Somewhere in the Western Wilds.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
The world below stretched vast and shadowed, the dark forests rippling like an endless sea.
On the wind she flew, ever onward in the space between the clouds and the ground, graceful on blue-feathered wings. She had stayed in that form, shifting only to eat and sleep – both she could do as a bird, but she did not care much for insects.
From above, she followed them – scattered, yet moving in eerie unison. Witches, all of them. There was no mistaking it. Even from this distance, she felt their presence like distant echoes against her skin. Each carried their own scent of sorcery, their own brand of power.
She faltered for a mere moment, her feathers trembling at the sheer force of it. It was not one spell but two, colliding, entwining, clashing in a storm of power.
She adjusted her wings and tilted downward, following the invisible pull of the magic. Beneath her, deep in a clearing framed by gnarled trees, two figures faced each other.
Witches.
For an instant, it was as though her feathers burned, the force pressing into her bones, twisting through the part of her that had always known when power was being wielded.
She did not falter – she never did – but something in her clenched, deep and unyielding.
Blessed by the Heart, the priests of her home-world had said.
Cursed, more often it had felt.
The weight of it sat in her, silent, old. She did not think of it, did not name it, did not allow herself to follow the thread of memory that tugged at the edges of her mind. The past was dead, the past was gone. She had only the present.
The wind shifted, carrying another pulse of magic through the air – sharp, powerful, vibrating through her senses. She exhaled slowly, though birds did not sigh, and angled her wings downward.
Sapphyre turned toward the storm below, following the thread of power like a hunter drawn to the scent of blood.
She watched from the branches of a withered oak, her blue feathers blending with the twilight. The air reeked of scorched earth and raw magic, thick and cloying, pressing against her senses like a storm waiting to break.
Below, the duel raged.
Power tore through the land, splitting the ground into jagged, smoking wounds. Lightning carved wild patterns across the sky, illuminating the faces of the witches locked in battle – one wreathed in violet fire, the other a shadow against the chaos.
She did not move.
Did not blink.
The outcome did not concern her. The fight itself meant nothing. She only needed to observe, to listen, to carry knowledge back to her sister.
And yet…
When the storm of magic finally settled, one witch stood victorious, the other broken and writhing in the dirt. The survivor lingered only a moment, casting a final, unreadable glance at her fallen opponent before vanishing into the trees, swallowed by darkness.
Sapphyre remained in her perch, unmoving.
Below, the defeated witch stirred weakly. Her breath rattled. The side of her face was burned raw, an ugly ruin of flesh and heat, her fingers trembling as she tried to drag herself toward a thin, muddy trickle of water.
Sapphyre was not sure why she descended.
She did so soundlessly, shifting from feathers to flesh before her feet touched the ground. The witch barely noticed her presence – barely noticed anything beyond the pain that wracked her body.
Sapphyre knelt, unslinging a small flask from her belt. The water inside was cool and fresh, gathered from a spring far purer than the dying stream the woman struggled toward. She set it beside the witch's outstretched fingers, along with a small bundle of bread wrapped in cloth.
The woman gasped, barely turning her head, glazed eyes unfocused.
Sapphyre did not speak.
She did not need to.
By morning, the witch would not remember her face.
And for some reason, she did not wish to tell Emerylda.
With a quiet breath, she rose, and without another glance, she shifted once more, taking to the sky before she could think too long on why she had stopped at all.
The victor of the duel did not linger. She turned westward, walking a path worn by none but the witches Sapphyre had tracked before.
She was not alone in that direction.
One by one, the witches she had observed – all of them, scattered yet moving as one – had travelled west. As if called. As if summoned.
But Sapphyre felt nothing.
The pull that drew them was lost on her, a whisper she could not hear, a thread she could not follow. Yet she followed nonetheless, wings slicing the cold air as she rode the wind higher, beyond sight, beyond suspicion.
Westward, the land darkened. The great Western Mountains loomed ahead, their jagged peaks swallowing the last light of the sun. Below them lay the cursed ground, the ruins of what had once been a kingdom before the land itself had turned against it. It was said that an ancient magic lingered there, old and rotting, a power that smelled of fire and death.
Sapphyre had no intention of testing those claims.
She could have taken shelter within the ruins of the dark castle, its crumbling towers a hollow remnant of some long-forgotten ruler. A night's rest there would have saved her hours come morning.
But something in her bones whispered against it.
Instead, she flew past the ruins and dipped lower, toward the dense forests at the mountain's edge. The trees stood thick and towering, their tangled roots buried deep in the cursed soil, but she found no trace of the magic she had sensed further west.
She would not sleep surrounded by the echoes of something long dead.
Branches swayed and groaned in the wind, the great trunks protesting as night deepened. The silver hush of twilight faded into the endless blue of the dark.
Sapphyre landed, shifting back into flesh, her boots pressing into damp earth. She exhaled slowly, listening. The trees whispered in the wind. The mountains loomed behind her. And somewhere beyond them, the witches gathered for a purpose she could not yet name.
Branches swayed and groaned in the wind, their great trunks protesting as it steadily grew darker – silver fading into the deep blue of night.
She did not light a fire, instead climbing a tree high above the ground, storing her pack and weapons within the hollow of the trunk. Her hammock she suspended between two branches, settling in for the night with her cloak wrapped tightly about her body.
She exhaled softly, her breath forming a small cloud.
And deep within her she wished she were not so alone.
She'd seen many knights in those parts – completing their training exercises. She listened to the knights who laughed the loudest and the longest, the ones that the other knights gravitated towards.
In other life, that had been her.
She would never utter the words aloud, not to Rilian, nor to her sister. But she missed it. She missed her comrades, her knights-in-arms. She had never regretted her choice, for though all others in her family had chosen to study the magical arts, she had chosen the Path of the Knight.
She had been but one and ten, but the words of her mother and her brother and her sister would not sway her.
She had known what she'd wanted.
And she had known what she didn't want.
Rilian reminded her of her fellow knights – steadfast and loyal. And alone in that tree, she could admit to herself that she missed him. If only for a moment before berating herself.
It served her no purpose to let her mind wander.
She needed to stay focused on their goal.