Underland. The Dark City.
2346.
43rd Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
Sapphyre lingered in the shadows beyond the clearing, her sharp blue eyes narrowing as she watched Rilian among the dryads. He did not dance – at least, not at first. He stood at the edge, hands clasped behind his back, his dark short-cropped hair catching the glow of the cavern light. He laughed when they beckoned him, his voice warm, rich, untroubled.
It was infuriating.
Had he forgotten where he was? What he was?
He was a prisoner.
A prince of tyrants.
And yet, there he was, smiling.
When one of the dryads seized his hand and pulled him into the dance, he did not resist. He moved with an ease that grated against her nerves, falling into step with their wild, rhythmic grace as though he belonged. His movements were not as fluid as theirs, not as untamed, but there was a sincerity to them, a willingness that made her jaw clench.
Did he not know? Had he truly never seen the cruelty of his father's reign? Or was this all some charade—a game he played to deceive those foolish enough to believe in the kindness of men?
Sapphyre folded her arms, shifting her weight against the rough bark of an ancient tree. Emerylda had tasked her with watching him, ensuring he did not escape, but more and more, she found herself watching him for reasons she could not name.
She hated the way he unsettled her. Hated the way his presence gnawed at the edges of certainty, the way he carried himself – not as a captive, but as though he still belonged to the world of light.
He would not smile like that if he had seen what she had seen.
A dryad twirled past him, laughing, and in that moment, Rilian turned his gaze toward the shadows—toward her.
For the briefest instant, their eyes met.
And to her mounting frustration, he smiled at her.
A little wild and free.
The dryads welcomed him without hesitation, their laughter ringing like wind-chimes in the hollow cavern air. Their trust was infuriating. Did they not remember? Did they not know what had been done to their kind under his father's rule?
Sapphyre clenched her jaw, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She had no patience for such foolishness.
And yet, her eyes did not stray from him.
Rilian moved with the ease of someone who had never known a cage, though that was a lie. He had been in Underland for a year. A prisoner. But it had not broken him. That was what annoyed her most. He should have been bitter, defeated. He should wear his captivity like iron chains around his soul.
But he danced as if the weight of the world did not rest on his shoulders.
As if he was not bound to Underland's shadowed halls.
As if he was not her responsibility.
Emerylda's words echoed in her mind—Look after him, make sure he does not escape.
She should have left him in the depths of the castle, surrounded by stone and silence. Let him forget the feel of wind against his skin, the sound of music in his ears. Instead, he was here, under the open cavern roof, moving in time with the dryads as though he had always belonged among them.
Rilian was handsome, undeniably so. His dark midnight eyes gleamed in the Heart-light, and the way his hair fell just right made the dryads swoon. But it all felt wrong to Sapphyre, a beautiful façade hiding the cracks beneath.
Her jaw tightened as she watched him, her thoughts a storm of frustration.
He was like any lord of court, wasn't he?
Her task was simple.
Watch him.
Make sure he didn't escape.
She had a duty, and she would fulfill it. Despite the stirring of something unsettling deep inside her, despite the strange pull she felt when her eyes lingered on him for just a moment too long. She had been tasked to watch him, and that was all she could do.
Nothing more.
A sound pierced the air, shattering the calm and dragging Sapphyre from her thoughts.
A terrified cry echoed through the clearing, followed by the snarling growls of something far more menacing. She tensed, her heart racing as she quickly scanned the area.
The music faltered. The dryads stilled. A chill swept through the clearing, the once-warm glow of magic dimming as the unmistakable scent of damp earth and decay filled the air.
Sapphyre's pulse quickened. Shadow wolves.
She had encountered them before – beasts born of darkness and nightmares, their forms barely solid, as if they were carved from the abyss itself. Their eyes gleamed like burning embers, their jagged teeth bared in anticipation of the hunt.
A low, guttural snarl echoed from the trees, followed by another.
Then another.
They were circling.
Sapphyre's hand went to the dagger at her hip, her body coiled with instinctive readiness. The dryads, still dressed in the joy of their celebration, stood frozen in terror. They were not warriors. They were dancers, spirits of the wild, and against creatures like these, they would not stand a chance.
A flicker of motion – Rilian.
His carefree ease was gone. His body had tensed, his dark eyes scanning the shadows. He moved swiftly, stepping between the dryads and the advancing wolves, his posture shifting from that of a man lost in revelry to a prince raised in battle.
Sapphyre cursed under her breath.
He was going to fight.
Of course, he was.
The sword she carried was out of its sheath before the first wolf had even fully materialized, her instincts honed by years of watching, learning, and waiting. She leapt forward, the dryads' cries still echoing in her ears as she cut down one of the shadow wolves that lunged at a terrified dryad.
Her knights, her newly formed order, were already responding, moving swiftly to form a protective perimeter around the dryads, their weapons flashing in the Hearts-light as they fought with deadly precision.
Sapphyre's hand stayed steady on her sword's hilt, the smooth grip familiar, the weight of it grounding her in the chaos.
She moved like a shadow herself, slashing through the air as she took down one wolf after another, each swing a precise, controlled strike. The creatures melted into smoke as they fell, but not before they left their claw marks upon the ground and the wounded in their wake.
A grimace tugged at Sapphyre's lips. Useless.
She cut down another wolf, her blade slicing through its smoky form, the creature dissolving into nothingness with a strangled snarl. Around her, her knights fought with ruthless efficiency, their training evident in every movement. They were not like the soft lords of court; they were warriors forged in the darkness of Underland.
And then there was him.
Rilian.
Standing amid the chaos, gripping a branch like it was a sword, his breathing heavy. His stance was all wrong – too rigid, too hesitant. He had been raised a prince, trained in combat, yet captivity had dulled his instincts.
Sapphyre scoffed, frustration burning in her chest.
Had he forgotten how to fight?
Or had he never truly known?
A shadow wolf lunged at him. Too fast. Too close.
Her body moved before she could think.
In an instant, she was there – between him and the beast. Her blade struck true, piercing the wolf's dark hide before it could reach him. It howled before vanishing into smoke, the sound sharp and grating against her ears.
Rilian exhaled sharply, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.
"Are you just going to stand there?" she snapped, her voice laced with irritation. "Or do you intend to actually fight?"
His fingers tightened around the branch. His jaw set.
And then, at last, he moved.
The clearing was a whirlwind of flashing steel, snarling beasts, and cries of defiance. Sapphyre barely had time to register Rilian's movement before she was forced to parry another attack, twisting away from the snapping jaws of a shadow wolf.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him swing his makeshift weapon – a branch, thick and sturdy, but nowhere near the weight or balance of a proper sword. His strike was clumsy but effective, catching a wolf in the side and sending it skidding back with a yelp.
But he hesitated.
His follow-through was sluggish, uncertain.
And hesitation in battle was deadly.
Another wolf lunged. Rilian turned, but too slow—its claws raked across his shoulder before he managed to shove it off. He stumbled, gritting his teeth against the pain, and swung wildly, the branch connecting with a sickening crack. The wolf yelped before dissipating into smoke, but more were already circling.
Sapphyre cursed under her breath.
He wasn't entirely useless – he had strength, and there was an instinct buried somewhere beneath the rust. But he was out of practice, and it showed. His footing was unsteady, his movements reactive instead of controlled.
Still, he fought.
He did not cower.
A wolf leapt at him from the side. He barely managed to twist away, rolling across the dirt before scrambling to his feet. His breath was ragged, his dark eyes scanning the battlefield, calculating. When another wolf lunged, he sidestepped, bringing the branch down hard on its skull.
Sapphyre let out a sharp breath, cutting down another wolf with a swift, efficient strike. "You're going to get yourself killed if you keep swinging like that," she called over the clash of battle.
Rilian shot her a lopsided grin—grinning, of all things!—and adjusted his grip. "Then I suppose I'll just have to keep swinging faster."
A wolf lunged at him again. This time, he didn't hesitate. His strike was still unpolished, still clumsy, but there was more force behind it, more confidence.
And, much to Sapphyre's reluctant approval, it landed true.
Her knights moved with quiet efficiency, securing the area, gathering the wounded, ensuring the threat was truly gone. Nearby, the dryads huddled together, murmuring in low, hushed voices, their fear slowly ebbing into wary calm.
And yet, something gnawed at her – her mind remained restless, picking at the edges of the events that had unfolded.
The shadow wolves had fallen too easily, their attack too precise, too well-timed. It hadn't been a mindless ambush. It had been placed. Directed.
Her fingers curled at her sides, unease threading through her thoughts. But for now, there was no enemy left to strike, no immediate threat lurking in the trees.
There was no trace of his usual easy grin, no light-hearted remark waiting on his lips. Instead, there was something heavier in his expression – something raw, edged with quiet determination… and desperation.
"Sapphyre," he began, his voice uncertain, as though weighing each word before speaking it.
She turned to face him fully, arms crossing, her sharp gaze scanning his face. The battle had ended, but her instincts remained taut, alert. She could feel something shifting in him, something she hadn't quite expected.
"Yes?"
He hesitated – just for a moment – before exhaling sharply, as if steadying himself.
"I—I need to learn how to fight." His words came firm, despite the flicker of doubt in his eyes. "I want to be useful. Please, teach me."
His gaze locked onto hers, open, unguarded. The sheer earnestness of it nearly stopped her in her tracks.
Sapphyre stared at him, her eyes searching his face, weighing the sincerity in his words. The playful prince was gone.
But was it real?
Her arms remained crossed, fingers tapping against her arm in thought. She had no patience for empty words. If he was asking this out of wounded pride, it would be a waste of time.
"You want to learn?" she repeated, arching a brow. "Because I seem to recall you swinging that branch around like a blind man swatting at ghosts."
Rilian let out a breath—half a laugh, half exasperation. "Yes. And I seem to recall you saving my life twice. I'd rather that not become a habit."
Sapphyre scoffed. "Then you should have learned long ago."
His jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his midnight eyes—something raw, unspoken. A shadow of regret.
"I did know once," he admitted, voice quieter. "Before… this." He gestured vaguely, as if words failed him, a reminder that he had lost his memories. "I was a warrior. I know I was, I felt it just then. But now?" His hands clenched at his sides. "Now I hesitate. I stumble. I fail."
Sapphyre tilted her head, watching him. His desperation wasn't for glory or approval. It was for himself. For the part of him that had been dulled by captivity, by the long, slow erosion of who he used to be.
For a moment, she considered turning him away.
But the sight of him, standing there with his pride stripped bare, his eyes burning with something close to need, struck a chord she hadn't expected.
Sapphyre exhaled sharply.
"Fine," she said at last, her voice edged with reluctant acceptance. "But if I'm going to train you, you'll do it my way. No complaints. No soft mercy. I don't train lords of court, I train warriors. You hesitate, and you will get hurt."
Rilian's lips quirked, not quite a grin, but something close. "I think we've established I get hurt either way."
Sapphyre rolled her eyes. Great. Just great.
"Meet me at first Heart-light," she said, already regretting it. "If you're late, don't bother showing up at all."
Rilian straightened, nodding once. "I'll be there."
She watched as he turned and walked away, a strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in her chest.
What had she just agreed to?
It didn't make sense.
She was supposed to be his watcher, his observer—not his mentor. Not the one to train him, to teach him.
Sapphyre exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple as if the answer would suddenly appear. It didn't. Instead, she watched him rejoin the dryads, his smile back in place as he mingled with them like he belonged.
The carefree Narnian prince.
The prince who wanted to learn how to fight.
To be more than the decorative figurehead.
Perhaps that was why she had agreed.
In some twisted sort of way, he reminded her of herself.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Rilian.
Rilian sat across from Emerylda in the grand dining hall, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across their faces. The table between them was laden with fine food, but Rilian hardly touched his meal.
"Do you know when Sapphyre will return?" he asked, his voice more casual than he felt, though his curiosity was sharp. He couldn't deny the slight edge of frustration that tightened his chest at her absence.
Emerylda's gaze softened ever so slightly when she looked at him, her eyes like dark pools of mystery. For a fleeting moment, Rilian thought that maybe, just maybe, she might offer him some reassurance.
He leaned forward slightly, sensing an opportunity.
But then her expression shifted, hardening like stone. Her lips, painted in deep plum, twisted into a knowing smile, but it wasn't the warm smile Rilian had hoped for. There was an edge to it, something dangerous.
"Sapphyre is meant for greater things than you," Emerylda's voice was smooth, almost sweet, but there was no mistaking the finality in her tone. "You may not have her."
Rilian's heart skipped a beat, a sudden spark of defiance igniting in him.
He sat up straighter, eyes narrowing as he looked directly at her. His hands, which had been resting loosely on the table, clenched into fists.
"She is not yours to give," he said, his voice firm, tinged with the anger he couldn't quite suppress. "She is her own woman, with her own thoughts, her own dreams."
Emerylda's laugh was low and dark, and her gaze became even more piercing. "Sapphyre is mine; she always will be," she said, her tone now laced with something much colder. "You are foolish to think anything otherwise. She will always choose me. Always."
Rilian's jaw clenched as he stared at her, the weight of her words pressing down on him.
He had to fight the instinct to argue, to tell her how wrong she was, but he knew it wouldn't matter. He knew her well enough by now to understand that once she set her mind on something, it was unshakable. But this? This was different. There was something deeply possessive in her words, something unsettling.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
Emerylda.
Emerylda walked through the dimly lit halls of the castle, her steps purposeful and measured as she made her way toward the Western Wing. Her mind was occupied with the recent information Sapphyre had given her – the witch Sapphyre had encountered, who enchanted items to hold her spells.
As she passed by ornate mirrors and tapestries hanging on the stone walls, the reflection of her own cold, calculating eyes met her gaze. She was not bothered by what Sapphyre had encountered. In fact, it had only sparked something in her – something she had been considering for a long time now. She would use this.
The witch had created bracelets which held the power to create fireballs, and a circlet that allowed her to see magic.
If such power could affect someone so deeply in such a short time, what would happen if she were to create something more subtle, something more permanent? She could use her own magic, the enchantments she had honed over centuries, to make sure Rilian would stay under her control, just as she had the queensguard.
She had already begun enchanting objects for him to wear, knowing that prolonged exposure to the enchantments and the nightrose might have a lasting effect on his mind. If he were to wear the enchanted garments long enough, she was certain that his will would become weak, pliable under her influence.
Emerylda's thoughts turned to Rois as she neared his quarters.
Of all those who served her, he was among the few she trusted – if trust could ever be absolute in a game such as hers. It was Rois who had helped refine the nightrose powder, who had sharpened the edges of her ambitions with his alchemical skill. His knowledge of magic was deep, ancient, and his loyalty – though twisted – had never wavered.
The corridor was silent, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and faint traces of herbs. When she reached his door, she knocked once. The sound echoed down the empty passageway, swallowed by the stillness.
A pause. Then—
The door creaked open, revealing Rois in the dim candlelight. His dark eyes flickered with recognition before he bowed his head in quiet deference.
"My lady," he murmured.
Rois gestured toward a long table at the far end of the room, where vials of dark powder shimmered ominously beneath the flickering candlelight. The air carried a faint, sharp scent – something unnatural, something wrong.
"I ventured to the surface, as you instructed," he said, his voice smooth, measured. "The nightrose was more potent than anticipated. A rare bloom this season. But I secured plenty."
Emerylda's lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile as she stepped forward, her fingers trailing lightly across the table's edge. "I knew you would not disappoint me, Rois. Show me."
With precise movements, he lifted a vial filled with the glimmering powder, tilting it slightly so the substance shifted and caught the dim light. "I've refined it further," he murmured. "A finer consistency. It no longer requires ingestion – it works on contact now. The effect is… immediate."
He turned, stepping toward a figure slumped in the corner – a man, thin and ragged, his wrists bound, his breath shallow. A relic of Rois's many experiments.
Without hesitation, Rois uncorked the vial and released a careful, measured breath across its surface. A thin plume of powder spiralled into the air, curling toward the prisoner's face like living smoke.
The reaction was instant.
The man's eyes widened, his body jerking as if struck by an unseen force. But within seconds, the tension bled from him. His face slackened, his pupils dilating, the spark of resistance dimming into nothingness.
He swayed, his breath turning slow and shallow. Then – like a puppet with its strings cut – he crumpled. First to his knees, then fully to the floor, unmoving except for the faint rise and fall of his chest.
Emerylda watched in silence, her gaze sharp, calculating.
She could feel it – the nightrose seeping into him, unravelling his defences like silk thread plucked apart. His mind was no longer his own. Malleable. Open.
No hesitation. No resistance. Just raw, unguarded submission.
A slow smile touched her lips.
"It works," she murmured, more to herself than to Rois.
The ingestion method had taken time, forcing her to wait, to manipulate with patience. But this? This was instant. The powder had dissolved every barrier in his mind, stripping away his will.
He would believe whatever she chose to tell him.
He would do whatever she asked.
Emerylda's eyes gleamed as she stepped closer, the faint flicker of candlelight catching in their depths. The man on the floor remained utterly still, his vacant expression proof of the nightrose's power.
With Rois's refined formula and the enchanted garments she had prepared; she was ready to shape Rilian – and everyone else – into the perfect puppet.
Rois, ever the meticulous scholar, studied the scene with a mix of curiosity and caution. His gaze lingered on the lifeless man before shifting to Emerylda.
"There is one thing I need to test further," he mused, fingers idly tapping the glass of a nearby vial. "The nightrose works on common minds, that much is certain. But we have yet to try it on someone… stronger. Someone with natural magic – a naiad or dryad."
Emerylda arched a delicate brow, intrigued. "You suspect that even refined into powder, it might affect them differently?"
Rois's lips curled in thought. "Magic-born creatures do not think as mortals do. Their minds are more attuned to the world around them. If the nightrose warps perception, what might it do to one who is bound to the elements themselves?"
A slow smile spread across Emerylda's lips. "Then we shall find out."
"The longer this goes on, the closer I get to being discovered," Rois murmured, his voice tight with unease as she moved to leave. "I can't hide this forever."
Emerylda's expression darkened, though her demeanour remained perfectly composed. She regarded him with quiet amusement, as if his concerns were trivial, unfounded.
"You are safe in the West Wing, Rois," she said smoothly. "Sapphyre will never come here."
He hesitated, his fingers curling at his sides, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. "How can you be so sure?"
A slow, knowing smile curved Emerylda's lips. Her cold, calculating eyes locked onto his, the weight of her certainty pressing down like an iron brand.
"Because I know my sister."
There was finality in her voice, an unwavering conviction that brooked no argument.
Sapphyre would never go against her word.
Sapphyre would never betray her.
