Underland. The Dark City.
2349.
46th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Rilian.
She had been gone for nearly two months.
Two months of relentless training, of pushing himself past his limits, of bruises and exhaustion and endless sparring beneath the watchful eyes of the knights. He had sworn to be better – to be strong enough to stand beside her, not just in battle, but always.
And that day, he would prove it.
Their swords clashed, ringing sharp in the cool morning air. She was quick, as always, her movements fluid as water, but he had begun to learn her rhythm, the subtle shifts in her stance that signalled her next strike. He saw the opening before she did.
With a swift twist of his blade, he knocked her sword from her grip. It spun through the air before landing in the dirt with a dull thud.
Silence.
Then a roar of approval from the gathered knights. A rush of sound – cheers, laughter, claps on the back.
He had won.
And then she smiled at him.
Just a flicker of teeth, small and fleeting, but it burned itself into his mind like the stroke of a brand. It was all he could see.
Her deep blue eyes, like the heart of the sea, locked onto his, crinkling just slightly at the edges in amusement. Her copper hair, woven into its customary braid, had loosened in the fight, stray strands curling against her sweat-slicked forehead. The tiny dusting of freckles – ones that only ever appeared when she returned from the surface – kissed her nose and cheekbones, a detail so small yet suddenly devastating.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. Even in her leather armour, drenched in sweat, breath still heaving from their battle.
Nothing was more beautiful.
Not the ocean stretching behind them, vast and endless. Not the babbling brooks winding through the hills. Not the sun dipping below the horizon or the first stars winking into existence overhead.
She shone brighter than any of them.
Fuck.
He was in trouble.
Because the more he watched her, the less he could look away.
…
Cair Paravel. The Parlor.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Diamande.
The establishment was not one he had visited before, but from where he sat in the small alcove, half-hidden by the heavily embroidered velvet curtain, he had a perfect view of everyone in the main room, lit by crystal chandeliers and crackling hearths.
Beyond those high-arched windows, night had fallen upon the city.
The city had come to life, a side he'd not yet explored, embroiled as he was in court politics.
The Parlor, it was called.
A whorehouse, Eithne had affectionately called it when she had told him where to find her.
She owned it.
Gold and silver embroidery featured heavily on the waist coats and hemlines, jewels scattered here and there. Skirts draped exotically over plush chaises, dainty laced boots visible, small peeks of pale ankles. It had once been an establishment for males only, where they could discuss their business and enjoy other…pleasures. But since Eithne had taken over, she allowed entry to anyone who could pay the exuberant fees.
In that room he recognised Lady Evalynn, seated prettily beside her elderly husband, with eyes of a cool green and hair of the softest brown, curled perfectly to draw attention to her long next. The other females he could not name, but he could boldly assume that they were not wives of the men present. They held themselves aloof, chattering to one another in the alcoves, half-hidden by the draping curtains that allowed for only a small amount of privacy.
They would allow for nothing untoward to happen within the main chambers.
Diamande knew that there were private chambers up the narrow staircases for that; for he had seen more than one man pass coin to the workers and disappear with a lady or two.
He watched as Eithne spoke to one of the blue-coated men who carried pitchers of a golden-brown liquid, the colour almost like honey. A quick reply and then the man was making his way towards a group of what he could only assume were merchants by the way they were speaking to each other in hushed tones. They accepted the offered crystal goblets with barely a glance at the man who gave it to them.
The hefty price they paid for entry to the exclusive Parlor covered any and all drinks that those men carried.
"Try not to overhear too much," Eithne murmured to him, as she sunk into the lounge by his side. "It is bad for business."
Diamande narrowed his gaze, turning his attention from the room and to just her. Most would squirm under his scrutiny, but she simply watched him back. With eyes so dark he could not tell where the pupil ended and where the iris began.
What was she?
The girls began their dance, and to Diamande every movement was full of poetry, dragging his gaze from their mistress. They advanced, retreated, swayed, their arms waving in gentle movements.
Beguiling.
Enchanting.
The dancers moved like water, transformed by the music, flowing in graceful arcs, limbs in constant motion. And all eyes were fixated upon them, commanding attention in a way he only dreamed he could. Their dance was not simple movement, they were creatures blessed by the Aslan Himself.
All had the same dark eyes as Eithne, the same chestnut hair that faded to gold at the ends.
"They are my pod-sisters. They go where I go."
Ah, a selkie.
He had read about them.
He'd never had the pleasure of meeting one.
And watching them dance, it truly was easy to forget that they were predators.
Diamande shifted slightly. He had not been one to owe favours, for regardless of what world he found himself in, currency and power were often the only true measures of value. "How can I repay you?" he asked. "For saving my life. And for the cost of the healing."
Eithne tilted her head slightly, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she watched Diamande, her gaze warm but tinged with amusement. "Repayment?" she echoed, her voice playful, almost teasing. "I don't want anything from you, Diamande." She leaned closer, her words a hushed murmur, and with a sultry wink that sent an unexpected shiver down his spine
Diamande opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, one of the blue-coated men approached her. He murmured something in her ear, his voice low and urgent, and in an instant, the lightness in Eithne's expression vanished.
Her eyes flickered with a shadow of concern, her posture stiffening as she rose quickly from the lounge. Without another word, she turned on her heel and made her way toward the door, the sudden shift in her demeanour startling.
Something was wrong.
He stood, following her with quiet urgency. The Parlor's hustle and bustle continued around him, the dancers continued their dance, men pulling them onto their laps with wide grins that were reciprocated.
He reached the door just as Eithne stepped out into the narrow hallway, the fabric of her gown trailing behind her like a whisper in the dim light. She didn't look back, but Diamande could see the rapid rise and fall of her breath, the tightness in her shoulders.
"Eithne," he called softly, stepping up beside her. "What's going on?"
She didn't answer at first, her eyes scanning the hallway as if searching for something – or someone. Her face was pale and when she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than usual, strained. "One of my pod-sisters is missing," she said, the words clipped and tight with an emotion Diamande couldn't place. "Tera. She's gone, Diamande. Vanished without a trace."
His brows furrowed. "What happened? Where did she go?"
Eithne's eyes flickered briefly to the ground, her voice a whisper. "I don't know. She was last seen with a client, but since then… there's been no word. No sign of her. Nothing." Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as if to anchor herself. "She's family."
She turned to face Diamande, her eyes locking with his, the vulnerability there more real than anything he had seen from her. "I need you to find her. I need you to bring her back. Whatever it takes."
"I can't promise anything," he said slowly, his voice steady. "But I'll help. I owe you that much."
Eithne nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. "Find her, Diamande."
She gave him one last, intense look, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer than necessary, and then, without another word, she turned and moved further down the hallway, her figure disappearing into the shadows.
Diamande stood there for a moment, the quiet hum of the Parlor's sounds muffling in his ears.
He had a new goal: find the selkie.
The Narnian Court and its corrupt knights could wait.
