Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Rilian.
Rilian paced the length of his chambers, the soft glow of the lanterns casting long shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick, oppressive, his thoughts swirling too fast to grasp. Guilt sat like a stone in his chest, each breath heavy with the weight of it. He had been the one to send Neve. He had sent her to find Sapphyre, and now the young frost-fae was gone.
His fingers curled into fists as he halted before the window, staring out at the dark expanse of Underland. The ever-present hum of the cavernous depths did nothing to soothe him. He had meant no harm—he had only wanted to help. Sapphyre had been slipping further from his grasp, her walls building higher, and he had thought… he had thought Neve might reach her where he could not.
A foolish hope.
He had seen the exhaustion in Sapphyre's stance when she had come before Eirwyn. The sharp edge of failure she wore like armour. And he had wanted – desperately – to step forward, to ease her burden, to tell her the truth. But he had stayed silent, pinned beneath the weight of his own mistake.
His breath came sharp as he ran a hand through his hair. He had to do something. He could not stand idly by while Sapphyre bore it alone, not when it had been his actions that had set this course in motion.
He had to mend the rift between them.
The memory burned, seared into his mind like a wound that refused to heal. The taste of her lingered on his lips, the ghost of a moment he had replayed too many times. He could still feel her hands on him, the hesitant press of her fingers against his jaw before they had become bolder, surer. The way his own hands had traced the curve of her back, the fire that had sparked between them, the pull that had made thought impossible.
He burned.
And he knew – he knew she had felt the same.
Rilian squeezed his eyes shut; his breath unsteady. The scent of her still clung to his thoughts, to the very air around him. He had told himself to forget. To let her go. But how could he, when she had left a mark on him deeper than any wound?
Sapphyre was not a woman one could simply walk away from. She was a storm, a wildfire, and he had stepped too close, allowed himself to be consumed.
Even now, as he stood motionless in his chambers, every sound, every shift in the air, seemed to remind him of her. The rustle of fabric like the whisper of her voice, the distant echo of boots on stone reminiscent of the way she moved – silent, purposeful. He clenched his jaw. She was everywhere, even when she was not.
His body thrummed with restless energy, his thoughts a tangle of frustration and yearning. He needed to move, to fight, to do something before the memories drove him mad.
He would not give up on her.
He could not.
He just had to find out exactly what was holding her back.
Without hesitation, he turned on his heel – his destination, the fighting pits. If he could not silence his thoughts, then he would drown them in battle.
A sharp knock sounded against the door, breaking him from his thoughts. His heart leapt, hope surging through him. Sapphyre.
He strode forward, fingers already reaching for the handle. He opened the door with a small, tentative smile – only for it to falter as he met Emerylda's gaze.
Deep green where he wanted to see unflinching blue.
She stood there, flanked by two of the Queen's Guard, their black armour gleaming even in the dim light. Cold understanding settled in his gut, but before he could react, one of the guards lifted a hand and blew a fine powder into his face.
He staggered back, coughing as the substance stung his throat and burned through his senses. His vision blurred, the world tilting beneath him as his limbs grew heavy. Through the haze, he saw Emerylda step forward, her perfect lips moving, forming words he could not quite grasp.
His mind clouded, thick as the mists over the Sunless Sea.
And then—
Awareness snapped back, too fast, too sudden.
Rilian blinked, his head pounding.
The flickering torches of the West Wing greeted him, the cold stone beneath his boots unfamiliar. His hand was already on the handle of a door—one he did not remember entering.
Panic coiled in his gut.
How had he gotten there?
…
Cair Paravel.
Rubi.
The spires of Cair Paravel rose in the distance, golden against the winter sky. The salt wind carried the sound of crashing waves up from the cliffs, the scent of the sea tangling with the crisp bite of snow. Rubi slowed her pace, her breath misting in the cold air.
She had come thus far as a horse, but she knew better than to approach the gates in that form. No, they would listen to a woman first – a beautiful one, if experience had taught her anything.
A shiver ran through her as she let the change take hold, magic curling around her like mist. Her body shrank, bones shifting, limbs reshaping until she stood once more on two legs. The wind caught at her deep crimson cloak, whipping her unbound auburn curls around her face, the colour striking against the pale winter landscape.
She smoothed her skirts, a remnant of her home-world that shifted form with her, pressed a hand to the ring on her finger, and took a steadying breath.
Then she walked toward the gates of Cair Paravel.
The guards spotted her approach and stiffened, spears crossing before the entrance.
"I must speak to the king," she called out, lifting her chin. "It is a matter of grave urgency."
The guards hesitated, glancing at one another. One of them – a grizzled man with deep lines etched into his face – sighed and stepped forward. "State your name and your business."
Rubi squared her shoulders. "I am Rubi of the Lantern Waste. I bring warning of a great danger to Narnia."
The older guard frowned, but before he could respond, another voice cut through the air.
"What do we have here?"
A man stepped through the gates, his presence commanding instant deference from the soldiers. He was tall, clad in well-polished armour, with a sword slung at his hip as if he had just come from training. His sandy hair was tousled, his stance easy, but his hazel eyes – sharp and brimming with arrogance – made her pulse quicken with annoyance.
A knight.
Surely, he would help her.
"I must speak to the king," Rubi repeated, meeting his gaze evenly.
He studied her for a long moment, his head tilting just slightly. Then, to her irritation, a slow smirk curled at the edge of his lips.
"Urgent warnings, dire threats – always the same with your kind." He folded his arms across his chest. "Tell me, witch, why should I let you inside?"
Rubi's patience frayed. "Because if you don't, Narnia may not be standing by the time you change your mind."
His smirk deepened, as if he found her amusing rather than threatening. "And yet, you come alone? No escort, no proof? Just words?"
She clenched her fists. He was no true knight. "I did not have the luxury of gathering proof before I left. Time is not a mercy we have."
The knight sighed, then gestured lazily to the guards. "Take her."
Before she could react, hands grabbed her arms, yanking them behind her. The cold bite of iron shackles snapped around her wrists.
"Wait—!" she protested, twisting, but the man merely stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over her.
"You're very pretty," he remarked. "I'll give you that."
Rubi bared her teeth. "And you're a fool."
He chuckled. "Perhaps. But you'll be waiting in the dungeons until the king decides whether or not to hear your nonsense."
The guards dragged her forward.
The doors of Cair Paravel loomed ahead, dark and unyielding.
And as they shoved her inside, Rubi realized with a cold knot in her stomach—
She might have made a terrible mistake.
She fought the instinct to strike out, to tear through the stone with her magic, but she knew better.
"You know," the knight began, voice dripping with mockery, as she was led forward, "I've heard all kinds of tales about women who can turn into animals. Quite the story, isn't it?" His laugh was cruel, low, and without any hint of warmth. "I have to admit, you're the most interesting one I've had the pleasure of encountering."
Rubi's eyes narrowed. Her temper flared, but she forced herself to remain still, to control her reaction. He wasn't worth losing herself over.
He stepped closer, towering over her, the smell of stale leather and sweat clinging to him. The Champion's hazel eyes glittered with amusement as he lowered his voice. "You know, if you'd just cooperate… I could make things easier for you. I could be kind to you."
Rubi lifted her chin defiantly. She had met enough of his kind before, back in her homeland, back when men thought their authority gave them the right to take what they wanted.
"Spread your legs for me," he continued, taunting, his voice so smooth it sickened her, "and I'll go easy on you. You won't have to rot down there."
Her heart pounded, fury rising like a wave. She couldn't believe the audacity of the man, the arrogance, the utter lack of honour.
With a sneer, she lifted her head, and without warning, spat directly in his face.
His eyes went wide in shock.
"Even the knights of my home had more honour than you," she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice sharp and cutting, carrying the weight of every insult she had endured from men like him.
For a moment, the knight stood frozen, stunned by her defiance, as if he'd never fathomed she would say no. His expression faltered, the arrogant smirk falling from his face as the spittle dripped down his cheek. But then, it twisted into a sneer, rage flickering behind those hazel eyes.
"You filthy witch," he growled, his tone darkening. "You'll regret that."
But Rubi didn't flinch.
She didn't look away.
His hazel eyes gleamed with malice, but he didn't strike her. No, he only wiped the spit from his cheek with slow, deliberate movements, his jaw tightening.
Then he turned to the guards. "Throw her in the lower cells," he ordered, voice hard with restrained fury. "Let her stew in the dark for a while."
The guards hesitated. Even they seemed unsure of the punishment.
For even Rubi had hard of the lower cells of Cair Paravel.
The lower cells were rarely used – deep beneath the castle, carved into the cliffside where the walls wept with cold, where the sea raged below, howling through cracks in the stone like a beast hungry for prey.
But none dared argue.
Rubi was dragged through the winding halls, her boots scraping against the uneven stone as the torchlight flickered and faded with every step. The air grew colder, damper, filled with the scent of salt and rot.
Then, with a sickening creak, a rusted iron door was pulled open, and she was shoved inside.
The darkness swallowed her whole.
The door slammed shut, and she heard the bolt slide into place. Footsteps retreated, fading into silence, leaving her alone with nothing but the sound of her own breathing.
Rubi exhaled, her breath misting in the frigid air.
She reached out with her fingers, searching, and found nothing but damp stone walls and a floor slick with condensation.
No window. No torches. Nothing but void.
Her heart pounded, a primal fear slithering through her veins. Not of the dark itself – she had known darkness deeper than what surrounded her – but of what it meant. Of how weak she had become.
She curled her fingers, pressing her palm against the cold stone.
And then she called to her flame.
Once, fire had been her birthright. Once, she could have summoned a raging inferno with the flick of her wrist. She had been one of the Blessed, her magic attuned to the Heart of Atlantis itself. She could have burned the entire castle to the ground if she willed it.
But that was before.
Before she was severed from the Heart.
Before Narnia's magic dimmed her own.
She clenched her jaw and whispered the old words, feeling the heat stir in her palm, flickering to life.
A tiny flame sputtered into existence.
Meagre. Pitiful.
It flickered weakly, barely enough to light the space around her. The faintest glow illuminated the damp stone walls, the rusted iron chains bolted to the floor, the crumbling edges of her prison.
She swallowed hard, staring at the pathetic ember in her hand.
It wasn't her. It wasn't who she was.
She had been a force of nature once.
She had been power.
She had nearly been a Priestess of the Heart.
Now she was trapped in the dark, with nothing but a dying spark to remind her of what she had lost.
Her fingers curled around the flame, shielding it as if it were a fragile thing.
Because perhaps it was.
Perhaps she was.
But she would not let it go out.
Nor would she give up.