Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
The streets of the lower city twisted like veins beneath the heart of Underland, narrow and shadowed, with lanterns glowing softly from alcoves carved into the stone. Sapphyre walked them with ease, her footsteps steady against the worn cobblestones. The air was different from the upper city – thicker, tinged with the scent of damp earth and the mingling spices of the market stalls. It was a place of industry, of trade and survival, where the outcasts of Narnia and beyond had forged a new existence.
Underland had become a refuge for those with nowhere else to go.
The abandoned, the unwanted, the seekers of a fresh start. Some had fled from the turmoil of war, escaping the fall of kingdoms or the judgment of laws that did not favour them. Others had come simply looking for something different, drawn by whispers of a city beneath the world, a place untouched by the sun where ambition and willpower dictated one's fate. In Underland, they had built homes within the cavernous walls, set up forges and shops, created a society of their own beneath the rule of Emerylda's crown.
She passed the smithies where dwarves and men worked side by side, hammering metal into fine-crafted blades and armour that would see use both within Underland's own forces and in trade with the surface. The scent of roasted meats drifted from an open tavern, mingling with the herbal musk of an apothecary's wares displayed just beyond.
Her destination lay beyond the bustling streets, past the outer districts where the lower city faded into rugged outcroppings of rock. The Outer Gate loomed ahead, the last barrier between Underland and the steep, winding tunnels that led to Overland. Here, merchants and traders oversaw shipments being prepared for transport in the wagons – wooden barrels of rich Underland mead, rare, bundled herbs cultivated in the deep gardens, and finely woven fabrics spun from underground silk-weavers. Those goods were their lifeline, exchanged for the grains, fruits, and livestock that could not thrive in the perpetual darkness of the caverns.
The air was cool, thick with the ever-present hum of magic that pulsed from the Heart. The glow was pale and cold, never shifting, never warming. It was nothing like the golden light of the surface, but it was enough.
A familiar figure approached from the side; her armour dulled by the low cavern light, but her emerald-green cape was bright. Petra, one of Sapphyre's knights, strode toward her with measured steps, her expression composed but keen. She carried her helm beneath her arm, revealing sharp, aquiline features and a braid of dark hair resting against her shoulder.
Petra was a striking figure, her presence as commanding as it was graceful. Her skin, a deep dark bronze, gleamed with the warmth of someone accustomed to the harsh sun, a stark contrast to the cool, pale tones of many around her. It spoke of long days spent under the open sky; her heritage written in the very hue of her flesh.
Her hands, strong yet elegant, with each finger marked with the traditional tattoos of Calormene, symbols of power, devotion, and status. The intricate patterns seemed to tell stories of distant lands and ancient traditions, a quiet testament to her history.
"Commander," Petra greeted with a respectful nod before turning her gaze toward the departing caravan. "The guards are stationed as planned. No disturbances so far, but the tunnels have been unusually quiet. Almost too quiet."
Sapphyre's eyes flicked toward the yawning dark beyond the gate. "Too quiet can be just as concerning as too much noise," she mused. "Any sign of movement beyond the patrols?"
Petra shook her head. "Nothing yet. But the men are keeping watch. If something stirs, we'll be ready."
Sapphyre studied her knight for a moment, then gave a small nod of approval. Petra had always been a sharp observer, someone who trusted her instincts. That made her an invaluable presence here at the city's edge.
"Good," Sapphyre said. "Stay alert. And if anything does move in the tunnels – protect the merchants."
Petra nodded. "Of course, Commander."
Before she could respond, a commotion near the wagons caught her attention. A farmer, his clothes dusty and worn, stood pleading with one of the burly merchants. His hands were clasped together, his voice urgent.
"I'll pay what I can—just let me send word! My daughter and her friend, they went into the tunnels days ago, and they haven't returned."
The merchant, unimpressed, shook his head. "I've got deliveries to make, not time to go chasing after lost girls."
Sapphyre stepped forward, her gaze sharp. "What has happened?"
The farmer turned to her, eyes filled with desperation. "My daughter—she and her friend went into the tunnels five days ago, but no one has heard from them since."
Sapphyre folded her arms, mind already working through the possibilities.
Lost?
Captured?
Or worse?
The tunnels were treacherous, but something about it felt…off.
Sapphyre's expression darkened. "Why was I not informed of this sooner?"
The farmer hesitated, looking around before lowering his voice. "Because… because her friend was a squire. One of your own."
"A squire?"
The man nodded slowly. "Yes. And my daughter—she is not mine by blood. She was a dryad, taken in by my wife and me when she was just a sapling. She doesn't know the world beyond these caves. I fear she may be in danger. I do not doubt your knight could keep her safe, but it's been so long…"
Sapphyre's jaw tightened as she turned to Acastin, who had joined them whilst the man had been speaking. "Make inquiries. I want to know who saw them last, and if anyone else has gone missing."
Her second-in-command nodded. "At once."
Sapphyre placed a reassuring hand on the farmer's shoulder. "We will find out what happened."
As she watched the merchants depart, Petra and the other knights accompanying them to the surface, she could not shake the unease curling in her gut. The path the wagons had to take was dangerous – twisting caverns filled with all manner of creatures. After the shadow-wolf attack, she had increased the number of knights guarding the caravans, but even that did not bring her peace of mind.
She remained standing at the gate long after they had disappeared into the darkness, unwilling to look away from the path that had already stolen too many souls.
Beyond the reach of the Heart, the caverns stretched into endless darkness, an abyss of stone and silence. The lanterns placed by her scouts barely pierced the void, their flickering light swallowed by the vastness of the tunnels. There, the rock walls bore the weight of eternity, carved by the slow passage of time and the unseen forces that shaped the depths of the land.
There was no sound beyond the quiet drip of condensation and the occasional whisper of shifting rock.
With a final glance at the tunnels, Sapphyre turned, her cloak swirling behind her as she walked back toward the city. The uneasy stillness beyond the gate gnawed at the back of her mind, but for now, there was nothing to do but wait—and be ready.
…
Cair Paravel.
Drinian.
The halls of Cair Paravel glittered with golden light, the great ballroom filled with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. Another celebration, another lavish affair, though Drinian knew full well that Caspian had never been one for such excessive opulence. No, this was the work of the lords, those ever-eager advisors whispering in the king's ear, urging him to host grand displays of wealth and power. A strong Narnia, they said, must be seen as prosperous. A strong king must be seen as generous.
Drinian thought it all rather foolish.
From his place near the edge of the hall, where the sea breeze drifted in through the open windows, he observed the revelry with a weary sort of patience. Laughter rang out as noble ladies twirled in the arms of their partners, silken gowns flaring like waves in the candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of fine wines and perfumed oils, a far cry from the salt and timber of the Dawn Treader, from the life Drinian had once known.
And there, at the heart of the celebration, was Sir Dustan.
The victor of the tournament, newly named King's Champion, paraded through the ballroom like a king in his own right, a score of women draped on his arm. They giggled at his every word, eyes alight as they vied for his attention. He played the part well, flashing that charming, easy smile that had won over the crowds, the lords, and even the king himself.
Drinian watched him, fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet. There was something about the man that unsettled him, something just beneath the polished surface. Dustan had fought with precision, with restraint – but Drinian had seen what the others hadn't. He had seen the injuries, the deliberate wounds hidden beneath the illusion of mercy.
And he watched as the knight basked in his victory, a man who had won more than just a title.
He had won influence.
Admiration.
Power.
Drinian took a slow sip of wine, gaze unreadable. He had sailed too many seas, seen too many men rise and fall, to ignore the warning that stirred deep in his gut.
The knight strode toward him with the same confidence he had worn in the tournament, his fine doublet fitting too well, his golden sash gleaming in the candlelight. He moved as though he owned the space, as though the very air bent to accommodate him.
"Captain Drinian, is it?" Dustan's voice was smooth, practiced. He extended a hand, as if they were old comrades meeting after battle rather than a newly minted knight and a man who had once sailed beyond the world's end with their king. Hazel-green eyes glinted. Calculating. "An honour, truly."
Drinian regarded him coolly, his grip firm but brief as he shook the knight's hand. "Lord Drinian," he corrected. Advisor to the King.
Dustan laughed, too easily. "Ah, but titles stick to those of legend, don't they? You captained the Dawn Treader, stood at the king's side in battle. I should think you'll never be just Lord Drinian, no matter how you wish it."
Presumptuous.
Bold.
Drinian said nothing at first, merely watching the younger man with the quiet patience of someone who had seen many such men before. Dustan was playing a role, one carefully crafted – the gleaming knight, the charming rogue. Perhaps he thought to remind people of a young Caspian, full of reckless daring and promise.
But Caspian had never been brash.
The king, even in his most impulsive youth, had carried a depth to him, a thoughtfulness that had shaped every choice he made. The knight – Drinian wasn't sure what he was yet, but he wasn't Caspian.
Nor was he a Champion.
"You fought well today," Drinian said at last, his tone neutral.
Dustan smiled, all confidence and charm. "I aim to serve, after all."
A young woman of the court approached, her gown an elaborate display of embroidery and excess, her bosom practically spilling over the edge of her bodice. She barely spared Drinian a glance, her gaze fixed hungrily on Sir Dustan, her expression almost pleading.
"Sir Dustan," she purred, dipping into a curtsy so deep it might have been comical if not for the clear intention behind it. "Might I have this dance?"
Dustan turned to her with a grin, his previous conversation with Drinian already forgotten. "How could I refuse such a lovely request?"
And just like that, he was gone, swept into the revelries, laughing and twirling his latest admirer onto the dance floor. He fit in far too easily, like a man who had always belonged here, basking in the attention, in the adoration.
Drinian exhaled slowly and took another sip of his wine.
It was only then that he noticed.
The ballroom was full, filled with noblemen and women in their finest silks, gold and jewels flashing in the candlelight. But the faces were different tonight. There were fewer dryads, fewer naiads, fewer fauns among the revellers. The music still played, the laughter still rang out, but something was missing.
The old Cair Paravel had been alive with all manner of Narnians, not just men and women of noble birth. The courts of Caspian's youth had been filled with the harmony of many voices, many peoples—dancing dryads, laughing satyrs, naiads whose presence made the wine taste sweeter.
But that night?
That night, the gathering was mostly human.
Drinian's fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet
The young woman who approached had been dazzling in an artificial way, her beauty carefully constructed rather than innate. Her golden curls were twisted and pinned with pearls, not a strand out of place. Her lips were painted a deep red, her cheeks dusted with a rosy hue that did not come from laughter or the kiss of the wind but from an artfully applied powder. Even her lashes were darkened, framing eyes that glittered with eager anticipation as she fixed them on Sir Dustan.
Her gown was a masterpiece of excess – silk embroidered with silver thread, the bodice tight and structured, forcing her figure into a shape designed to entice. The swell of her bosom was deliberately accentuated, practically spilling over the neckline, as though inviting the knight's attention. Every detail of her appearance had been carefully considered, perfected, as though she were not a woman but a painting come to life, a vision meant to be admired.
Drinian, however, was used to a different kind of beauty.
He had spent his life among the sea folk and the wild creatures of Narnia, where beauty was effortless, untouched by artifice. The naiads, with hair that shimmered like water in the sunlight, needed no pearls to make them luminous. The dryads, with their wind-kissed faces and eyes as deep as the forest, had no need for painted cheeks. Even the court ladies of earlier years – those who had lived through battles and hardship – had carried themselves with a quiet grace, their beauty woven into the strength of their spirits rather than crafted with powders and silks.
The young women before him was lovely, yes, but it was a beauty built for spectacle. A beauty meant to be displayed.
And Drinian, standing at the edge of it all, was beginning to wonder just how much else had changed while he had been looking the other way.
Whilst he had been lost in the search for Rilian – while his thoughts had been consumed by the prince's disappearance, by the restless chase across lands both known and unknown – Cair Paravel had moved on without him. It had changed. And standing here now, watching the gilded spectacle unfold before his eyes, Drinian could not help but feel that Narnia had lost something vital in the process.
The old ways had been fading, little by little, slipping away like the tide receding from the shore. It was not just the absence of dryads and naiads from the ballroom, nor the hollow revelry that rang through the halls. It was something deeper, more unsettling.
A shift in the very air of Cair Paravel, in the way its people carried themselves, in what they valued.
Once, Narnia had been a land of stories whispered beneath ancient trees, of warriors who fought with honour, of kings who listened as much as they ruled. It had become a place of grandeur for grandeur's sake, of calculated smiles and careful pretences. He saw it in the way Sir Dustan basked in the admiration of his audience, in the way the lords and ladies of the court adorned themselves as if preparing for a performance rather than a gathering of kindred hearts.
Drinian was not opposed to change – he had lived through enough of it to know that even Narnia could not remain untouched by time. But the change did not feel like growth. It felt like something was being left behind.
Forgotten.
And he was not yet ready to give that up.