Atlantis. The Heartland.

2791.

215th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.

Emerylda.

They left the palace unnoticed, slipping through hidden passages into the underbelly of the city.

The priestess awaited them in a chamber lit only by the pale glow of the Heart. She was veiled, her hands marked with ancient sigils, her eyes unreadable as she beckoned Emerylda forward.

"You seek knowledge," the priestess murmured. "The Heart does not lie."

The air shimmered as the priestess channelled the Heart's power, and the vision unfolded before Emerylda's eyes.

Emerylda stood enthroned, the Heart of Atlantis shining above her, its brilliance casting long shadows over the land she ruled. The Heartland was hers – glorious, unchallenged. A slow, intoxicating glee unfurled in her chest as she drank in the sight. It was how it was meant to be. It was her destiny.

And yet—the vision was dark, the colours muted, as if shadowed.

And still, she could not tear her gaze away. She was queen. She was power incarnate.

The vision faded, but the thrill of it remained, curling around her ribs like a living thing. The priestess, silent and unreadable, tilted her head, those crimson eyes knowing.

Emerylda exhaled slowly, her fingers flexing at her sides as the lingering shadows of the vision dissipated. The thrill still thrummed through her veins, an echo of the power that had been hers in that moment – so real, so close. It had felt like the very bones of the world were shaped to her will, the Heart of Atlantis beating in time with her own.

Sapphyre stood beside her, silent but watchful. Emerylda could feel her sister's gaze, sharp and assessing.

The priestess lowered her hands, the glow of the Heart's sacred flame flickering in her crimson eyes. She was waiting. Judging.

Emerylda straightened, tilting her chin up. "What does it mean?"

"The Heart does not lie," the priestess repeated, her voice as steady as the tides. "What it shows is truth—one of many."

Emerylda's lips pressed into a thin line. "One of many?"

The priestess inclined her head. "The Heartland can be yours, yes. The vision speaks of what may come, should you choose that path. But nothing is given freely, and no power rises without cost."

A slow, sharp smile curled Emerylda's lips. "And what is the cost?"

The priestess studied her, unreadable. The shadows shifted in the chamber, and for a moment, it seemed as if the flame itself recoiled. Then she spoke.

"Blood."

The word rang in the air like a struck bell, vibrating in Emerylda's marrow. She did not flinch. Blood had always been the price of power. It was the first lesson she had ever learned, the foundation upon which their world had been built.

Sapphyre stirred, her arms folding beneath her cloak. "Whose blood?"

The priestess's gaze flicked to her, then back to Emerylda. A slow, knowing look. "The Heart does not lie."

The unspoken answer coiled between them, heavy with unspent meaning. Emerylda had seen the muted shadows in her vision, the dark undertone beneath the glory. She had felt it.

A warning, or a promise?

The Heart did not choose.

It merely revealed.

Emerylda exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. The thrill still pulsed beneath her ribs, intoxicating and undeniable. Blood was a price she had always been willing to pay. T

She turned, her silk-clad steps whispering against the stone as she strode for the exit. Sapphyre fell into step beside her, silent.

The passage swallowed them, the city's underbelly pressing in like the weight of the future itself. And in Emerylda's chest, the ember of the vision still burned, waiting for the moment it would ignite.

Underland. The Dark City.

2352.

49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Sapphyre.

Sapphyre stood at the far edge of the Sunless Sea, the dark waters stretching endlessly before her. The air was thick with mist, curling around her feet like living tendrils, whispering secrets only the depths knew. The frost fae gathered beside her, their pale eyes glinting with quiet curiosity as they watched the spectacle unfold – a contest they did not fully understand but found themselves drawn to, nonetheless.

Across the water, the boats approached, cutting through the inky surface in uneven strides. She could make out the figures of her knights, their forms huddled together as they rowed with measured, steady strokes. Even from so far away, she could see the way they moved in harmony, adjusting to one another's strengths, compensating for weaknesses.

Then – just as planned – the first of the boats began to sink.

A gasp rippled through the frost fae, their luminous eyes widening.

The knights did not panic. Even as the water hungrily lapped at their armour, even as the treacherous sea began its work, they moved in tandem. Hands reached out, clasping forearms, pulling comrades from the depths into still-floating vessels. They made space where there was none, adjusted their weight to keep their remaining crafts afloat. When the naiads whispered from below, voices like music laced with poison, the knights ignored them, their minds focused, their eyes locked only on their goal – the shore. Each one accounted for, each one fighting for the others.

But the queensguard?

No such unity bound them.

Their boats surged forward, cutting through the water with ruthless efficiency. Faster. More aggressive. They were gaining ground, their disciplined strokes sending them closer, closer to the shoreline.

But when their boats, too, began to falter, their reactions were different – colder.

One man flailed, his hands slapping the surface of the water in desperate, splashing strokes. Another reached for the edge of a comrade's boat – only to be shoved away. A man of the queensguard scrambled onto another vessel, nearly capsizing it in his attempt to save himself. There was no helping hands, no second thoughts. They abandoned their own, sacrificed their comrades for the sake of reaching the shore faster.

Sapphyre's grip tightened at her sides, her sharp eyes tracing the unfolding scene with growing certainty. Emerylda had designed this test to measure more than skill. Strength alone meant nothing if it came at the cost of orders.

The first of the queensguard stumbled onto the black sand, coughing, shaking out his limbs, but he did not look back. The others followed in short order, those who had made it, victorious in their efficiency but fewer in number than they had been when they started.

The knights of Underland arrived moments later – soaked, exhausted, but all accounted for. Their faces were set in grim determination, their gazes steady as they took in those who had been lost.

The next stage began without ceremony.

The exhausted knights straightened, their hands instinctively reaching for weapons, their bodies shifting into stances of readiness. They did not ask for rest, nor did they expect it. The queensguard did the same, though they exuded the sharp-edged confidence of men who believed in their own superiority.

Then Sapphyre spoke, her voice smooth and deliberate. "The Sunless Sea has tested your endurance. Now, let us test your strength."

Sapphyre knew what was coming before the fighters emerged. She had been the one to approach them, after all. From the shadows of the cliffs, figures slunk forward – hard-eyed men and women, their bodies honed by survival, by blood and battle. The fighters of the pits. They were not knights. They had never sworn loyalty to a queen or a cause.

They fought only for coin, for victory, for the rush of combat. And they were ruthless.

A ripple of tension passed through both groups as the pit fighters spread out, evaluating their soon-to-be opponents. Some grinned, some cracked their knuckles. Others merely watched with dead-eyed detachment.

"One-on-one," Sapphyre said, her emerald gaze sweeping the assembled warriors. "Knights of Underland, Queensguard – you will fight against the best the pits have to offer. No hesitation. No mercy. The weak will fall, as they should."

The matches were decided quickly. Sapphyre watched as Vasas was paired with a wiry man who moved like a snake, Acastin with a brute whose fists alone could shatter bone. Petra with a woman whose twin blades gleamed like fangs in the torchlight.

And then the first blow was struck.

The battle erupted all at once – shouts, the clash of steel, the crack of fists meeting flesh. Sand kicked up beneath frenzied movement, darkening with blood. The Queen's Guard fought with precision, but the pit fighters fought with something more dangerous—desperation. They had spent their lives clawing for survival. They knew how to make every movement count, how to exploit the smallest hesitation.

The knights of Underland, though wearied from their ordeal, did not falter. Their training had been harsh, their loyalty unshaken. They fought for each other, as they always had.

Sapphyre stood at the edge of the battlefield, watching it unfold, her heart hammering in her chest.

And then her eyes were drawn to one fight in particular – a hulking warrior, his massive form looming over his opponent. A familiar dark-haired figure.

Her breath caught.

Rilian.

His indigo eyes burned like fire, his stance unwavering. He moved with purpose, with deadly precision, dodging the brute's strikes with a grace that belied his strength. The pit fighter swung a heavy fist, but Rilian twisted away, countering with a sharp, calculated strike to the ribs. The warrior stumbled, snarling, and lunged again.

The clash of steel and shouts of combatants faded into a dull hum. Nothing existed but Rilian and the hulking pit fighter before him.

Rilian ducked under the blow with a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural for someone of his size. His body twisted, the air vibrating with the sudden force of his counterattack. He slammed his elbow into the brute's side, just under the ribs. The sound of bone cracking echoed through the arena. The pit fighter grunted in pain, stumbling back, but he didn't fall. Rage twisted his face, and he launched himself at Rilian again, roaring like an animal.

The pit fighter's massive fist came down with a crushing swing, aimed directly for Rilian's shoulder. The blow would have shattered bone, but Rilian was already gone, his body swaying just out of reach, a ghost of movement. In the same breath, he spun, his blade flashing like a streak of silver lightning. The brute's sword – untrained, clumsy – was knocked from his grip with a sharp, metallic ring.

Sapphyre took an instinctive step forward, her fingers curling, her breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded in her ears. No. Not yet.

For a moment, she almost stepped forward, her body moving on instinct—

But then Rilian struck the final blow.

A blur of movement – his blade was at the warrior's throat, stopping just short of cutting deep. A silent warning. The brute hesitated, his body tensing before he lifted his hands in surrender.

Sapphyre's boot met the sand with a soft crunch, the sound grounding her as the realization hit. She had taken that step, unknowingly closing the distance between herself and the fight.

She turned, her eyes locking with the cool, knowing gaze of Eirwyn.

The frost fae stood a few paces away, her pale form stark against the backdrop of the battlefield, her eyes shining with that unreadable wisdom.

Eirwyn's gaze was not just observing – it was assessing, as it always was.

Underland. The Dark City.

Emerylda.

Emerylda stopped watching, her mind already moving beyond the fight. She had seen enough. She knew Rilian would win. The outcome had never been in doubt. His movements were precise, his resolve unshaken. Every strike, every calculated dodge, every perfectly timed counter was proof of what he had become.

A warrior sculpted by necessity, by hardship, by her design – though it was Sapphyre who had unknowingly done the forging.

A slow exhale left her lips as she stepped back from the scrying pool, the swirling water still reflecting Rilian's final, decisive movements. A blade tempered in pain and fire, sharpened to an edge keen enough to carve out a kingdom.

The perfect person to lead the queensguard.

The perfect puppet king.

Emerylda's fingers traced the edge of the stone basin, her touch light but deliberate. There was an art to control, to knowing when to tighten a grip and when to let the illusion of freedom linger. Rilian thought he had reclaimed himself, that his strength belonged to him alone.

How easily men believed such things.

A voice stirred beside her, low and inquisitive. Rois.

She barely registered his words. They were unimportant, a formality, a pretence of conversation when the truth was already written. The pieces were shifting into place, aligning with an inevitability only she could see.

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. Yes.

"Yes," she murmured, more to herself than to Rois. "He will do nicely."

Underland. The Dark City.

Sapphyre.

Rilian collapsed onto the dark sand, his chest heaving with the force of his exertions. His knuckles were raw, his lip split, and blood – too much blood – streaked down his temple, disappearing into the tangled mess of his dark hair. He had fought like a man possessed, like something more than human, and now his body was paying the price.

Sapphyre was at his side before she had fully registered moving.

"Rilian," she breathed, kneeling beside him, her hands ghosting over his shoulders, his ribs. Even in the dim light, she could see the bruises forming beneath the torn fabric of his tunic, the way his breathing hitched unevenly, the tremor in his fingers as he tried – and failed – to push himself up.

Her hands found his arm, steadying him. "You're bleeding internally."

Rilian let out a breath that might have been a laugh, though it was laced with pain. His indigo eyes met hers, still burning with the remnants of the fight. "Internally?" he repeated, his voice rough but teasing. "Good. That's where my blood's meant to be, isn't it?"

Sapphyre exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You fool."

"Not the first time I've heard that," he muttered, tilting his head back against the cool sand, exhaustion settling over him like a cloak. "Doubt it'll be the last."

Sapphyre ignored him, her fingers pressing carefully against his ribs, feeling for breaks. He winced, but didn't pull away. "You need a healer."

"I need a drink," he countered, though his smirk was weaker now, fading at the edges.

Sapphyre's jaw clenched. "Rilian—"

"I'm fine."

She shot him a sharp glare. "You are many things. 'Fine' is not one of them."

He chuckled softly, though it turned into a cough that made his entire body shudder. Sapphyre caught his shoulders, steadying him again. For a moment, he let himself lean into her touch, into the warmth of her presence.

Then, softer, he said, "I won."

Sapphyre swallowed hard. She should have been furious with him. Perhaps she was. But as she looked at him – bruised, bloodied, yet still somehow triumphant – she couldn't bring herself to say the words. Instead, she exhaled, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

"Yes," she murmured. "You won."

But her worry only deepened. He was barely holding himself together, and she wasn't sure he would survive the boat ride back. Every breath he took seemed too shallow, his strength rapidly fading.

Her mind raced. The tunnels. They were close to the old passages that led to the surface. Perhaps if she could get him there, let him lay beneath the open sky, his body would heal itself again – like it had before.

She turned to Eirwyn, who had been watching silently, frost-blue eyes unreadable. "Help me," Sapphyre asked, her voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying undeniable authority. "Make sure my knights make it back to the city."

Eirwyn studied her for a long moment before nodding. "And you?"

"I'll get him to safety."

Eirwyn didn't question her, only glanced down at Rilian, assessing him. "Hurry. Your presence will be missed quickly."

Sapphyre tightened her grip on Rilian's arm. "I will."

Then, without another word, she moved, dragging him up as best she could, guiding him toward the tunnels and toward the one chance he had at surviving the night.

Sapphyre's heart pounded in her chest as she half-carried Rilian through the darkened landscape, the faint light of the distant Heart barely illuminating their path. His body felt heavier with each step, his weight a burden she wasn't sure she could carry much longer. She had never been one to trust in the fragility of others, but she was feeling it – every ounce of his failing strength was a reminder of how deeply he had pushed himself in that fight.

Sapphyre's muscles burned as she hauled Rilian through the dark tunnel, his weight a heavy, almost unbearable burden in her arms. The walls of the passageway pressed close, the oppressive darkness swallowing them whole, and each step felt like it brought her further from the surface, from the light, from the chance that he might live.

His breath was shallow against her, his body limp and uncooperative, though he tried weakly to push himself upright, to walk under his own power. His attempts were futile; he collapsed back into her arms, his indigo eyes clouded with pain, the fire that had once burned there now flickering dimly.

"Rilian," Sapphyre hissed, her voice harsh with exertion. "You have to hold on."

"For you, little bird, anything," he rasped, his voice rough, the words barely escaping his cracked lips. His hand, weak and trembling, found her arm, fingers brushing against her skin as if to hold on, as if to anchor himself to something, anything.

With renewed determination, she pressed on, pulling him forward, her legs burning from the strain, her breath ragged. She kept her focus ahead—toward the end of the tunnel, toward the sliver of starlight she could almost taste in the air. The surface was so close, but it felt like a lifetime away.

Every step felt like a battle. Each one harder than the last. The tunnel stretched before her, narrow and dark, but the promise of the open sky, of the night air and the stars above, urged her forward.

She couldn't lose him. Not like this.

And then, at last, she emerged, the night sky unfolding before her, vast and infinite, the first breath of fresh air filling her lungs. The moonlight spilled over the horizon, casting silver across the land. Sapphyre collapsed to her knees, her chest heaving with exertion as she laid Rilian gently on the ground.

The moment her hands left his body; she felt the crushing weight of their journey. The clouds hung low in the sky, swirling like an omen, dark and thick, just as the faintest of starlight filtered through.

She stared down at him, her heart sinking. His breathing was shallow, barely there. His face was pale, and the blood on his skin glistened in the moonlight, stark against his bruised body. She could feel it—the overwhelming sense of helplessness clawing at her chest. She had tried, she had fought for him, but now, as she looked at him lying there so still, a whisper of doubt crept into her mind.

"Please…" she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, the words slipping from her lips as a quiet plea to the night, to the stars above. "Not like this…"

Her gaze moved to the sky, the clouds still swirling ominously, their dark shapes shifting as if mocking her every effort. She held her breath, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

A desperate plea fell from her lips, a plea to anyone who would listen.

Save him.

Please, do not let him die.

And then, as if in response to her desperate hope, the clouds parted, slowly, inch by inch, as though the heavens themselves were unwilling to let her despair linger for long.

The moonlight broke free, flooding the clearing in silvery light. The stars blinked into existence, piercing through the veil of night like a thousand tiny flames.

And in the midst of it, something shifted.

A soft, almost imperceptible pulse of energy thrummed through the air, an invisible force that seemed to ripple around Rilian's still form. For a moment, Sapphyre's breath caught, her eyes wide in disbelief.

Rilian's chest rose, just slightly at first, then more steadily, as though the very air around him was beginning to weave its magic. His limbs twitched, his fingers curling into the ground beneath him, and then – his eyes fluttered open.

Sapphyre's heart stuttered in her chest.

His indigo eyes, though dull from the fight, held a glimmer of life, a spark that hadn't been there moments ago.

Slowly, his body began to heal – torn flesh knitting together, bruises fading, cuts closing. The blood that had pooled against his skin began to recede, absorbed back into his body. The light of the stars seemed to pulse with him, as if the very sky was pouring its strength into him, rejuvenating him with its celestial touch.

He sucked in a deep breath, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Sapphyre exhaled. Relief washed over her, and she sank to the ground beside him, her body trembling with the weight of everything she had been carrying, the fear that had gripped her chest now slipping away.

Rilian stirred, his voice barely a whisper as he met her gaze. "I'm not dead yet, Sapphyre."

Sapphyre's lips parted in a quiet laugh, a sound that felt strange after the suffocating weight of silence. She couldn't speak, her chest tight with a mix of relief and wonder. She had thought it was over, thought she had failed him.

But the night had saved him.

His starlight had saved him.

"Not yet," she echoed softly, her hand gently resting on his, feeling the warmth of his skin as it regained strength.

Rilian's voice was faint, his words barely a whisper, but they cut through the silence like a blade. "I thought you hated me?" he asked, his indigo eyes still clouded with the remnants of pain and exhaustion, though the healing light seemed to be working its magic on him.

Sapphyre froze, her hand resting on his, her breath caught in her throat. For a heartbeat, she didn't know how to respond, the rawness of his question catching her off guard.

Her eyes softened as she looked down at him, her heart aching with something deeper than the worry she had carried for so long. She brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead, her touch gentle, almost reverent.

"I could never hate you," she whispered, her voice thick. The words felt foreign, but they were the truth. No matter what had happened, no matter the distance, the misunderstandings, or the harsh words she had uttered to him – they were nothing compared to what she truly felt.

He let out a soft breath, his eyes searching hers for a moment, as though trying to make sense of the depth of her words. He didn't say anything more, but a faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

The stars above seemed to shine a little brighter, their light bathing them both in a soft, celestial glow.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the night air settling around them, and the steady pulse of the healing light. In that quiet, under the watchful gaze of the stars, Sapphyre knew something had shifted – something unspoken had been mended between them.

Cair Paravel. The Den.

Diamande.

Diamande skirted the edges of the room, keeping to the shadows, unseen but always watching. The stage at the centre of the chamber was brightly lit, a focal point for the gathered patrons. Their expressions were unguarded, faces alight with glee, with hunger. Unconcealed lust flickered in their eyes as they devoured the movements of the dancers.

Dryads, naiads… and at the far end of the stage, in a tank of clear, rippling water – one of the merfolk.

Diamande's jaw tensed.

Particular interests.

The thought made his stomach turn, but he schooled his expression into something unreadable, unwilling to betray even the slightest reaction. He needed to remain unseen, unnoticed.

A passing attendant pressed a goblet into his hand, and he accepted it without question, raising it to his lips in a practiced motion. He took a heady swig, allowing the burn to chase away the taste of the air around him.

Then he tasted it.

Nightrose.

The realization struck him like a fist.

The drink burned a trail of fire down his throat, but the sweetness lingered, dark and insidious. He had seen its effects before – the way it clouded the mind, sent its victims into a heady haze of euphoria and desire, peeling away inhibitions until they were left raw and open.

But he was not Narnian.

The flower did not take hold the way it would have in another. He'd seen the effect of it on others – the heady lust that fell over them, the euphoria, the lowering of inhibitions. Instead, his pulse thundered, his heart racing as though he had been thrust into battle. The edges of his vision blurred, and for a moment, it was not the Den that surrounded him, but something else—

A glow. A pull.

His magic flared, surging through him, as if he had stepped into the warmth of the Heart.

He staggered, gripping the edge of a nearby table to steady himself.

"Our Snow Queen."

A hush fell.

Her wings were like snowflakes, crystalline and delicate; and they hung limply at her back. She was so small, her eyes wide and unfocused – made even more ethereal by the white lashes that matched her snow-white hair, which had been coifed and coiled. It drew attention to the golden ring around her neck, attached to a slim golden chain.

A collar.

His breath caught.

A frost-fae.

Clearly drugged out of her mind – for she moved as if she were walking through water, sluggish, slightly off-balance.

But the other men who watched her did not notice, or clearly didn't care. They stared at her with rapt attention, eyes stripping her of the flimsy chemise she wore.

Diamande felt the bile rose in his throat.

How was such a place operating?

Surely the Knights of Narnia would not let such a thing continue, right in the middle of the city. The women, they were Narnians too. Surely, they had family who missed them, who was searching for them.

He'd not planned on revealing himself so soon, but perhaps…

And then a boisterous laugh filled the room as a new group entered and Diamande pressed himself into the shadows even more – if such a thing were possible.

It was a laughter and a face he recognised.

Sir Dustan.

The King's Champion.