Atlantis. The Heartland.
2788.
212th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.
Rubi.
There was gold everywhere – from the diaphanous drapes to the powder dusted upon the sugar-spun sweets. Never had she seen anything quite so resplendent, nor would she again, she suspected. For once her training was complete, she would not be permitted to leave the Temple of the Heart. And attending the balls thrown by the ruling family was certainly not in the duties of a priestess.
Rubi leant against the pillar, watching the bodies that danced across the hall – the bold sweeping movements that had bodies pressed closer than decorum normally allowed. From there she could admired the cut of the dresses; draped skirts that flared wide when they spun, tight golden and jewelled belts that accentuated slender waists, and fingers, waists and necks dripping with more gold.
But the colours of cape and robe were all dark – ruby and sapphire and emerald and amethyst. It was everyone had dressed for mourning.
She leant her head against the cold marble, listening to the soft music that drifted through around them all; pleasant and light. The bard was well-trained, accompanied by the harp and flute, singing a ballad that the ladies of the Court were sure to swoon over. The Song of Apollyon, her favourite. The music filled the air without effort, like waves filling holes in beach sand; the sound caressing every person in the ball room.
For two hours the Court had been dancing, and she wondered idly how they kept it up. And how much longer it would be until she could return to the library.
The young princess was laughing somewhere near the food table, her sapphire eyes alight at the wonders of it all, a sweet in each hand and an unmatched smile upon her face. Her brother, the prince with the scarred face, was holding another treat just out of her reach, laughing at her.
Blessed by the Heart.
She could feel the magic swelling within the girl. But four years passed she'd chosen the Path of the Knight, rather than embracing her magic.
And even a lowly priestess in training knew that was a loss for the Temple.
The things she could have achieved with her power…
"So, regretting your oaths to the Temple yet?" There was a chuckle in her friend's voice as she leant against the pillar with her, emerald eyes upon the dancers. "Whatever happened to your loyalty to me?"
Rubi snorted, the peal of laughter leaving her, unbidden. "My loyalty will always be to the Heart, your Highness."
"Indeed," she did not look at her, but she knew that her friend was looking at her sidelong – with that expression that make Rubi feel was if she could see into her very mind and pluck the thoughts out. "My little priestess, I would have believed your heart lay elsewhere."
Rubi's heart stuttered. Had Emerylda noticed her longing gazes? Of how the knights – one knight in particular – drew both her heart and her gaze.
Emerylda rested a creamy hand upon Rubi's own cream-clad one. "Fret not, my dearest friend. I shall tell no one."
Rubi gave her a smile and left her there, seeking solace in the gardens.
She'd thought she'd hidden it so well.
Priestesses were not allowed such base feelings.
It was beneath her to lust after the knight.
But Emerylda was right.
She was loyal to her own heart above all else.
But why had her friend been questioning her loyalty?
The gardens were just as beautiful as the ballroom inside, the light of the two moons shining bright that night. She followed the tranquil paths, the flowers blossoming in all their bright glory. A fountain bubbled somewhere to their right as she passed a series of low benches, where the members of the Court would lounge around during the day, soaking up the gentle sunlight.
Flames flickered along the bath, in tall torches that cast small patches of warm colour over the moon-bleached flowers. She looked up to the sky, where the moons hung like ever-watchful eyes.
Yes, she had always been loyal to Emerylda, but the Heart had called to her.
To use her magic for something greater than pretty tricks.
Somewhere behind her, a tinkling laugh sounded.
Probably a couple who had snuck out of the ballroom, eager to share a moment in the moonslight. Whispered conversations tickled her ears, lovers hidden from sight by the sweeping roots of the great oak trees that surrounded the gardens.
Her cheeks flared.
Pausing under the sweeping branches of an oak tree, she looked upwards at the Tower of the Heart. Where the great sapphire shone like another moon in the sky. And there she sat, beneath bower and moon, lost in her thoughts as the hours trickled by.
"Excuse me," a soft voice murmured. "Are you Rubi?"
She turned, to the squire who was dressed in a knight-purple cape. "Indeed."
"I have a message for you."
And then he pressed the heavy parchment into her hand and disappeared back into the night.
Meet me in the granary – A.
Excitement shuddered through her, smoothing down her wild curls.
The path to the granary was familiar, but excitement bubbled through her.
She hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open.
Did she look well?
Should she have changed into a gown more flattering than her priestess-in-training robes?
A soft sigh.
With her hand upon the door, Rubi froze.
The old oak was slightly ajar, the scene in the granary illuminated by the light of the two moons.
She knew it was him, for she had admired those broad shoulders many a time as he trained, shirtless and glistening. He was bare, save for those long legs that were wrapped around his waist.
She should move.
She should run.
But her heart was in her throat, and she could not move.
She did not recognise the hoarse grunts that fell from his lips as the woman rode him – her creamy limbs almost luminescent in the moonslight, sweat making her skin shimmer as he thrust up into her over and over.
And then the knights head fell back as he grunted, and the woman's face became visible.
Rubi's hand flew to her mouth, and she must have made a sound for Emerylda's eyes snapped open – meeting hers through that tiny crack in the door. Her friend's mouth fell open in what looked like utter pleasure, her sooty eyelashes fluttering as the knight's large fingers gripped onto her hips, slamming up and into her deeper.
Emerald eyes met Rubi's own crimson ones again, and the woman who was her closest friend smiled.
Smiled.
And then from her plum-painted lips, she let out a breathy moan that pierced Rubi's very soul.
Rubi could not look away as the knight swallowed Emerylda's next moan with his own mouth, his body shuddering with his release. And then he was kissing down the column of Emerylda's slender neck, his hand kneading her bare breast.
And as Emerylda moaned over and over, spurring him on as he touched her, her gaze did not leave Rui's own.
"Again," his voice was a hoarse grunt, as his fingers ghosted her waist, pulling her closer once more. Rubi could not tell where one body ended and the other began, as close as they were, as joined as they were. "By the Heart, I could fuck you all night."
"Then fuck me more, Sir Allium," Emerylda's voice was sultry and soft, and it was only then that the tears began to fall from Rubi's eyes. She stepped back from the door. "My body is yours."
Rubi was not fast enough to avoid hearing his pleasured grunt.
She did not see the path back to the Temple through the tears that fell.
But she knew what she would do.
For she knew exactly where the High Priestess kept the magic dust that powered the world-jumping rings.
Fuck Emerylda.
Fuck the Heart.
And fuck Atlantis.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
2350.
47th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
The air was thick with the coolness of stone, as if the walls themselves absorbed the warmth of life. A grand black stone fireplace loomed at one end of the room; its cold marble hearth littered with the faintest traces of ash from a fire long gone out. Tall, smooth pillars of dark stone lined the chamber, stretching upward like silent sentinels, their shadows reaching across the polished obsidian floor. Rich emerald and silver tapestries draped from the walls, depicting ancient battles, their woven forms so vivid they seemed alive.
Emerylda stood near one of the towering windows, her back straight and regal as always, her eyes narrowed as she looked at Sapphyre across the room. The queen's words cut through the silence like a blade.
"You've been spending more time with my knight," Emerylda said, her voice laced with a quiet challenge, though she never spoke his title aloud. She never called him the prince – for that would be acknowledging the rule of his treacherous father.
Sapphyre, standing in the centre of the room, met her sister's gaze without hesitation. "I have."
Emerylda's dark eyes narrowed, though her face remained as calm and impervious as the stone surrounding them. "To what end?" she asked, her voice a soft whisper of danger.
Sapphyre took a step forward, the silken fabric of her gown rustling like the faintest brush of leaves against stone. She knew the game well—Emerylda always played with layers, veiled questions meant to unsettle and probe. "Are you questioning my loyalty?" she asked.
She had seen it before, over and over – her sister testing, pushing, searching for weakness.
Emerylda's lips twitched slightly, as if amused by the response. She slowly turned, her sharp, emerald eyes locking with Sapphyre's. "Sapphyre, I would never," she said. "Not you."
The words hovered in the air, and for a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath. Sapphyre's lips curved into a slight, knowing smile. The queen's words were meant to reassure, but they carried more weight than they let on.
They were a warning, too.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Emerylda.
Emerylda reclined against the silk pillows, the fabric cool against her bare back, a decadent contrast to the heat pooling beneath her skin. The chamber was drenched in candlelight, shadows flickering like restless spectres along the gilded walls. Her lover's lips brushed over the curve of her throat – slow, deliberate, each kiss a whisper of warmth against her skin. The press of Amria's body, the teasing scrape of teeth against her pulse, should have unravelled her, should have drawn her into the moment.
But Emerylda's mind was elsewhere, sharp and calculating beneath the veil of pleasure. The trial loomed before her like a spectre, a test that would strip away pretence and expose the marrow of true devotion.
She had lost so many – 'friends' who had failed, who had crumbled beneath the weight of expectation.
Who had, in the end, proven unworthy.
Sapphyre was different.
Sapphyre had never wavered.
A slow, knowing smile played across Emerylda's lips as she let her fingers drift, trailing idle patterns over her lover's bare shoulder, a touch light as silk yet possessive. Amria shivered beneath her, the reaction as intoxicating as wine. The nightrose in her system would ensure she remembered nothing of their conversation. Still, it was nice to have someone to talk to sometimes.
Her fingers slid down Amria's back, tracing the smooth, heated expanse of her spine, stopping just at the small of her back where the tension had gathered. Emerylda's touch was soft but deliberate, each stroke designed to keep her lover on the edge, to remind her of the precarious balance they teetered on.
Amria's bare chest rose and fell beneath her, each breath a soft invitation, yet she remained still, waiting. The silence between them thickened, a palpable thing, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.
The heat of her skin under Emerylda's hands was intoxicating, like fire licking at the edge of her control. She leaned down, her lips skimming Amria's throat, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse beneath the surface.
Even under the influence of the nightrose, Amria's body knew she was in the presence of something powerful.
The sounds that fell from her lips were primal – soft moans, desperate gasps – echoing through the room as Emerylda's lips traced a burning path along her lover's collarbone. She could feel the tremors in Amria's body, the way she arched up, needy and unrelenting, as if the world had narrowed to the space between them, where only hunger and sensation mattered.
"They'll cross the Sunless Sea," Emerylda murmured, her voice a sultry purr in the dim glow. She felt the answering hum against her throat, the warm exhale of breath that made her lashes flutter.
"If they are as good as she claims, they have nothing to fear."
Amria lifted her head, eyes dark with something unreadable. "And then?"
Emerylda tilted her chin, catching Amria's lower lip between her teeth before letting it slip free. She drank in the tension between them, the edge of something cruel and delicious.
"Then," she whispered, her smile deepening, "they fight. Endurance and battle. Let's see who still stands when the blood dries."
Emerylda lowered herself, lips trailing over the smooth expanse of Amria's stomach, the heat of her lover's skin searing against her own.
And then Amria began to writhe in pleasure, beneath the ministrations of the queen.
…
Underland. The Dark City
Sapphyre.
Sapphyre stood before the gathered knights, her expression hard as she met their gazes. The torches lining the great hall flickered, casting wavering shadows across the armour-clad figures before her.
Acastin. Vasas. Petra.
They stood at the front, eyes on her.
Unflinching.
Unyielding.
Her knights.
"There is something larger at play," she began, her voice sharp, unwavering. "The dryads were taken, and now Neve. Nilia is still missing. This was no coincidence. These attacks were planned. Coordinated."
A murmur rippled through the assembled warriors, but she continued before anyone could interrupt. "We reassess our patrols, strengthen our borders. We find out who is behind this and we end it."
She let her gaze sweep over them, ensuring they understood. "I will not lose another to the treachery of those above ground. Not while I still draw breath."
The knights stood at attention, awaiting their orders.
She took a step forward, lowering her voice just enough to make them lean in. "The Queen has devised a training test for you all – a way to assess your readiness, your ability to defend Underland against threats greater than any we've faced. This is not to question your loyalty or skill. I do not doubt any of you. But I need you to prove, beyond question, that the queensguard will never outmatch us."
Tension rippled through the knights, but none spoke against her.
Sapphyre studied their reactions. Acastin's jaw was tight, his hazel-green eyes dark with thought. Vasas, by contrast, thrummed with anticipation, his fingers twitching at his sides as if already picturing the clash of steel. Petra's dark eyes flickered, her brow furrowing slightly – Sapphyre could almost see the web of possibilities she was mapping out in her mind, always thinking of the bigger picture.
They understood the words she was not saying.
Sapphyre exhaled slowly, gripping the hilt of her sword.
She would not fail again.
She could not.
…
Underland. The Dark City
Emerylda.
Emerylda sat upon her throne, with Rois by her side, her eyes sharp and unwavering as they followed the unfolding scene through the scrying bowl. The mist inside swirled with dark hues, revealing the knights and the queensguard scrambling toward the boats on the shores of the Sunless Sea.
Emerylda's fingers drummed impatiently on the armrest of her throne.
Behind her, Amria slinked closer, her body barely clothed, each step calculated to catch Emerylda's eye. She was like a flame, trying to draw the queen's attention away from the spectacle in front of her, but Emerylda had no time for distractions.
She could feel Amria's heated presence behind her, her attempts to draw her in, to coax her into something more – but it meant nothing.
She had no use for the woman in that moment.
Without even looking, Emerylda snapped her fingers sharply, the sound cutting through the air like a whip. The movement was effortless, and Amria was sent crashing backward. The impact was hard, and she hit the stone floor with a sickening crack, the sound echoing through the vast chamber.
The world seemed to freeze for a moment as Amria's body crumpled, and then the blood began to spill. It pooled rapidly beneath her head, staining the stone floor a deep crimson, the rich red stark against her pale, porcelain skin.
Emerylda didn't flinch.
Her eyes never left the scrying bowl, unfazed by the woman at her feet.
"What a waste," she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with something almost bored. She flicked her fingers again, a silent command to the queensguard. Two of them immediately moved to drag Amria's motionless body away, not sparing her a second thought.
Amria's blood stained the stone, but it was of no consequence.
Rois, standing in the shadows, didn't even acknowledge the body being removed, his posture rigid, his gaze locked on the same scene as the queen's.
The scrying bowl pulsed with the energy of the test, the tension building with each passing second. The knights had reached the boats, but the sea loomed dark and treacherous. Emerylda's lips curled into a dangerous smile. The time for playing was over. She would see who had the strength to survive.
And if they failed?
They, like Amria, would be discarded.
Emerylda's attention snapped back to the scrying bowl, her eyes narrowing as a new figure entered the scene. Rilian.
He moved with purpose, his form cutting through the chaos as he unmoored one of the last boats, the motion deliberate and swift. His indigo eyes – those deep, unreadable eyes – stayed fixed on the horizon, unwavering, as though the very force of his gaze could part the tumultuous waves before him. His expression was a mask of focus, cold determination carved into the sharp angles of his face.
What was he trying to prove?
Emerylda's lips curled into a faint smile, though there was little amusement in it. She watched as Rilian pushed the boat out further into the Sunless Sea, the rippling water catching the dim light of the shore.
She would not stop him.
Emerylda's lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. She wanted to see where his chosen path led, to witness how far Rilian would push himself. The other contestants had all proven their weakness, their limitations – but Rilian, he had yet to reveal his true potential.
Let him continue.
Let him test the limits of his own resolve.
She would not interfere. Not yet.
Perhaps her test would prove even more useful than she thought.