Unknown.

2352.

49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Sapphyre.

Sapphyre woke to motion. A slow, rhythmic rocking beneath her, the creak of wood, the muffled thud of hooves on damp earth. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and damp canvas.

She stayed still, listening. Assessing.

She cracked her eyes open.

Darkness.

With a quiet inhale, she willed her vision to shift. The world sharpened as her pupils elongated, her sight adjusting to the blackness like that of a hunting falcon. Shapes emerged – wooden planks curving overhead, a thick canvas covering the wagon, the faint glint of metal bindings. And next to her, a figure sprawled against the floorboards.

Rilian.

She turned her head slightly, scanning him. His breathing was steady, but the faint furrow between his brows told her he wasn't fully asleep. He must have sensed her movement, because the next moment, his eyes flickered open.

"Sapphyre?" His voice was low, cautious.

She barely had time to nod before the wagon hit a rut. She braced herself as her body jolted sideways – straight into Rilian. His arms came up on instinct, steadying her. Warm, solid. She could feel his heartbeat beneath his tunic, a slow, even rhythm against her shoulder.

The motion of the wagon unsettled her, the uneven swaying making it impossible to predict the next jolt. But Rilian was still. Steady. A fixed point in the shifting dark. She allowed herself a brief moment to lean into that steadiness, just to anchor herself.

"Easy, little bird."

The scent of him – leather and something faintly metallic, like steel worn smooth by use – grounded her. His arms tightened just enough to still her shaking. The warmth of him, solid and real, chased back the black edges creeping into her vision.

Had it been the bandits who had captured them?

She shifted slightly, testing the wooden walls of the wagon. No gaps. No weak points. The canvas covering was thick, secured with reinforced ties. She could burn through it, perhaps—rip through with fire or sheer force—but…

Her gaze flickered to Rilian, still holding her steady.

No. Not when her magic might lash out, uncontrolled, and hurt him.

She clenched her jaw.

Slowly, carefully, Sapphyre uncurled from Rilian's hold and shifted into a cross-legged position, her back straight despite the rocking of the wagon.

Rilian watched her. "What are you doing?"

"Focusing." She closed her eyes, inhaling deep through her nose. The breath settled low in her belly, steady and measured.

"You need to rest," he muttered, but there was no force behind it. He knew better than to argue.

She exhaled slowly, sinking into the rhythm of the wagon's motion. The steady sway. The distant heartbeat of hoofbeats against the earth. The murmurs outside, drifting in and out of her awareness like waves lapping at a shore.

Her magic stirred at the edges of her mind, coiling beneath her ribs, restless but controlled. She didn't reach for it, not fully. Just enough to sharpen her senses – to push outward, feel beyond the wooden walls that confined them.

The trees. She could sense them. Tall, dense, pressing in on either side of the wagon path. The air outside smelled of damp earth and pine.

A forest.

Not the open roads near the City Ruinous, then.

They'd been traveling for some time.

She forced herself deeper into focus, expanding her awareness.

Outside, a sharp command cut through the night air. The wagon slowed.

Sapphyre straightened. Her pulse was steady, her mind clear. Whatever came next, she would be ready.

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft creak of the wagon.

Then, Rilian spoke.

"Why do you hang onto your oaths so tightly?"

Sapphyre blinked, caught off guard. She turned her head to look at him fully. His face was calm, unreadable in the half-light, but his voice held something beneath it – something quiet, searching.

She didn't answer at first. Instead, she shifted her gaze to the wooden planks beneath them, tracing the rough grain with her fingertips. Why?

Because if she let go of what she believed in, if she stopped clinging to the purpose that had carried her thus far – what was left?

She had taken so many lives. Cut them down with blade and fire. She had seen the light leave their eyes, had smelled the stench of burned flesh, had heard the cries of the dying as they begged, cursed, or simply gasped their last.

She had told herself it was necessary. That every death had meaning. That every life she stole was the price for something greater.

Justice. A world set right.

But late at night, in the quiet spaces between battle and duty, she had begun to wonder if that was true.

She had caused so much grief.

How many mothers had buried their sons because of her? How many lovers had waited for someone who would never return? How many voices had been silenced, names erased from history, simply because they had stood on the wrong side of her blade?

If she stopped – if she let herself question, let herself waver – then what had it all been for?

She had to believe.

Because if she didn't… then she would have to face the possibility that she was not a hero.

That she had never been one.

That she was just another hand in the endless cycle of violence, another blade in the dark, another name to be cursed in whispered prayers of the grieving.

She had to believe.

Or she had nothing.

Finally, she whispered, "Because if I don't have that, what do I have? What was it all for?"

Rilian watched her, eyes dark in the low light. Then, softer than she expected, he said,

"You would have me."

A beat of silence.

Her throat tightened. The wagon rocked gently beneath them, the world outside moving on, unaware of the quiet, fragile thing that had settled between them.

She exhaled slowly, but she didn't answer.

She couldn't.

Because acknowledging that – that they had shared something beyond battle, beyond survival, that their kisses in the dark had ever meant anything – was a risk she wasn't ready to take.

Cair Paravel. The Den.

Diamande.

The Den was as he had left it.

Loud.

Suffocating.

Wrong.

Diamande stepped through the unmarked entrance, the weight of the place settling around his shoulders like an ill-fitting cloak. The air was thick with cloying incense and the sickly-sweet scent of spiced wine. Laughter curled through the space, sultry and edged with something he could not quite name – pleasure, indulgence… despair.

It had started as a search for a single selkie, and it had turned into so much more.

He needed to end it.

The knowledge sat heavy in his chest, coiled like a serpent. He had seen them – naiads with eyes like still water, dryads wilting under torchlight, the frost fae with her silken wrists and scattered smiles.

Neve.

He had not meant to remember her name.

Yet, it whispered through his thoughts as he moved along the edge of the room, keeping to the shadows.

She had fallen into his lap, light as snow, warmth bleeding through her skin. And she had smiled at him, over and over, as if she were caught in some endless dream.

As if she were drowning in it.

Diamande's hands curled into fists.

He had been watching, waiting, choosing his moment. He could not move too soon, not without understanding what he was truly up against.

Through the hum of conversation and the muted moans drifting from behind velvet curtains, a low voice caught his ear.

"…Running low."

"Already?" A second voice, sharper, edged with irritation. "We just brought in another shipment."

"Doesn't last long with the frost-fae. The selkie fight it the worst, though—"

"Hush, do you want everyone to know, you fool?"

The sharp whisper cut through the murmur of conversation, urgent and edged with frustration.

Diamande barely shifted, though his grip on the goblet tightened. He kept his expression carefully neutral, his gaze still idly sweeping the room as though he were just another patron admiring the sights. But his ears remained sharply attuned.

"That's all well and good," the first voice muttered, "but the men we sent north have not yet returned. Nor have they been in contact with us."

North?

Diamande leaned back ever so slightly, angling himself just enough to better hear the hushed conversation.

"Has she contacted us at all?"

"The Emerald Queen? No, we've not had word."

His breath caught.

The goblet tilted in his hand, and he barely noticed as the cool liquid sloshed over the rim, splattering onto his glove and the table before him. His mind was already elsewhere, reeling, a slow-burning rage coiling within his chest.

There was only one person who would name herself such.

Emerylda.

Of course.

Had she captured the frost-fae and the mermaid?

Had she woven the enchantment that shrouded the place, keeping it hidden from those who might intervene?

His vision sharpened. He turned his head, scanning the room – and met the gaze of the frost-fae.

She was smiling.

A lazy, hazy smile, as if caught in the echo of some long-lost dream.

But her eyes – clouded as they were – held something else beneath the veil of intoxication.

Something fragile.

His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to swallow the rising fury, to bank the fire curling hot in his veins.

Not this time.

He would stop Emerylda.

For Neve.

For Eithne's selkie-sister.

For all of them.

And this time—this time—he would not fail.

Unknown.

Rilian.

Rilian stepped down from the wagon, his boots sinking slightly into damp earth. The scent of pine and wet leaves filled his lungs, cool and sharp in the night air – a relief after the stifling closeness of the wagon. He cast a glance at Sapphyre as she followed, her posture straight, her expression unreadable.

No trace of vulnerability in her face.

A small camp had been set up around them. Several other wagons formed a rough circle, their canvas covers rippling in the night breeze. Fires flickered low in the center of the camp, casting long shadows against the trees. Around them, figures moved with quiet efficiency—checking supplies, murmuring amongst themselves.

Rilian tensed, scanning their captors. They were not soldiers. No sigils or crests adorned their cloaks, no rigid formation structured their movements. And yet, there was a quiet power in the way they carried themselves, a sense of purpose woven into every action.

Then he noticed it.

The way the air around them hummed. The way the firelight flickered oddly when certain figures passed. The faint, lingering scent of herbs and something older, something he couldn't quite name.

Witches.

His stomach tightened. Not the wild, forsaken kind who dabbled in petty curses and blood rites. No, they moved like they knew exactly who they were and where they were going.

West.

Their captors meant them no immediate harm.

But that didn't mean they were safe.

One of the witches stepped forward, a woman with a scar running from her temple to her jaw. Her dark eyes lingered on them, assessing, weighing. "You will ride with us until we reach our destination."

"And where, exactly, is that?" Rilian asked, his voice even.

The woman smiled faintly, but it did not reach her eyes. "West."

Sapphyre's fingers twitched at her side, a sign that she was calculating their next move. But Rilian could already see the answer. Not now. Not yet. They were outnumbered, outmatched, and neither of them knew the full extent of what these witches wanted.

For now, they had no choice but to go where the road took them.

So, he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax.

West, then.

And they would see where the path led.

Cair Paravel. The Lower Dungeons.

Rubi.

Rubi had lost all sense of time in the lower dungeons. Without light, without even the sound of footsteps beyond the iron door, the hours stretched endlessly, merging into one another. Cold seeped into her bones, the damp stone beneath her offering no warmth, no respite. She tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she felt as if she were sinking deeper into the abyss.

Her tiny flame had burned out hours ago – perhaps days.

She had nothing left to hold onto.

For the first time in a long while, true despair crept into her heart. Not even the blessed fire of Atlantis could save her now.

Then, footsteps.

Rubi stirred, her body sluggish and aching. She barely reacted when the iron door groaned open, the torchlight from the hall flooding in like a golden wound against the black.

A figure stepped inside.

Him.

The man with the hazel eyes.

The so-called knight.

He stood just inside the threshold, smirking as if he had all the time in the world. The torchlight cast long shadows across his face, sharpening his arrogant features, making him look more like a wolf than a man.

Rubi glared at him from where she sat against the wall, refusing to scramble to her feet like some cowering prisoner.

"Well," he mused, tilting his head. "Still alive, I see."

She said nothing.

He tsked, stepping closer, his boots echoing against the stone. "I must say, I expected you to beg for mercy by now. Or at least scream a little."

Still, she remained silent.

His smirk widened. "Ah. Stubborn, are we? That will make this all the more entertaining." He crouched before her, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "I thought I should come down and introduce myself properly since it seems we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

She finally forced words past her parched lips. "I have no interest in knowing your name."

He chuckled, utterly unbothered by her disdain. "And yet, I'll give it to you anyway." He leaned in just slightly, as if sharing a secret. "Dustan. Sir Dustan."

Rubi committed it to memory, not because she cared, but because names had power. And if she ever got out of that hellhole, she would remember the name of the man who had thrown her into it.

"Tell me, Rubi," Dustan continued, lounging as if they were having a pleasant conversation instead of a battle of wills. "Are you ready to confess to your crimes?"

She lifted a brow. "What crimes would those be? Existing?"

He laughed. "Oh, you have more than that to answer for, witch. You came to Cair Paravel with wild claims, seeking an audience with the King. You expect us to believe your nonsense about shapeshifting women and impending doom?" He shook his head. "The King does not entertain liars, nor does he indulge madwomen."

Rubi's hands curled into fists, but she kept her expression calm.

"You'll be given a trial," Dustan said after a moment, his voice almost casual. "I could have had you executed outright, you know."

She didn't doubt that.

"But I'm feeling merciful." He flashed her a smile that held no warmth. "So I'll let you stand before the court, plead your case. Who knows? Maybe they'll decide you deserve to rot in a proper prison rather than this lovely little hole in the ground."

Rubi refused to show any reaction, even as her heart pounded. A trial meant she'd have a chance to speak – to reach someone who might actually listen.

Dustan must have seen the flicker of hope in her eyes because his smirk deepened. "Don't look so relieved. I wouldn't place any bets on your fate just yet." He stood, dusting off his tunic as he turned toward the door. "But do try to entertain me, won't you?"

Then he was gone, and the door slammed shut behind him, plunging her back into the suffocating dark.

But she wasn't entirely hopeless.

Because if she was getting a trial…

Then she had a chance.