Underland. Upon the shores of the Pale Beaches.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Eirwyn.
The frost fae matriarch stepped onto the Pale Beaches of Underland, her presence a stark contrast against the eerie glow of the subterranean world. Her feet made no sound upon the ghostly sands, her robes barely shifting despite the cavern's breath of stale, unmoving air.
She was cold light in a place of shadow, ice where there should be none.
Her people followed in silence, wraithlike figures draped in frost and silver and furs. They moved without urgency, as if time did not press upon them as it did the creatures of the deep. Their glacial eyes, faceted like frozen lakes, took in the cavernous sky above them – the illusion of a sky, painted and distant, far removed from the stars of the surface.
At the water's edge, a lone figure waited.
An earthman, hunched and patient, his gnarled hands resting on the edge of a waiting boat. He did not shiver, though the air around her had turned bitter, breath misting as though winter had seeped into the marrow of this forsaken place.
"My queen awaits you," the earthman said, his voice a rasp, like stones grinding together deep beneath the world.
The frost fae inclined her head, neither agreement nor denial.
Underland smelled of stone and damp, of things long buried and never meant to wake. The waters lapped at the shore with an unnatural rhythm, slow and deliberate, as though the tide itself hesitated in her presence. Yet beyond the glow of the cavern, in the labyrinthine depths of the unseen, creatures stirred. Faint noises echoed through the tunnels—scraping claws against rock, the slither of unseen bodies in the dark. A guttural click-click-click sounded somewhere distant, yet impossibly close.
The fae did not turn her head, but she felt the weight of watching eyes.
"Does your queen welcome us?" one of her people asked voice like the wind over ice. Gwyneira, her warrior.
The earthman gave a crooked smile. "The Lady of the Green Kirtle welcomes all who understand the dark beneath the world."
The frost fae tilted her head slightly, considering the words. The Emerald Witch thought she understood darkness, but darkness and cold were not the same. Shadow could be banished by light; cold had no such weakness.
Winter did not fear the sun – it merely waited.
Behind her, one of her kin exhaled softly, a breath that left a thin frost upon the air. A silent warning. In the distance, something else had moved – too large, too slow, as if roused from slumber.
Still, Eirwyn stepped forward, the ice in her veins undisturbed as they entered the boats.
The boats glided across the surface of the Sunless Sea, their oars dipping soundlessly into the black water. The earthmen rowed in practiced silence, their pale, hunched forms barely shifting with each stroke, their glowing eyes fixed ahead. The only sound was the soft creak of wood, the drip of water falling from the oars, and the slow, rhythmic lapping of the tide against the boats' hulls.
Eirwyn sat motionless, her silver gaze sweeping across the vast, unbroken expanse of the sea. Even in the frigid stillness of Underland, she could feel it—the thing that lurked beneath.
There was no moon to reflect upon the waves, no stars to break the endless blackness. The Sunless Sea swallowed all light, a great and endless void stretching into eternity.
But it was not empty.
No, Eirwyn knew better than to mistake stillness for peace.
Something was there, beneath the surface. Watching. Waiting.
It did not stir, did not breach the water, but she could sense it – an ancient presence, vast and formless, coiling in the depths. Something born in the darkness before memory.
A ripple touched the boat, so faint it could have been imagined.
Eirwyn did not react, but the earthman closest to her stiffened, his glowing eyes flickering toward the dark water.
He rowed faster.
Yes, she thought. You feel it too.
The frost fae allowed herself the smallest of smiles, careful not to reveal those razor-sharp teeth that would surely terrify the earthman.
The air itself seemed heavier here, pressing down upon them like the weight of a forgotten past. Eirwyn let her fingers trail over the edge of the boat, hovering just above the water. The cold radiating from the Sunless Sea was not like the clean, crisp cold of ice and winter – it was something deeper, more insidious. A chill that crept into the bones, that settled in the soul.
The frost fae had walked through blizzards fierce enough to bury mountains, had felt the breath of the north wind against her skin. But that cold was different.
It was the cold of a thing that had never seen the sun. That had never needed to.
Eirwyn watched the waters, her expression unreadable, but for a fleeting moment, unease rippled through her like a breath of wind stirring untouched snow. The feeling was foreign—she had lived through ages of ice and silence, had stood unmoving as empires rose and crumbled to dust. Fear was a stranger to her.
And yet… something ancient stirred beneath them, unseen but not unfelt.
She shifted her gaze to the earthman nearest to her. His knotted hands clutched the oar too tightly, his movements tense, hurried. The faint glow of his eyes flickered, darting between the inky surface of the water and her.
Eirwyn tilted her head slightly. Ah.
He was not only afraid of what lurked below. He was afraid of her.
A faint smile ghosted across her lips, cold and knowing.
Of course, he would be.
Her name was whispered in the winds that swept through the northern reaches of Narnia, a name that had not been spoken aloud in centuries. She was the matriarch, the first of her kind, born from the very breath of winter – the first snow that ever fell upon Narnia's soil.
As old as time itself, her memories stretched back to the birth of the world, to the moments before the sun touched the horizon, when the land was nothing but a barren, endless expanse of ice and sky.
She had watched the rise and fall of empires, the coming and going of seasons, the endless cycle of life that danced upon the wind.
She was older than any kingdom, older than any war. She had seen Narnia before its crowns were forged and banners were raised. The frost fae belonged to no court, no throne, no master. She was winter's breath and the whisper of the first snowfall; she was the silence that followed the last battle cry when the dead lay still in the ice.
Yet, in every age, every war, every desperate grasp for power, someone had tried to use her.
Kings and queens had sought her favour, believing they could command the cold. They came with flattery, with tributes of silver and steel, draped in furs to ward off her chill. They spoke of alliances, of glories they would achieve together. Fools. The frost fae did not serve. She did not bend. And yet, they never ceased to try.
Warriors had knelt before her, pleading for strength, for the unyielding endurance of the ice. Some wished to feel nothing, to become as cold as her so that death would not shake them. Others wanted the frost to take their enemies, to freeze their foes in place as they cut them down. She had granted nothing, for she had no interest in the petty squabbles of mortals. And yet, her presence lingered in every battlefield, in every soldier's breath that turned to mist in the air, in every blade rimed with frost in the dead of winter.
Winter could be wielded, yes – but it could never be owned.
The frost fae would endure, as she always had. She would watch, as she always had. And when they, too, fell to time, she would remain—untouched, unchanged.
The Emerald Witch had summoned her.
Why?
The frost fae had never bowed to a ruler, had never served any throne, nor bent her knee to crown or kingdom. She was as untamed as the ice that coated the northernmost peaks of Narnia, as ancient as the first winter that had ever touched the land.
And yet, there she was, gliding through these suffocating caverns, summoned by a woman whose magic did not belong to this world.
Eirwyn had only ever served one ruler.
Arianna, the Great Queen of Narnia, the only sovereign she had ever deemed worthy of her allegiance, the only one who had ever understood the nature of ice and silence, of war and peace braided into one. The queen who had once stood at the head of Narnia's armies, whose presence had burned with a light so fierce that even the frost fae had followed without hesitation.
And she was gone.
Fallen with the arrival of the Telmarines, swallowed by history, her name spoken only in whispers by those who still remembered.
Eirwyn had not forgotten.
The weight of that loss had settled deep in her, though she had not mourned as mortals did. No tears had fallen. No laments had passed her lips. Only the silence of the first snowfall, the hush of a world stripped bare.
And yet, she had come.
Not for the Witch. Not for the dark city or its false sun.
But because she wished to see. To know.
To learn why, after centuries, something in the shadows of the world had stirred once more.
The boat drifted across the black water, the earthmen rowing in nervous silence, their eyes flickering between the frost fae and the endless depths below.
Eirwyn sat still, listening to the hush of the cavern, the slow rhythm of the oars slicing through the water.
Arianna was gone. But the world was shifting again.
And Eirwyn would not be blind to it.
…
Cair Paravel.
Drinian.
The chandelier that hung from the centre of the ballroom had been crafted and gifted to King Caspian X and his Star Queen in the first year of their marriage from the people of Galma; it shone in all its glory and invited all to dance.
But to Drinian, it was no invitation, it was a reminder of both his queen and prince, now lost to him. It reminded him that Caspian had no heir, and perhaps it reminded the other Lords so, for it was all they spoke about.
It was as if they pretended to keep their voices low, but the whispers carried from lips to eagerly listening ears – those with daughters ripe for marriage, those who could gain from knowing the new queen.
Drinian's heart spluttered at the thought.
For though Caspian had seen his six-score year, there were many who had sired children well beyond that age.
The ballroom doors had been thrown open wide, to reveal the garden beyond and let in the warm sea breeze as it had been many years passed. And as perfectly coifed hair met merry wind, as cheeks took on a rosy glow and eyelashes fluttered, the ladies of the court began to dance. Dancing together beneath the chandeliers light, amid colours of the sea and the forest, with a splash of amethyst here and there, their smiles were wide and their steps joyous.
The ladies looked like dryads of the forest, and Drinian knew, it was for the viewing pleasure of his king, who watched the dancefloor before him with dark, worried eyes.
Was he observing the ladies before him?
Was he picking out who would be best suited to sit beside him as Queen of Narnia?
For once, Drinian did not know what lay behind his old friend's eyes.
But he would not see defeat there.
Not yet.
Drinian knew in the deepest parts of his heart that Prince Rilian was alive still.
The festivities swelled around him – music, laughter, the clinking of goblets, the murmur of voices both light-hearted and grave.
A hush fell over the hall as Caspian stood, the golden light from the chandeliers casting deep lines across his weary face. "We will hold a great tournament," the king declared, his voice rich and steady, "to name a new Champion of Narnia."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered knights and nobles.
Excitement, speculation.
Drinian's lips pressed into a thin line.
A tournament. A test of strength and skill. A way to prove oneself. It was a fitting way to choose a leader among warriors, and yet, he could not help but feel the weight behind the words.
For the role of the King's Champion fell upon the Heir to the Throne.
Because Rilian was gone.
Drinian swirled the wine in his goblet but did not drink. Instead, he watched. He had always been an observer – first as a sailor, reading the winds and the waves, then as aa advisor to the king, reading the intentions of men.
Time had not dulled that skill.
If anything, it had sharpened it.
Caspian's words had settled over the hall like a wave breaking against the shore, pulling forth a tide of reactions. The old sea captain saw many things in the faces around him.
Excitement. Some of the younger knights sat straighter, their eyes gleaming at the chance for glory. A tournament meant recognition, prestige, a path to power. For those who had never tasted battle beyond training yards and border skirmishes, it was an opportunity to prove themselves – to be seen.
Ambition. Others, the more seasoned warriors, exchanged glances – measured, calculating. Drinian recognized men who had served well, men who had fought with honour, men who had spent years proving their worth. And yet, there were others whose ambitions stretched further. Those who did not simply see a title but a step toward something greater. A tournament could be won with skill, yes, but also with strategy. And he had known too many knights who mistook cunning for honour.
Greed. That was the most dangerous of all. Drinian spotted it in the flickering torchlight – the tightening of jaws, the twitch of fingers near sword hilts. There were those who did not care for Narnia, nor for the knighthood. Only for what the position could bring. Influence. Wealth. A place in the king's ear. He had seen such men before, in courts across the seas, in rulers who had whispered of loyalty while keeping daggers hidden in their sleeves.
Drinian sighed through his nose, barely audible over the murmur of voices. He could not blame Caspian for making this choice. A kingdom without a King's Champion was vulnerable. A kingdom without an heir…
He did not let himself finish the thought.
Instead, he let his gaze drift toward the king. Caspian stood tall, but Drinian knew the weight he carried. The loss of his son and queen had aged him in ways that battles never had. His grief, though quiet, was ever-present. And now, with another knight lost in the search for Rilian, Caspian had turned his focus elsewhere. A tournament. A distraction, perhaps. Or a necessity.
Drinian did not know which.
But as he watched the men and women in the hall, reading the greed and ambition in their eyes, he could not shake the feeling that something unseen lurked beneath the surface. That the tournament would not be won by strength alone.
And he was no longer certain that was a good thing.