Atlantis. The Heartland.
2783.
207th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
Sapphyre sat cross-legged on the cool marble floor of the Chamber of the Heart, arms folded tightly across her chest. The great crystal pulsed before her, casting flickering prisms of light across the polished walls, but she did not look at it.
She would not.
She was only ten.
Too young to choose her Path.
And yet, they had already chosen for her.
She was Blessed by the Heart. Named Apollyon's Heir. The priests and scholars whispered it like a prophecy, like a promise they had no right to make. Apollyon had been the greatest sorcerer Atlantis had ever known – so of course, she must be one too.
She could feel it. The magic inside of her. Deep and vast, stretching wide beneath her skin like the Oceans of Atlantis before a storm. It surged when she was angry, burned when she was afraid. It was always there, restless, eager to spill over the edge.
Of course, she must follow.
But what if she didn't want to?
The priestess kneeling beside her traced the smooth surface of the Heart with reverent fingers. Only the Hearts Bless could touch is faceted surface. "Once, it was even greater," the priestess murmured, her ruby eyes shining. "Shards of its light were gifted to the other cities of Atlantis, so all might share in its power."
Her voice had taken on that distant, dreamy quality that always unsettled Sapphyre. As if the Heart had stolen her away somewhere far beyond the chamber. Then, suddenly, the priestess blinked and turned her piercing gaze upon her.
"It is speaking to me," she said, wonder lacing her words.
Sapphyre scowled. "It does not speak to me."
The priestess smiled, enigmatic. "Perhaps you simply don't want to listen yet."
A hot, restless frustration flared in Sapphyre's chest, sharp as a blade against her ribs. She stole a glance at the Heart – just for a moment – before tearing her gaze away, her fingers curling into fists.
She didn't want to listen.
Because if she did… what if she heard exactly what they all expected?
And worse – what if she didn't?
…
Underland. The Dark City.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
The air in the lower city of Underland was thick with the scent of malt and fermented roots. The breweries were working overtime – thick barrels stacked high, workers moving in hurried efficiency, their faces damp with sweat despite the cool, underground air. The hum of industry mixed with the ever-present murmur of the people. The commonfolk of Underland always whispered, always gossiped. But now, as Emerylda walked through the winding streets, she caught a name repeated in hushed tones.
The Dark Knight.
She kept her expression impassive as she passed clusters of merchants and labourers huddled together in doorways, their voices low but urgent.
"They say the Dark Knight walks with the frost fae now."
"What does it mean?"
"The frost fae do not give their allegiance lightly."
The words followed her like shadows. Something had shifted in her absence. The lower city pulsed with an energy she did not recognize.
A cart rumbled past her, its driver muttering to himself, and she stepped aside, her boots finding purchase on the uneven cobblestones. Around her, lanterns flickered in the dimness, casting long, twisting shapes against the stone walls.
Then, a familiar figure emerged from the crowd.
"You're back."
Petra, arms crossed, her dark eyes sharp. There was something unreadable in her face – relief, yes, but also something else. A tension.
"What happened while I was away?" Sapphyre asked, voice low.
Petra exhaled, tilting her head toward the streets beyond. "A great many things, Commander. And we're still trying to decide if any of them are good."
…
Underland. The Dark City.
Rilian.
The clash of steel rang sharp in the cold air, reverberating through the knight's training yard. Rilian's blade met Gwyneira's with a jarring impact, the force of it vibrating through his arms. He adjusted his stance instinctively, boots grinding against the frost-covered stone as he twisted to parry her next strike.
She was fast – faster than he had expected.
Unlike the other frost-fae, Gwyneira kept her hair cropped short, a pale halo around the sharp angles of her face. It did not whip around her in distraction, did not catch in the wind like the silken lengths of her kin. She moved with an economy of motion, every strike calculated, every shift of her weight deliberate. There was no wasted effort, no unnecessary flourish. It was a different kind of grace than he was used to, one honed not for spectacle but for efficiency.
A distant corner of his mind told him it reminded him of the way that Sapphyre fought.
Their blades met again, the scrape of steel shrill against the icy air. Rilian barely managed to turn her aside before she twisted low, attempting to sweep his legs out from under him. He leapt back just in time, boots skidding slightly before he righted himself.
Gwyneira did not relent.
She pressed forward, her expression as cold and unreadable as the frozen expanse of her homeland. The frost-fae did not show strain, nor did they waste breath on words. Their kind fought with the quiet inevitability of a winter storm, slow and unyielding – until they weren't.
Rilian barely caught the next strike, the force of it numbing his fingers. He clenched his jaw against the sting, adjusting his grip.
A movement at the edges of the yard caught his eye – others had gathered. A small cluster of frost-fae stood watching, their bone-white hair and pale eyes making them look more like spectres than living beings. Their expressions were unreadable, their forms draped in mottled grey leathers and thick furs, as if the cold could ever truly touch them.
He noted their stillness. They did not shift or murmur amongst themselves like human onlookers might. They merely watched, with the eerie patience of something ancient, something elemental.
His distraction cost him.
Gwyneira struck like a blade of ice, her sword slipping past his guard and tapping, firm and precise, against the exposed space between his shoulder and collarbone. Not enough to wound, but enough to end a fight.
A kill shot.
Rilian exhaled, lowering his blade, and Gwyneira took a step back. There was no smugness to her victory, no gloating. Only a curt nod, as if his defeat was expected.
"You're good," he admitted, rolling his shoulder where the strike had landed.
"You are reckless," she countered, voice like ice over still water. "You let your attention wander."
His lips quirked into something that might have been amusement. "I was observing my audience."
"They do not matter." Gwyneira wiped her blade clean on the hem of her tunic.
He considered her words, then glanced once more at the gathered frost-fae. Their eyes, pale as the winter itself, had not strayed from him. He wondered what they saw when they looked at him—a curiosity? A knight? Or simply another piece in a game he was only beginning to understand?
He met their gazes without flinching.
Only the fight mattered.
As their swords clashed once more, the watching knights stirred. A few called out encouragement, voices ringing against the stone walls. He heard his name spoken with admiration, the remnants of a cheer building as he held his ground. The frost-fae did not join in, but they remained, silent sentinels observing the match with unreadable expressions.
Then, movement at the far end of the yard caught his attention. A banner rose above the walls, deep blue against the grey sky. The symbol stitched into its fabric was unmistakable.
Sapphyre had returned.
His grip tightened on his sword before he lowered it, stepping back. Gwyneira followed his gaze, her icy eyes flicking to the flag. A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Of course," she murmured, voice edged with dry amusement.
Rilian inclined his head to her. "Another time."
She said nothing more, simply watching as he turned and strode from the yard, leaving behind the chill of the training grounds for whatever awaited him beyond those castle walls.
