Cair Paravel. Unknown.

2352.

49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Diamande.

He was dimly aware of the many hands lifting him, cool hands touching his face. A wet cloth. Soft words.

"Broken ribs."

"Knife wound."

"Get a blanket."

"He's bleeding all over the couches."

The words danced around his mind as the pain flared back to life. Scorching him. Burning.

"I need you to bite down on this."

Those coaxing hands opened his mouth and he bit down. A scant moment before the searing pain raced through his side. It felt as if his whole body had been crushed, beaten and any movement caused some muscle of bone to ache.

His eyes snapped open, looking up into calm, dark eyes.

And then a heavenly scent was surrounding him, fresh, floral, mixed with citrus, and all at once the pain subsided.

"There, there, that's better."

He turned his head to the side, watching as she ushered the rest of the girls out of the room. Colours danced, the woman's figure split into two for a moment. She pressed a cup to his cracked lips and the sweet, sweet liquid caressed his throat.

"What befell you?"

Diamande swallowed, his mind still foggy. Her words cut through the haze, but they felt like a distant echo. His mouth opened, though his voice came out ragged, "I—" His throat felt too dry to speak properly. He tried again, "I was attacked, somewhere near the market."

The woman's eyes softened, her hand moving to his forehead, brushing away the damp strands of hair stuck there. She didn't push him for more, her silence speaking volumes as she let him collect his scattered thoughts.

Diamande's body ached, but the haze in his mind cleared bit by bit.

The room was small, yet comfortable, and he took a moment to observe his surroundings. The furnishings were modest, nothing overtly lavish or gaudy, but there was a certain understated quality to it. The bed itself was large, with sturdy wooden posts at each corner. The sheets were soft to the touch, though the crispness of their cleanliness stood out more than anything. It was simple, but it was the sort of room where someone with taste and wealth would feel at ease, even if it didn't boast extravagant decorations.

"I'm Eithne," she said, her voice low, yet soft in a way told Diamande she was used to being listened to. "The owner of this place. And I must admit, I don't usually take in... strays."

Diamande's head spun slightly, still groggy from the pain and confusion. "A stray?" he rasped, his voice rough from disuse, barely louder than a whisper.

Eithne's smile deepened, her sharp eyes studying him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "Yes, a stray. One of my girls found you in an alley. You looked like you were about to join the rest of the dead there. She brought you here. Saved your life, though I'm sure you weren't grateful at the time."

Diamande's brow furrowed as he tried to recall the moments before the attack – being in an alley, following the knight, then... nothing.

A blur of pain and cold.

He still couldn't make sense of it all.

He studied her as the fog began to clear.

Diamande narrowed his gaze, turning his attention from the room and to just her. Most would squirm under his scrutiny, but she simply gazed back. With eyes so dark he could not tell where the pupil ended and where the iris began.

She carried herself with an air of authority and grace, her long, dark hair falling in perfect waves over her shoulders, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that seemed to dance across her face.

And then there were her teeth.

Diamande did his best to ignore them, to push away the unsettling reminder that they were sharp and pointed, like the fangs of a wolf or a lion. She smiled, her lips parting just enough to reveal them, but he focused on her eyes, refusing to let himself linger on those teeth.

What was she?

Somewhere near the Owlwood.

Sapphyre.

Sapphyre moved swiftly on the ground, her boots barely making a sound as they hit the dirt, her body attuned to the rhythm of the land beneath her. Her eyes, sharp and focused, never wavered from the trail before her. The wagon marks were fresh enough to be followed, though a day or two old, and she had no trouble discerning the direction they had taken. The deep grooves in the dirt, the slight disruption of the surrounding landscape – it told the story of a heavy, deliberate passage.

She adjusted her pace, instinctively lengthening her stride, her body flowing effortlessly over the uneven terrain. The world seemed to narrow down to just the path in front of her, her breath steady and controlled, her mind focused only on the trail.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She passed through dense patches of brush, over small streams, and across open fields.

The farther she travelled, the more she noticed the subtle signs of disturbance—broken twigs, displaced stones, trampled grass. They weren't just traveling in a straight line; they had been careful, cautious, perhaps even trying to cover their tracks.

But they hadn't been careful enough.

Sapphyre slowed her pace as she approached the clearing, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight before her. The trail had led her to a makeshift camp, tucked just beyond the tree line, where the scent of smoke and the rustle of movement broke the stillness of the surrounding woods. She crouched low, using the shadows to conceal her presence, and observed.

The camp was rudimentary – tents scattered about, fires burning low, and the faint sounds of murmured voices.

The Owlwood was silent, watching.

The trees loomed like ancient sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting and creaking in the faint wind, but the forest itself seemed to hold its breath. The undergrowth, thick with moss and roots, barely rustled beneath Sapphyre's feet.

It was the people gathered around the fire that caught her attention. Figures bound and huddled together.

Slaves.

They were shackled, bruised, their heads lowered in defeat. The smell of them, too, carried an unmistakable scent of fear. Her stomach turned, her heart tightening as she watched them—pale, some of them dressed in little more than rags. These were not people of Narnia. They had the scent of other lands, their bodies marked with the scars of their journey.

The dryads.

Sapphyre's grip on her sword tightened, her anger rising, hot and fast.

Slavery had been outlawed in Narnia.

Of course, their treacherous King Caspian allowed such a thing.

The very idea was a violation of everything the land stood for, a corruption that seemed impossible to reconcile with the values of the realm. The thought of such cruelty existing so close to her home was infuriating.

But there it was.

She shifted slightly, contemplating.

The slavers were still unaware of her presence, their voices low, murmuring over the crackling of the fire. The dryads, bound and beaten, barely moved, their eyes cast down. The scene was almost too quiet – too still. It unnerved her, the unnatural calm, as if even the trees were holding their breath, watching the struggle between light and dark play out in hushed anticipation.

Sapphyre's fingers grazed the hilt of her sword once more, feeling the weight of it, the cool steel beneath her fingertips.

Her breath steadied as she surveyed the camp, mentally cataloguing the positions of the slavers. There were too many for her to take on directly – not unless she wanted to be surrounded, caught in the open.

Sapphyre's heart skipped a beat when her eyes landed on him.

Rilian.

He was shackled, his hands bound together with thick, iron chains that were linked to a post near the fire. His head was bowed, but the dried blood on the side of his face told a different story. It was streaked and congealed, staining his jaw and neat beard, evidence of a struggle. His clothes were torn in places, dirt and grime staining his skin, but his posture was still proud – stiff with defiance, though weary.

Her pulse quickened at the sight. Seeing him like that, vulnerable, shackled and defeated, ignited something deep within her.

The familiar surge of protectiveness, of the need to act, threatened to overtake her.

She watched him closely, her breath catching in her throat. His expression was grim, his eyes shadowed with pain, but when they flicked up, meeting hers for the briefest of moments, something flickered in them – recognition, and a spark of something that still burned beneath the surface.

He had seen her.

He knew she was there.

Her gaze flicked over the camp again, noting the positions of the slavers, the firelight casting long shadows across the ground. Her eyes lingered on Rilian, and she couldn't shake the urge to go to him, to pull him free from his chains.

Sapphyre moved like a shadow, slipping silently along the edge of the camp, her form barely a whisper among the trees. She was careful, methodical, every step calculated to ensure she remained unseen. The slavers were still distracted by their fire, their low mutters barely reaching her ears, unaware of the storm that was slowly closing in on them.

Her eyes remained fixed on Rilian, her heart racing.

She reached the edge of the firelight, her body hidden by the large wagon beside it. From this vantage, she could see him more clearly, his shackled hands still resting against the post.

Taking a deep breath, Sapphyre moved quickly, crossing the distance between her and the wagon. She crouched low, staying close to the ground, and worked quietly to pry open the metal clasp of the chains. Her fingers were steady, but her mind raced. The sound of the fire crackling was deafening, the silence of the woods pressing in on her.

But then, with a soft click, the chains were free.

Rilian's head shot up at the sound, and their eyes met in that brief, charged moment. Bright blue and deep indigo. And then, as she stepped forward to fully release him from the shackles, he spoke – his voice low. "You found me, little bird. I knew you would."

Sapphyre's heart skipped a beat.

"Stay quiet," she whispered, her tone sharp but gentle. "We don't have much time."

Her hands moved quickly, securing the chains out of sight, and she helped him to his feet. He swayed slightly, clearly weakened by his ordeal, but his eyes were clear. There was a fire in them, a spark that hadn't been extinguished by the slavers' cruelty.

Her Rilian.

"Can you move?" she asked, her voice low, urgent.

He nodded, though his movements were stiff. The blood on his face had dried, and his hands were still raw from the shackles, but he was alive. "I can fight."

The tension in the air was thick as Sapphyre and Rilian stood hidden behind the wagon, the firelight flickering in the distance, casting long, dancing shadows across the camp. The slavers were still oblivious to the escape, but that wouldn't last long.

She turned to Rilian, her voice quiet but commanding, "We take them quickly. Stay close."

Rilian nodded, his jaw clenched as he adjusted to his new, unshackled freedom.

His body was weak, but his determination burned bright, matching the fire in her own chest. He would fight, and she knew that. They had no choice but to fight.

In one swift motion, Sapphyre unsheathed her sword, holding it out to Rilian. The steel gleamed in the dim light. "Take it. You'll need it."

Rilian paused, his hand hovering over the sword, his eyes locking with hers for a brief, intense moment. Then, with a sharp nod, he accepted the weapon, his grip steady despite the blood loss and exhaustion. But Sapphyre was already one step ahead. She dropped into a fighting stance, ready to engage the slavers without a weapon.

Her body, honed for battle, was her only tool.

"You're sure?" Rilian asked, his voice low, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

Sapphyre's lips curled into a determined, confident smile. "Of course, Ril."

Her words were barely a whisper, but the steel in her gaze was unmistakable. She didn't need a weapon to take down these men – she had her strength, and her skill and if it came to it, her magic. Her fists were just as lethal as any blade.

The instant the first slaver turned, mouth opening to raise the alarm, Sapphyre moved. She was a shadow, a whisper of motion—too fast, too precise.

The slaver never stood a chance.

Before his fingers even brushed the hilt of his sword, she swept his legs from under him, twisting his arm behind his back with a sickening crack. He barely had time to gasp before her knee slammed into his chest, pinning him to the dirt.

Rilian, still adjusting to the weight of his sword, didn't falter. He swung—clean, controlled—knocking a blade from an opponent's grip with a sharp clang. The slaver staggered back, stunned, as the camp exploded into chaos.

Sapphyre was in the storm's heart. One slaver dropped as she drove a fist into his ribs; another crumpled with a sharp twist of his arm. She moved like wind and lightning—untamed, relentless.

Beside her, Rilian fought with raw determination. His sword carved through the fray, each strike fueled by something deeper than skill—vengeance, desperation, the hunger for freedom. Though his body still bore the weight of past wounds, he fought like a lion, every movement edged with purpose.

Then, silence.

The last slaver hit the ground with a heavy thud. Flames crackled in the hush, their glow flickering over the wreckage of the camp. Standing amid the fallen, Sapphyre and Rilian caught their breath, battle-worn but unbroken.

Sapphyre wiped the sweat from her brow, her eyes scanning the wreckage. She was covered in dirt, blood, and sweat, her body aching, but the thrill of the fight still thrummed in her veins. They had done it. They had won.

Sapphyre turned to Rilian, her sharp gaze softening as she took in the exhaustion carved into his face. His breaths came hard and fast, but he was still on his feet.

"Are you hurt?" Her voice, steadier than she felt, carried an unexpected gentleness.

Rilian let out a short, breathless laugh. "Not much worse than before."

Sapphyre exhaled, her pulse still hammering in her ears. Around them, the camp lay in ruins—flames crackling, shadows flickering over the bodies of the fallen. The air smelled of smoke and blood, the weight of battle still pressing down on her.

Then she saw them.

The swords.

Scattered among the wreckage, the fallen slavers' weapons gleamed in the firelight—finely crafted, their hilts etched with intricate designs. These weren't the crude blades of desperate bandits. They spoke of wealth. Of influence.

Her mind reeled.

This wasn't just a random raid. These men had been sent. Funded. Armed with purpose.

And whoever was behind them had power.

Before she could dwell on the revelation, movement pulled her focus back to Rilian.

He was still on his feet, but barely. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his posture stiff with pain. A hand pressed against his side, fingers curled as if trying to hold something in—blood. Dark and spreading, seeping through his tunic. Yet he pushed forward, as though sheer will alone could make the wound disappear.

Sapphyre's chest tightened.

He was hurt. Badly.

He needed help.

"You're injured." The words snapped from her lips before she could stop them, sharp with urgency, but laced with something softer – undeniable concern. She stepped toward him, reaching for his arm.

Rilian flinched away, a stubborn flicker in his eyes, but even that small movement made his jaw clench, his body locking up against the pain.

"I'm fine," he muttered, though his voice betrayed him. His eyes were wild, filled with an energy that had kept him going despite his condition.

Sapphyre's patience thinned as her frustration built. Her fingers clenched around her sword, but her gaze never left him. He was so reckless, so careless, always rushing headlong into things without thinking about the consequences.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm as she stepped closer.

Towards him, instead of away.