
It was belief.
It was the mark of prophecy upon her.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
Her tunic bore the emerald green of her sister's banner, a stark contrast against the deep blue of the cloak draped over her shoulders. That was her only distinction, the only thing that marked her apart from the other knights who flanked the throne. The rest – her posture, her expression, the way she stood with her hands clasped behind her back – was the same unyielding discipline she had been trained to embody.
The hall was heavy with silence, save for the soft scrape of boots against polished stone as subjects stepped forward, their heads bowed, their hands trembling as they placed their offerings before her. Payment for housing. Payment for protection. Payment for the sanctuary Emerylda provided them in the depths of Underland.
They bowed low, their movements stiff with deference and fear, and pressed their meagre coin purses, their worn weapons, their handfuls of precious gems into Sapphyre's waiting hands. She accepted each tithe with an appraising gaze, weighing the worth of each offering before directing her knights to carry them to the vaults.
Emerylda watched from the throne above, her expression unreadable, adorned in a gown of flowing dark silk and layered jewellery that caught the light with every shift of her hands.
Sapphyre felt her sister's gaze pass over her as she worked, but she did not falter.
Jewels mined by the dwarfs.
Armour and weapons crafted by the gnomes.
Sapphyre was admiring a dagger handed to her, the blade skilfully honed when her sister's scoff rang out through the near-silent courtyard.
The dryad knelt before Emerylda; his offering held forward with trembling hands. Beautiful, iridescent flowers that seemed to near-glow with their own light. Sapphyre took a step forward to accept them, to take a closer look.
Emerylda held up a hand and Sapphyre stilled; her hand still outstretched.
"What is this?"
"The most beautiful of blooms from our grove, my Lady," the dryad near-whispered, his eyes wide. "From one of the first trees. Our greatest of treasures."
Emerylda stood, her skirts pooling about her, the deep jade satin spilling over the stairs. Her face was thunderous. "We cannot eat flowers. We cannot use flowers to defend ourselves from shadow wolves and monsters of the deep." Then Emerylda's eyes met Sapphyre's, as hard as the jewels she was name for. "The dryads cannot pay. Take him away."
And Sapphyre could do nothing to stop it; her knights awaiting her order. Two of the queensguard moved – hauling the dryad by his arms, and as he stumbled the flowers fell to the ground, beautiful white blossoms stark against the dark black stones. She reached out gingerly, picking up one that fell near her feet, deaf to the dryad's cries, blind to the next tithe offering that Sir Acastin accepted in her place.
She twirled the little blossom.
She knew what their storeroom looked like.
Dust collected on the things towards the back, spiderwebs woven loosely around the barrels, dirtied shelves and stands. Bolts of bright fabrics, a heavenly silk that was like water through her fingers when she touched it. The ground was littered with dirt, glass, books, and torn paper, footprints in the dust closest to the door. The crevices in the wall allowed small amounts light to filter inside along with thin ropes of ivy. Dust floated lazily in the air and every step she took towards the back put more of it into the air.
Tithe.
To their Queen.
Something bubbled within her. That old resentment. That old anger.
They did not need the tithe.
No, Emerylda knew what she was doing.
"The dryads have by next moon to pay. Double," Emerylda's voice was flinty, and with a flare of her skirts she took her seat once more. "Or they will be cast into the Sunless Sea."
The rest of the tithe collection passed in a blur, and Sapphyre simply held onto the pretty flower.
But that eve found the sisters in Emerylda's parlour, the tension so thick Sapphyre could have cut it with one of those pretty daggers that had been offered to them. The candlelight flickered against the high-arched ceiling, catching in the dark gold embroidery of the heavy jade drapes, throwing restless shadows across the walls. The air smelled of warmed spiced wine and burning sage, but none of it masked the unease between them.
"What is wrong, sister? Will you not speak to me?" Emerylda's voice, usually smooth as flowing silk, held a frayed edge. She sank into the blush velvet chair by the fireplace, the firelight casting an amber glow on her cheekbones. She had already loosened her braid, the curls slipping free in a way that made her seem softer, almost like the sister Sapphyre remembered from their youth. But the absence of her crown did not strip her of authority. If anything, it made her seem more dangerous – because she had chosen to set aside the weight of her rule, if only for that moment, and yet still expected obedience.
Sapphyre stood across from her, arms folded, fingers digging into the silk of her own sleeves. "You ask what is wrong?" Her voice was steady, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable. "Why do you still ask for the tithe in the wake of the shadow-wolf attack? Our people are shaken, Emerylda. They are rattled and afraid. They need hope, not another demand."
Emerylda let out a slow breath, tilting her head back against the chair. "And what do you think hope is built on, Sapphyre? Empty promises? Songs at the hearth? Hope is secured by strength. Strength is bought with power. And power—" her gaze lifted, sharp as the curve of a dagger, "—is paid for, one way or another."
Sapphyre stepped closer, the train of her gown whispering over the marble floor. "They have given enough. The blood price of the attack still stains the earth outside our walls."
"And if we do not take our due now," Emerylda countered, "they will begin to believe they can give less. That we will shoulder the cost alone."
Sapphyre's jaw clenched. The fire crackled between them, the silence stretched taut. The weight of their history hung in the air—the long years of exile, the endless battle to rebuild, the sacrifices neither of them had been spared from making. Sapphyre searched her sister's face, looking for a glimmer of doubt, some small fissure in her resolve. But Emerylda was cool, detached—the perfect Emerald Queen. She regarded Sapphyre not as a sister, but as a subject to be managed, an obstacle to be weathered.
And that, more than anything, stoked the ember of frustration in Sapphyre's chest. "Is that what we are now?" she asked, quieter this time. "A kingdom that punishes its own for surviving?"
Emerylda held her gaze for a long moment. Then she stood, smoothing the loose curls from her face, the momentary softness gone as if it had never been there at all. "We are a kingdom that endures," she said, voice low. "And those who endure understand what must be done."
"The dryads came to us before anyone else," Sapphyre murmured.
"The dryads are cowards who will side with anyone who gives them a place where they can dance and frolic. That does not mean we can be lenient." Emerylda raised her eyes to Sapphyre's own and then stood, grasping her sister's hands with her own. She offered a small smile—but all Sapphyre saw was the dryad-man's terrified eyes as he was taken by the queensguard. "We must build our empire on order. On fairness and equality. Otherwise, we are no better than our parents and their corrupt system." She brushed a hair out of Sapphyre's eyes, tucking it tenderly behind her ear. "We must do better. He will be imprisoned, but he will be treated well."
Emerylda was right. Of course, she was right. But surely, they could have sent that message another way? But Sapphyre did not say the words aloud.
Instead, she nodded her head and gave her sister a small smile.
Yes, they must do better. Otherwise, all their actions were for naught.
Because all she saw in her mind's eye were flowers splattered with red, red blood.
Sapphyre's jaw clenched. The fire crackled between them, the silence stretched taut. Sapphyre searched her sister's face, looking for a glimmer of doubt, some small fissure in her resolve. But Emerylda was cool, detached – the perfect Emerald Queen.
Emerylda held her gaze for a long moment. Then, with the same calm, detached certainty, she turned back toward the fire, leaving the conversation to wither.
Sapphyre exhaled sharply. She had no more words – none that would not be dismissed, none that would make her sister see. Without another glance, she turned on her heel and left. The heavy oak groaned as she pushed it open, stepping into the cool silence of the corridor beyond.
She walked without direction at first, only needing space, needing solitude. The stone halls were quiet at, the torchlight flickering against the carved emerald banners hanging from the walls. Her mind was too restless, too full.
She needed clarity.
She needed to breathe.
She needed to meditate.
Because if she did not, the flowers in her visions would only grow redder.
But the quiet did not come. Her thoughts twisted around themselves, tightening like brambles. She should not have questioned Emerylda. Her sister was strong, certain. Emerylda had never steered her wrong.
And yet—
She pressed her fingers into her temples, breathing deeply. If only they had a priestess, one Blessed by the Heart, someone she could speak with, someone who could reassure her that doubt was merely a shadow and not the harbinger of ruin. But all the priestesses were dead. Slaughtered in the fall of Atlantis, their sacred wisdom lost beneath the waves.
That loss sat heavy in her chest, stirring memories she thought she had buried long ago. Memories of fire and screams, of blood staining the white marble of the temple, of the last priestess reaching for her as the sea rushed in. She shuddered, forcing the images down, but they refused to be silenced.
Questioning things had destroyed everything.
She had faith in Emerylda.
She always had.
Sapphyre clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. Faith. Yes. She had to hold onto that. She could not afford to waver. If she doubted, then what hope did their people have?
Yet as she opened her eyes, all she saw were the flowers before her, their white petals dusted with crimson from some unseen wound.
Red, red blood.