Underland. The Dark City.

2352.

49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Rilian.

The inn was warm, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of tankards against sturdy wooden tables. The air carried the scent of spiced ale and roasting meat, the comforting aroma blending with the faint traces of smoke curling from the great stone hearth in the corner.

Rilian leaned back in his chair, a tankard in hand, listening as the knights around him roared with laughter at some half-remembered tale. Their armour was set aside for the night, their swords resting against the walls, their laughter loud and unguarded in the comfort of good company.

The inn, one of the more reputable establishments in the lower city, held an easy camaraderie that was rare in Underland. The lower city had its share of dangers, but here, within the walls of the inn, the camaraderie was unspoken, the air thick with warmth and old familiarity. Its beams were worn smooth by time, its floorboards creaking beneath the weight of many years and many patrons. The light flickered from iron sconces, casting shifting shadows across the sturdy wooden beams overhead.

The door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air from the streets beyond.

Rilian barely paid it any mind until he saw who had entered.

Sapphyre.

Not in armour.

His breath caught for half a moment. It was strange to see her like that – without the dark leather armour that had become as much a part of her as her own skin. Instead, she wore her dark blue cloak over fitted garments, her striking copper hair half-unbound, cascading like fire over her shoulders with the front braided. The sight of her like that, unarmoured, unguarded, sent an odd ripple through him.

She seemed to be merely dropping something off to the barkeep, exchanging a few quiet words before turning to leave. But before she could slip away, Rilian was already pushing back his chair.

"You're not staying for a drink?" he called over the din.

Sapphyre turned, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. "I have business elsewhere."

"Business can wait." He gestured to the empty seat beside him. "Join us."

She hesitated. The knights were watching, curiosity flickering in their eyes. A challenge, unspoken, lingered in the air.

Would she back down?

Take the easy way out?

Finally, she exhaled and strode forward, pulling out the chair with a smooth motion. "One drink," she said. "No more."

Rilian only grinned, raising his tankard. "We'll see about that."

The evening stretched on, the fire's glow warding off the chill that clung to the world outside. The ale was rich, the conversation easy, and despite herself, Sapphyre didn't immediately retreat.

Rilian found himself watching her – not quite openly, but enough to notice the way she held herself. Spine straight, shoulders squared, always aware, always calculating. Even here, even now, with ale warming her blood and laughter thick in the air, she was still watching, still measuring every moment, every movement.

Did she even know how to let her guard down?

The thought unsettled him more than it should have.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers curling absently around the handle of his tankard. The warmth of the room pressed against his skin, a comfortable haze settling over him. But his attention, unwilling as he was to admit it, remained on her.

Sapphyre sat just within arm's reach, one elbow resting on the table, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her tankard. The firelight flickered against her skin, casting shifting patterns of gold across the sharp angles of her face.

Something clenched in his chest.

Rilian tore his gaze away, lifting his tankard to his lips and taking a long swig. The ale was sharp, burning just enough to serve as a welcome distraction.

But it didn't drown out the memory.

The almost-kiss.

It had been nothing. A moment – barely a moment, a breath caught between them, the space between too small and too charged, and he had seen it – seen the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the way her breath had caught just the same as his had.

Before he could dwell on the thought, the door opened once more, ushering in a colder draft and two new arrivals.

The frost-fae.

Neve and Gwyneira. The youngest of their kind, one wild with curiosity, the other tempered by caution. They moved with a quiet grace, a contrast to the boisterous knights, yet they carried the same air of danger. Ice and steel, in their own way.

Neve wasted no time. She perched herself at the edge of their table, bright-eyed and restless, her gaze darting toward the musicians setting up near the great stone hearth. The flickering firelight caught the sharp gleam in her frosty grey eyes – an icy contrast to the warmth of her sunlit smile. It was a rare kind of brightness, one that didn't simply reflect joy but made it, infectious in a way that made it impossible not to grin back.

Like Sapphyre, it seemed the frost-fae had forgone their usual wear. They still wore mottled grey, but Neve had traded her thick furs and leathers for a flowing gown, soft in its drape but deceptively practical in its design. The cut allowed for movement – quick movement, if needed – but it was still a far cry from the warrior's garb he had grown accustomed to seeing her in.

Sapphyre, by contrast, remained still, composed, watching the room with quiet detachment.

Rilian caught Neve's knowing smirk as she leaned in slightly, voice low but teasing. "Are all humans so stiff, or is it just the two of you?"

Rilian huffed a laugh, slouching back in his chair, but his gaze flicked to Sapphyre. She merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"I'm not stiff," he said, tilting his tankard in Neve's direction. "I just know how to pace myself."

Neve scoffed. "Pacing is for old men and scholars." She took a swig from her own drink before sliding down from the table and turning toward the hearth, where the musicians had begun to tune their instruments. "What you need is a dance."

She looked pointedly at Sapphyre when she said it.

The night stretched on, warmth lingering in the air, laughter threading through the firelight. Outside, the world remained cold, dark, uncertain.

But here—just for now—Rilian let himself forget.

When Rilian extended a hand in invitation, Neve grinned.

"A reel?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Unless you'd prefer a duel instead?"

Neve laughed, slipping her hand into his. Unlike Gwyneira, she was no warrior. "Absolutely not."

The knights cheered as Rilian led her to the open floor, the musicians striking up a lively tune. The steps were familiar, a quick and spirited reel, and Neve kept pace with effortless ease. She spun beneath his arm, her silver hair catching the firelight, laughter rising between them.

For a moment, it was easy to forget the weight of duty and the pressures of court.

The night grew hazy, warm with the weight of good company and the slow, creeping embrace of intoxication. Rilian felt it in the pleasant buzz beneath his skin, in the way his laughter came easier, in the way the flickering candlelight seemed softer, more golden, as if the entire world had blurred into something simpler, something good.

Sapphyre, despite her earlier protests, hadn't left. That was a victory in itself. She remained at his side, her cloak discarded over the back of her chair, her cheeks flushed – not just from drink, though she had not refused the ale he kept pressing into her hands. She still carried herself with that ever-present awareness, the cautious tension coiled in her shoulders, but something had shifted. The edge had dulled.

She was still watching, still measuring, but she was here. And that alone was something Rilian wouldn't dare disturb.

The frost-fae had long since stolen the room's attention – Neve weaving in and out of conversation, daring knights into reckless bets, while Gwyneira remained a quiet force, always observing. The dart game had ended in Rilian's loss, though the sting of defeat had been softened by another tankard of ale and the way Sapphyre had smirked at him, eyes glinting with amusement.

It wasn't long before the music changed, shifting into something slower, deeper – still a reel, but richer, with a rhythm meant to sweep dancers into something less structured, more instinctive.

And it gave Rilian an idea.

He turned to Sapphyre, who had leaned back in her chair, watching the room with the careful distance of someone who wanted to remain uninvolved.

"Dance with me," he said, voice low.

She blinked at him, then snorted. "No."

Snorted.

He grinned, undeterred. "Why not?"

"I don't dance."

"You don't dance?" He leaned in slightly, enough that the scent of spiced ale and something warmer, something hers, curled around him. "You expect me to believe that?"

Sapphyre rolled her eyes, but there was a waver in her conviction.

"I don't dance," she repeated, slower, as if that might make it truer.

Rilian tilted his head, watching her, and then – because he had already decided he wouldn't let her slip away from this – he pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand.

"Just one," he said, echoing her words from earlier. "No more."

Her gaze flickered to the hand between them. For a long moment, she didn't move. The knights around them had taken notice, but they did not speak – watching, waiting, the weight of expectation settling in the air between them.

Then, with a long exhale, she grasped his hand.

The inn blurred around them as he pulled her onto the floor, the space already alive with movement, boots scuffing against the wooden boards. The moment he turned to face her, he knew – knew – it had been the right choice.

Because Sapphyre moved like she was made for it.

It wasn't polished, nor was it delicate – it was alive. The same intensity she carried into battle, the same precision, the same unyielding strength, was here, in the way she met his steps without hesitation. The music pulled them into motion, and she followed—not because she was being led, but because she had chosen to.

And then she smiled.

It was sudden, unguarded, and utterly breathtaking. A rare, brilliant thing that struck Rilian harder than any blade ever had.

The firelight caught in her hair as she spun, and he found himself utterly entranced. Gone was the ever-watching, ever-weighing wariness. Gone was the hardened soldier with her sharp eyes and sharper words. Here, now, was something he had never seen before.

Free.

And by Underland, she was beautiful.

He couldn't look away. Wouldn't look away.

His heart pounded – not from exertion, not from drink, but from her, from the impossible warmth blooming in his chest as she laughed, breathless and unrestrained.

He had never seen her like this.

Had never wanted anything more than to see it again.

And as the music spun on, as the world blurred and the night stretched long and golden, Rilian found himself hoping – praying – that she wouldn't let this moment slip away. That she wouldn't pull back behind her walls the moment the music ended.

That this version of her, unguarded and free, wasn't something he'd only get to see just once.

Then the revelry shattered like glass.

The deep, resonant blast of the warning horn cut through the warmth of the inn, a stark contrast to the music and laughter that had filled the space just moments before. The sound sent a ripple through the gathered knights – a sharp inhalation of breath, a shifting of bodies as the ease of intoxication was replaced with something sharper, something trained.

Rilian was already moving. The warmth of the ale, the lingering haze of the night – gone. His hand found his sword at his side, fingers tightening instinctively around the hilt as he rose. Around him, the knights did the same, their movements automatic, their celebratory ease discarded in an instant.

Across the table, Sapphyre was still for only half a heartbeat. The haze in her eyes burned away, the remnants of their shared laughter vanishing like smoke as she pushed back her chair.

Neve and Gwyneira exchanged a look, but they did not hesitate.

Outside, the cold was sharp and biting, sobering as it rushed to greet them. The lower city stretched ahead, its winding streets cast in shadows, the flickering torches the only defiance against the deep dark.

And then – the howls.

Low and guttural, echoing off stone and wood, too many to count.

Shadow wolves.

Rilian's breath came faster, his grip tightening on his blade as they crested the next street. The torches cast jittering light against the cobblestones, barely holding back the crawling darkness that slithered in the spaces between.

The wolves moved within the shadows – tendrils of darkness shifting and taking shape, twisting into monstrous, lupine forms with too-long limbs and eyes like burning embers. Their claws scraped against stone as they prowled forward, waiting, testing the boundary between night and firelight.

The Heart was slumbering.

There would be no great burst of light to drive them back. No divine flare to scatter them like mist.

Only torches.

Only steel.

The knights did not hesitate. A battle-cry rang out as swords were drawn, steel glinting in the firelight. The first wolf lunged, and the fight began.

Rilian barely had time to call out a warning before one of the creatures was upon him, a snarling mass of darkness and teeth. He twisted, sidestepping the snapping jaws, and brought his blade down in a swift arc. The steel passed through the creature, severing its form – but the wolf did not die as flesh and bone should. Instead, its form wavered, its shadowy body twisting and reforming as if darkness itself could not be cut.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sapphyre dart forward, faster than thought, her own blade slicing through a wolf as she moved like liquid shadow. The creature yelped but did not vanish.

A curse burned on Rilian's tongue.

Fire. They needed fire.

Gwyneira had already realized it. With a sharp, fluid motion, she seized one of the torches from the iron brackets lining the street and hurled it toward a wolf mid-lunge. The moment the flames touched its body, the creature screeched, its form unravelling into wisps of black smoke before dissolving entirely.

Rilian turned just in time to see another wolf dart toward Sapphyre, its molten gaze locked onto her. His breath caught, an instinctive warning on his lips—

But she did not need it.

She met the attack head-on, her movements swift and brutal. One strike, then another, the shadows shuddering beneath her blade. With a final, decisive movement, she caught up a fallen torch, twisting mid-step, and slammed it into the wolf's side.

The creature shrieked, its body twisting violently before it crumbled to nothing.

For half a heartbeat, she turned, their eyes meeting across the chaos, her chest rising and falling with quickened breath. There was no trace of hesitation in her expression—only fire, only focus.

And Rilian, gods help him, had never seen anything more terrifyingly beautiful.

But there was no time. More wolves were coming, pouring from the alleyways, their howls rising in a chilling chorus.

Underland. The Dark City.

Sapphyre.

The wolves closed in, the torches wavered, the knights strained to hold their ground. The firelight flickered, too weak, too small to keep the dark at bay.

And then – the scream.

One of hers.

Her head snapped toward the sound, her breath stalling in her throat.

A knight – her knight – lay crumpled against the cobblestones, blood dark against his emerald-green cloak. A shadow wolf loomed over him, teeth gleaming, its molten gaze fixed on his unmoving form.

Something snapped inside her.

A breaking, a bursting, something deep and furious. Perhaps it was the mead still burning in her veins, perhaps it was the night, the exhaustion, the firelight dancing against Rilian's skin, or perhaps it was the simple, undeniable rage at seeing one of her own fall—

But she did not think.

She let go.

The power rose from within her like a storm, like a tidal wave crashing against its limits. For too long, she had kept it contained, leashed, measured. But now, now it surged free, racing along her veins, flooding through her like a river of fire.

A blinding crack split the night.

Blue light erupted from her hands, from the very air around her. It rushed outward in an unstoppable tide, licking along the cobblestones, surging toward the wolves with an unrelenting hunger. Where it touched, the darkness shattered.

The wolves screamed.

They shrieked and recoiled, their forms dissolving beneath the blaze of magic that filled the streets. The night burned blue.

The frost-fae staggered back, eyes wide. The knights froze, torches forgotten in their hands.

And Rilian—

He was staring at her.

She barely felt the weight of his gaze, barely registered the way he had stopped mid-strike, his sword still lifted.

Because the power did not stop.

It wanted.

The night pulsed with it, alive, electric. It begged to be used, to chase the darkness further, to consume and consume.

But she was not the girl who had let it rule her before.

With a sharp inhale, she wrenched it back, forcing it to coil inside her chest, to settle – smouldering, waiting, but contained. The firelight dimmed. The blue glow receded.

And the street was silent.

The wolves were gone.

Only the crackling remnants of her fire remained, flickering along the edges of the buildings, sinking into the cobblestones like an afterthought.

Sapphyre exhaled; her breath unsteady.

Then she turned, meeting Rilian's gaze.

Sapphyre had seen many things in a man's eyes before.

Fear. Hatred. Awe.

She had braced herself for wariness, for suspicion. She had wielded her magic like a weapon, unrestrained, undeniable. It should have terrified him. Should have made him question who – what – she truly was.

Instead, his eyes held something deeper.

Something raw, something she did not know how to hold.

Cair Paravel. The Market Square.

Diamande.

The Market Square at night was a different creature than it was during the day. Gone were the loud voices hawking wares, the scent of freshly baked bread and crushed herbs. Instead, lanterns swung lazily from eaves, casting long, flickering shadows over cobblestone paths.

The air carried the tang of damp stone, mingled with the sharper bite of spice and something darker – unspoken transactions, quiet agreements, the weight of secrets traded as easily as gold.

Diamande moved with measured ease through the thinning crowd, his cloak drawn close, his presence unnoticed save for those who made it their business to notice such things. He had spent the past hour speaking to merchants, pressing subtly for information about selkies.

Most had scoffed, feigning ignorance or brushing him off with dismissive shrugs. But he had seen the flicker of unease in a few eyes, the small hesitations before they turned away too quickly. He was asking the wrong people, or the right ones who did not want to speak.

Then, as he turned away from a spice merchant who had suddenly found his hands too busy to answer, he felt it – a presence at his back, the kind of awareness that set the instincts on edge.

"You ask interesting questions," a voice murmured from just behind his shoulder.

He did not startle, only turned his head slightly. The speaker was a man dressed plainly, his face nondescript, but his gaze assessing. "And you have interesting answers?" Diamande replied, voice even.

The man smiled. "Not here." He tilted his chin toward a shadowed alleyway leading from the square. "Come. The Den will welcome you."

The Den.

The name was familiar in the way a dangerous current beneath still waters was familiar. A place spoken of only in murmurs, a den of illicit pleasures and forbidden dealings. Diamande exhaled softly, barely more than a breath, before inclining his head.

"Lead the way."

From the outside, the building was unremarkable. Tucked between two others in a street where the city forgot its name, its entrance was a plain wooden door with no signage, no markings to indicate anything of note.

But the moment Diamande stepped inside, he understood.

Decadence dripped from the very air.

It was the antithesis of the Parlor.

The scent of myrrh and clove smoke curled through the space, rich and intoxicating. Velvet drapes in deep emeralds and blacks hung from the walls, half-obscuring private alcoves where figures lounged in dim light, laughter and whispers intertwining. Gold filigree traced the edges of the low-burning lanterns, their glow casting soft, shifting shadows across mosaic floors.

The main chamber opened into a sprawling den of indulgence. Low couches covered in silk and fur were scattered between tables heavy with crystal decanters and half-filled goblets of dark wine. The women and men who moved through the space were adorned like living art—layers of sheer fabric, gemstones set at throats and wrists, some with painted gilded lips, others with kohl-rimmed eyes that promised everything and nothing.

A soft melody wove through the room, played from an unseen musician, a sound both melancholic and alluring.

Diamande noted everything. The way patrons lounged, the way some spoke in hushed tones, while others had already begun disappearing behind draped curtains, led by hands that knew exactly where to guide them. The weight of watching eyes pressed on him – subtle, but there. He was an outsider in a world that did not welcome them lightly.

A woman in sapphire silk approached, her presence commanding without effort. Her gaze flickered over him once before she smiled, slow and knowing.

"You ask about selkies."

Not a question.

Diamande inclined his head. "I do."

Her smile deepened, though her eyes remained unreadable. "Then you've come to the right place. We cater to all sorts of… unusual tastes," the woman said, her voice edged with something between amusement and invitation. Her eyes held Diamande's for a fraction too long, as if measuring what sort of man she was – what sort of pleasures or curiosities might have drawn him to the Den.

Before Diamande could respond, the low murmur of the room shifted. A collective hush settled over the gathered patrons, and his attention was drawn to the stage at the far end of the chamber.

A figure stepped into the torchlight.

A dryad.

She was young – perhaps barely grown by the reckoning of her kind – but the way she moved spoke of an elegance that transcended mere age. Her moss-green eyes flickered beneath the glow, catching the golden light of the flames, and her hair, a cascade of the palest oak, gleamed like silken bark.

The sparkling pigment dusted across her skin shimmered with each slow, deliberate motion. It clung to her hands, trailing down her arms like liquid sunlight as she raised them above her head, her body swaying in a dance that was both hypnotic and sensual.

The music shifted, something slow, deep, thrumming like the pulse of ancient roots beneath the earth. She moved in time with it, the sheer fabric draped around her flowing like mist through a forest, her bare feet near-silent against the polished floor.

Diamande exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable, though he felt the weight of the moment press against his ribs. He was no stranger to performance, to seduction used as spectacle. And yet… something about this felt different.

This was no ordinary display.

He had come seeking answers about selkies. Instead, he had found a place where more than bodies were bought and sold. Where creatures of Narnia's history and nature were paraded before those who could afford them.

His fingers curled slightly where they rested at his side.

Beside him, the woman in sapphire silk watched his reaction with quiet interest.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" he mused. "Rare, too. And well-trained." She took a sip from the goblet in her hand before glancing at Diamande again. "But you aren't here for dryads, are you?"

Diamande forced himself to relax, to settle into the persona he wore when navigating dangerous waters. He turned his head slightly, meeting the man's gaze.

"No," he admitted. "I'm looking for a selkie."

The woman's smile didn't waver, but something in the air between them shifted.

"Then," she said, voice low, "we should talk somewhere private."

And then Diamande's vision tilted, the woman's pretty face splitting into two.

The moment the magic unfurled, Diamande felt it like a tide crashing against his skin. It was subtle at first – a whisper of energy curling around his senses – but then it surged, thick and cloying, wrapping around his lungs, his limbs, pressing at the edges of his mind.

He inhaled sharply, gripping the arm of the low-backed chair where he lounged, grounding himself as the room seemed to tilt. Someone nearby chuckled under their breath, assuming he was already well into his cups, but the sharp-eyed woman in sapphire silk wasn't so easily fooled. Her gaze flickered between his white-knuckled grip and the untouched goblet at his side, suspicion narrowing her eyes.

He barely registered it.

The magic coursed through him.

There was no mistaking it. It was her, even in this place, even laced through the air like a lingering perfume. It coiled through the Den's decadence, disguised beneath the perfumed myrrh and honeyed wine, but Diamande knew.

The realization struck with the force of a blade sliding between ribs – too fast to react, too deep to ignore. He forced his breathing to steady, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the effects of drink rather than the weight of a truth he hadn't expected to find here.

The woman in sapphire silk leaned in slightly, her voice low and honeyed but edged with calculation. "You do not handle your liquor well, my lord," she murmured, her eyes never leaving his face.

Diamande exhaled, slow and measured, offering her the ghost of a smile. "Out of practice, I'm afraid," he said smoothly, lifting the untouched goblet as though to take a sip. He let it linger near his lips but didn't drink.

Her lips curled, unconvinced.

It was distant yet potent, threading through the land like a golden thread woven into dark fabric. It did not call to him, not in the way a summons would, but he knew it. Recognized it in his bones.

Sapphyre.

The magic of one Blessed by the Heart.

His sisters were in Narnia.

Fuck.

The Far West. The Witch City.

Unknown.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, sharp pain grounding her as she strangled the cry that clawed at her throat. The shock slammed into her like a tidal wave of fire, searing through her veins, hot and all too familiar. Her fingers dug into the edge of the wooden table, knuckles white, as she fought against the urge to double over.

No.

No.

NO.

The air in the tent crackled with unseen energy. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she turned to Ardisia, the young witch at her side. Slim, unassuming, silver bracelets clinking softly at her wrist – Ardisia was new, but not unobservant.

"Did you feel that?" Rubi's voice came out hoarse, breathless.

The girl blinked, her brows knitting in concern. "Feel what?"

Rubi exhaled sharply.

Of course she hadn't. No one else had.

No one else would.

Her trembling hand flicked in dismissal. "Forget it."

Ardisia hesitated, her gaze darting to Rubi's shaking hands, the smear of blood on her lip. But with a wary nod, she slipped out of the tent, leaving Rubi alone in the thick, suffocating silence.

Rubi's knees buckled.

She barely caught herself before collapsing, sinking onto the thick woven rug beneath her. The fabric felt solid, grounding, but her mind spiralled, spinning in the aftershock of what she had just felt.

Her gaze dropped to her hand – to the ring.

The metal was dull, powerless. A relic of what once was.

And yet, her pulse pounded against it as if something inside her still remembered, still longed for what had been lost.

A shuddering breath rattled from her lips.

That magic – raw, ancient, unmistakable – had wrapped around her like a second skin, like she was submerged in the very essence of the Heart of Atlantis itself.

But that was impossible.

Because the Heart of Atlantis was not in that world.