Atlantis. The Heartland. The River of Jewels.
2791.
215th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
The River of Jewels glittered in the late afternoon light, each ripple catching the sun like a thousand scattered diamonds. Sapphyre sat on the mossy stone bank, her sandals discarded beside her, bare feet dipped into the cool, sparkling current. The water lapped gently at her ankles, a whisper of peace she couldn't feel.
Emerylda sat beside her, close but not touching, her posture stiff despite the soft breeze and the calm lull of the river. Overhead, willows leaned in like eavesdroppers, their silken fronds dancing in the wind.
"You still believe they can change?" Emerylda's voice broke the silence like a thrown stone, shattering the illusion of peace. "After everything they've done?"
Sapphyre didn't answer immediately. She was watching the water, but her thoughts were elsewhere – dark halls, whispered orders, coin taken from the hands far less fortunate, trembling hands stained with legacy.
"They're our parents," she said finally. Quiet. Unwilling to be moved.
"They're tyrants." Emerylda's voice was harder now. "Blind to consequence. You know what they've done, Sapphyre."
"I know," she whispered. "But I won't be the one to put them in the ground."
"So, we do nothing?" Emerylda snapped. "Let them burn the realm from the inside while we sit by and hope the fire puts itself out?"
"I never said that."
"Then what are you saying? That we plead with them? That we write songs of forgiveness while they destroy our kingdom?"
Sapphyre stood slowly, brushing her hands on her skirts. Her face was pale, jaw tight. "I'm saying we fight differently. We don't become them in the process."
Emerylda stepped forward. "Sometimes you have to become the blade to cut away the rot."
"No," Sapphyre said. "That's what they believe. That strength is only measured in blood. That mercy is weakness. That fear is the same as loyalty. If we start a war – if we kill them – what makes us any different?"
Emerylda stared at her for a long moment. The breeze stirred the willow branches above them, as if nature itself were listening in.
"Then there's only one option left," Emerylda said, quieter now, but no less firm.
Sapphyre's breath caught. She already knew.
"The Challenge," Emerylda said.
Sapphyre turned away, back to the river, but the words had already struck deep.
Sapphyre looked down at the river. Her reflection stared back, fragmented and dancing with the current. A princess, a knight in pieces.
She was silent for a long time before speaking.
"If I do this," she said, "there's no turning back."
Emerylda's gaze didn't waver. "There never was."
…
Cair Paravel. The Den.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Neve.
The man was there again.
The one with the hair of fire and the eyes that had no colour.
No colour, and yet – so bright. Like jewels set into his face, glinting even in the dim torchlight of the Den. They caught her attention more than anything else, those strange, gleaming eyes. She liked pretty things. And he was so very pretty, even with the scars.
A smile crept across her lips, slow and lazy, the warmth of it blooming in her chest like the soft glow of winter starlight. She lifted her arms and twirled, just a little – spinning once, twice.
A giggle bubbled up, light and easy.
The watching men smiled.
She smiled back.
If they were happy, she was happy. That was how it worked. That was how it had always worked.
And when they were happy, the men with the dark gloves gave her more of that delicious drink. The one that made her float, made everything soft and warm, made her limbs light as frost-dusted petals in the wind.
She liked that feeling.
But the man with the sparkling eyes wasn't happy.
His face was ever so grim, his gaze sharp despite the shadows he kept to. It didn't suit him. Not at all.
She wanted to make him smile.
So, she danced closer to him.
Twirling, whirling, the silks at her wrists fluttering as she moved through the golden light. But it was like dancing through water. Her limbs felt heavy, too heavy, and the world swayed and spun, shifting strangely around her.
She giggled again, that same lazy, hazy smile never leaving her lips.
If she couldn't twirl, then she would sway.
Maybe that would make him smile.
There were no windows, but she knew it was snowing beyond the walls.
She knew it with every fibre of her being. The way a bird knows the direction of the wind. The way a river knows the path it must carve.
And yet, her magic – her self – felt distant, like it was hovering just beyond her reach, waiting for her somewhere outside these walls. She longed to stretch her wings, to turn her face to the sky and feel the snowfall kiss her skin.
But she could go nowhere.
Not beyond the stage where they let her dance.
She lifted a hand, staring at her fingers as she curled and uncurled them, willing herself to feel the ice in her blood, to grasp at the drifting snowflakes she knew were out there. But all she felt was the silk trailing from her wrists, catching the golden light of the torches.
The other dancers… sometimes they looked like they were enjoying themselves.
When they were given the same glittery gold drink that she was given, they swayed, they laughed, they leaned into the hands that reached for them.
Some of them did not notice the pretty golden chains.
Some of them did.
Some of them tugged at them, even as they lounged on plush divans, their bodies draped in nothing but wisps of silk. Their eyes glittered like broken glass, their fingers and ears dusted with shimmering pigment that caught the light when they moved.
There were no Daughters of Eve chained up.
But there was a naiad, her skin pale as river foam, her watery eyes distant. A dryad or two, their limbs oddly sluggish for creatures meant to dance in the wind, the sparkling pigment that covered eyes and fingers, dulled.
And there was her.
A girl with too-dark eyes and teeth just a shade too sharp.
Neve wasn't sure what she was.
It was almost like visiting a menagerie.
Exotic creatures, displayed for the amusement of those who could afford to indulge.
The Narnians were pampered pets.
Decorations to be gawked at.
Touched.
Tasted.
They were more than that.
It was a thought that slipped unbidden through the haze in her mind, carried by a voice that was not hers. A voice that whispered like frost creeping over glass, cool and sharp.
A voice that sounded very much like Sapphyre.
But before she could grasp it, before she could hold onto that sliver of clarity, another drink was tipped past her lips. The golden liquid burned sweetly down her throat, and the thought – the whisper – the truth – slipped away like snow melting on warm skin.
The world blurred, softened. And she—
She fell.
Tumbling lightly, she landed in a lap, solid and warm beneath her.
The flame-haired man.
Him.
She liked him. She had decided that the last time she saw him, though she couldn't quite remember why.
But unlike the others, who called themselves Knights of Narnia, he did not touch her.
Even as she sprawled across him, boneless and pliant, he did not run his hands over her arms, did not tangle his fingers in her hair, did not trace the shape of her face with possessive curiosity.
Even with her mind as scattered as it was, she appreciated that.
So, she smiled at him.
And smiled.
And smiled.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
Sapphyre.
Sapphyre sat in the garden, cross-legged on the smooth stone, her hands resting lightly on her knees. The cool night air stirred the leaves around her, the soft rustling the only sound in the stillness. She had come here to meditate, to clear her mind of the doubts that gnawed at her, but she found no peace in the quiet.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Neve.
She saw Nilia – the missing dryad.
She saw them lost, abandoned to a fate she could have prevented.
Emerylda had ordered her to stand down, to wait. But waiting had never been Sapphyre's way. She had fought, bled, and sacrificed too much to become the kind of person who turned a blind eye to what was right.
Her decision settled within her like a stone dropping into the depths of a lake. She would search for them. She would do what needed to be done, regardless of orders.
"You're going after them."
The voice broke through her thoughts, and she turned to find Rilian standing at the garden's edge, his arms crossed, his indigo eyes knowing. He stepped closer, the heartlight tracing the sharp lines of his face.
She sighed. "I haven't even said it out loud yet."
He tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "You didn't have to."
Sapphyre studied him, searching for mockery, for challenge. But there was none. Only quiet understanding.
She hesitated.
Taking him with her was dangerous – for both of them. And yet, he had proved himself. Time and time again. She had seen his resolve, his strength, and his refusal to break. If she was honest with herself, she had known from the moment he spoke that she wouldn't refuse him.
"I won't ask you to stay behind," she said finally.
"Good." He uncrossed his arms, stepping fully into the light. "Because I wasn't going to."
She let out a breath – half frustration, half relief. "Then we leave before next heart-light."
Rilian nodded, but he didn't turn to leave. Instead, he watched her, waiting. There was something in his gaze, something unspoken, and Sapphyre understood.
Once Emerylda returned, he would never have this chance again.
Sapphyre didn't know how close Emerylda was to perfecting her enchantment, but she suspected it wouldn't be long.
And when that day came, Rilian's choices would no longer be his own.
She clenched her jaw and looked away.
"I'm going to find Neve," she murmured.
Rilian nodded again, quieter this time. "Then let's find her together."
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