Atlantis. The Heartland.

2788.

212th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.

Emerylda.

The temple was in uproar.

Robed figures darted through the marbled halls, voices hushed and frantic, echoing beneath the domed ceilings. Incense still hung thick in the air, its perfume meant to soothe – but it clung like smoke after a fire. The sacred stillness of the inner sanctum had been shattered.

Rubi was gone.

At the heart of the chaos stood the High Priestess, flanked by trembling attendants, her face tight with fury and disbelief. The pedestal that once held the rings – those ancient artifacts capable of breaching the boundaries between worlds – was empty, its wards shattered like glass.

Acolytes whispered her name in shock.

Rubi.

The quiet one.

The devoted one.

One Blessed by the Heart.

She who had been entrusted with temple secrets, who had walked the sacred paths with reverence – gone. Disappeared into another world with the very rings that were meant to be kept safe at any cost.

And all for what? A feeling? A foolish, emotional whim?

Unforgivable.

Emerylda stood just beyond the temple doors, her expression carved from ice. Her presence alone quieted the room as she stepped inside, each measured footfall a threat veiled in grace. The moment her eyes found the desecrated pedestal, something behind her eyes cracked. A slow burn of rage curled through her like a serpent coiling tighter and tighter around her spine.

Rubi had chosen her emotions.

She's lucky I told her nothing more of my plans, Emerylda thought darkly, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles paled.

This is why she tested people.

This was exactly why.

Because even the brightest, the most promising, could falter. Could crumble under the weight of their own hearts. All she had done was shown how foolish Rubi would be to choose another over Emerylda – she had shown her that the knight she had lusted after, Sir Allium, held no true affection for her.

Well. Let her run. Let her flee into the stars with her little stolen treasure.

Emerylda would find her eventually. And when she did, Rubi would see – too late – that she should have stayed by Emerylda's side.

Only power endured.

The Far West. The Witch-City.

2352.

49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Sapphyre.

The witch-city breathed like a lung full of smoke and old ash.

Tents flapped like wounded birds in the wind, strung up between the bones of a forgotten world – crumbling towers, shattered arches, streets cracked by time and fire. What had once been a city of stone was now a camp of canvas and whispering lights, stitched together by magic and necessity.

Sapphyre stepped carefully over a jagged seam in the cobblestone where roots had split the ground. A pale, flickering charm hung from a bent iron lamppost, casting sickly green light across the faces of passersby. None of them looked twice at her or Rilian. And that bothered her most.

They had been permitted to roam.

No guards. No warnings.

Just go where you wish.

And they – the witches – had said it like a kindness.

That made her stomach twist.

She tightened her cloak, eyes darting between the mismatched tents – some were stitched from crow-feather cloth, others from animal skins, or silks that moved like water even in still air. Smoke curled from braziers. Incense. Burning herbs. Some kind of song hummed through the streets, but there were no singers. Just the sound – low, wordless, endless.

"Why bring us here?" she murmured, barely loud enough for Rilian to hear.

Rilian crouched near a cluster of runestones half-buried in dirt, brushing moss from the old carvings with one gloved hand. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said, not looking up.

Sapphyre scanned the faces moving past – women with bone piercings and teeth too sharp, children with eyes too old. No one paid her any attention. And still, she felt watched.

A gust of wind tugged at the tents, and a deep, metallic groan echoed from the ruins above them. Somewhere, a crow laughed.

Sapphyre's fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak.

A trap, maybe.

Or a test.

And the worst part?

She couldn't tell which one was worse.

For not even their weapons had been taken.

Sapphyre's fingers brushed the hilt at her hip, not out of threat – but comfort.

Rilian walked with his usual, unshaken grace – one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other tucked casually behind his back. He wasn't tense. Not like her. His expression was unreadable, but his pace was easy, unhurried, as if they were touring a city of marble and lutes rather than smoke and ruin.

"You're not worried," she said, more accusation than question.

Rilian gave a faint smile, eyes scanning the crooked tents as they walked. "Not like you are."

"That's the problem."

He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "You think trust is a flaw?"

"Yes."

He laughed softly, the sound cutting strange and clean through the eerie hush around them. "Maybe that's why they haven't stopped us. They want to see which of us cracks first. You, with all your suspicion…" He leaned slightly closer. "Or me, with all my faith."

She narrowed her eyes at him but couldn't quite summon a retort. Not right away.

Instead, she found herself watching the way the fading light played across his profile – the silver thread in his dark hair catching a flicker of firelight from a nearby brazier.

Then, lightly, as if he were suggesting a game of cards, he said, "We could spar."

Sapphyre blinked. "Here?"

Rilian gestured to a clearing up ahead – flat, broken stone surrounded by the skeletons of half-collapsed buildings. The kind of space that might've once been a plaza, now empty except for scattered bones and rusted lampstands.

"Why not?" he said. "No one's stopping us. Might be good to stretch. Clear the edge off."

She snorted. "Or get attention."

"That too," he said with a grin. "But maybe that's what we need. Let them know we're not just prey sniffing around the trap."

Sapphyre hesitated. The idea grated – but it also made a dark kind of sense.

And truthfully, she could use the release. Movement always helped her think. And Rilian... well. He always pulled something new out of her in a fight.

"Fine," she said at last. "But if I knock you flat, you owe me answers."

He grinned wider. "And if I win?"

"I'll admit you're prettier than me."

"Tempting," he said, drawing his sword with a hiss of steel, "but I already knew that."

She rolled her eyes, stepping into the clearing, loosening her shoulders.

Let them watch, she thought, wherever they were. Let them take notes.

She would not be gentle.

And she would not be fooled.

Not here.

Not ever.

The clearing welcomed them with silence. No wind, no whisper. Just the creak of distant canvas and the weight of the ruined city pressing in.

Sapphyre drew her blade slowly, the metal gleaming dull in the twilight. Rilian was already circling, his own sword loose in his grip, every movement fluid and elegant. He always fought like he was dancing with death – and trusting it not to step on his toes.

No smile.

She met his gaze, and for a second, the rest of the world slipped – because by the Heart, she remembered what those eyes had looked like far closer than this. Inches away. Flickering in firelight. Half-lidded beneath her hands.

The memory of his mouth on hers – soft, searching, sure – rushed to the surface like a punch to the chest. Her face flushed with heat before she could stop it.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

But he said nothing.

Just moved.

Steel met steel with a hiss and spark, his first strike fast and low, testing. She parried, pivoted, countered with a high arc that would've drawn blood if he hadn't twisted just in time. They spun apart, boots scraping stone.

They clashed again – harder now. Blade to blade, close enough for her to smell the faint sharpness of metal and the familiar, maddening scent of him – smoke and cedar and something like rain.

Their swords locked near the hilt, faces only a breath apart.

"I could kiss you right now," he murmured.

Sapphyre shoved hard, breaking the bind.

"Try it and I'll take your hand off."

He laughed – but she saw how tight his jaw was. How carefully he was holding himself back. She wasn't sure if it was restraint in his blade or in his heart, but either way, it infuriated her.

She came at him faster. Slashing, spinning, ducking under his counter like wind through wire. He blocked with a grunt, then swept low, nearly catching her ankle. She leapt, landed, turned on her heel – and there they were again.

Face to face.

Steel against steel.

Every move was a question.

Every parry, an answer she hadn't meant to give.

And still, his eyes never left hers.

Indigo fire. Unblinking.

It was like he was trying to read her soul through the blade.

Sapphyre's breathing was sharp now, heart pounding against her ribs. Not just from the exertion—but the closeness. The knowing. This was always how they fit. In motion. In tension. In that impossible line she had drawn between them so long ago.

A final strike – a feint high, a sweep low – and suddenly she was behind him, sword angled at his ribs.

He didn't move.

He only said, quiet and smiling, "I expected nothing else."

She stood there, chest heaving, blade at his side, every nerve in her body strung tight.

Neither of them moved for a long beat.

Then—

Clap.

Clapclapclap.

The sound rang sharp and sudden through the clearing, breaking the spell between them.

Sapphyre spun, blade raised, heart thudding.

From the edge of the ruined square, a figure emerged – a girl in a riot of silks and patchwork colours, her cloak too big, her boots wrapped in ribbon. Her pale-brown curls held back from her face by a carved silver circlet across her brow. She grinned with both hands clapping, pale violet eyes wide with wonder.

"That was amazing!" she gasped, skipping forward.

Sapphyre froze.

A face she never thought she would see again.

The path westward, weaving behind the witches who moved as one body, one will. A duel of wild magics beneath a clear sky. Laughter thick with mead and firelight, stories passed like secrets beside a hearth crackling merrily in the dark. A girl who listened like the world whispered to her.

"Ardisia?" Sapphyre said slowly, the name catching on her breath.

The girl beamed, slowing to a graceful stop just a few paces away. "You finally made it here," she said, voice warm with something gentler than triumph – hope, maybe. "I truly was hoping I would see you again."

Rilian's brow lifted as he glanced between them, but he said nothing.

Ardisia gave him a polite nod, then turned her full attention back to Sapphyre. "You look stronger," she said, as if it were the most natural observation in the world. "And sadder."

Sapphyre didn't answer. She couldn't. Her heart was twisting too tightly inside her ribs.

"I heard them talking about bringing a powerful witch here," Ardisia continued, voice softer now, "but they said you might never come." Her eyes glinted. The witch smiled wider. "You are right on time."

She turned then, gesturing with a graceful sweep of her hand toward the deeper maze of tents beyond.

"Come. I think I might have some answers for you."

Sapphyre didn't ask what that meant.

She just followed, jaw tight, heart louder than her footsteps.

The Far West. The Witch-City.

Ardisia.

They walked a little behind her – Sapphyre and Rilian. So different, and yet somehow always in step.

Sapphyre was all perfectly coiled tension, a blade barely sheathed. Every movement sharp, precise, alert. She scanned the paths between tents like a soldier, like a wolf pacing unfamiliar woods. Even her silence was ready to strike.

And then there was Rilian – the perfect foil. Easy smile, casual grace. He looked like he belonged anywhere, like nothing surprised him, like the wind itself had decided to follow him around out of loyalty.

But Ardisia knew better.

While Sapphyre was watching everything else, Rilian was watching her.

Not with suspicion. With something gentler. Quieter.

Like he was listening to a song only he could hear.

It made Ardisia smile.

She liked people like that. People who burned and people who steadied. They reminded her of her own mismatched magic – the kind that needed both storm and stillness to make anything last.

When they stepped into the tent, it was the same as she remembered them: Sapphyre, alert and already calculating; Rilian, soft-stepping but eyes sharp with interest. She waited, knowing exactly what would catch them first.

And of course, it did.

Their gazes fell on the chair, pulsing quietly in the center of the room like something dreaming with its eyes open.

Sapphyre stepped closer.

"What is it?" she asked.

Ardisia folded her hands behind her back, pleased.

"That's what Rubi and I have been working on," she said lightly. "A conduit. A throne, technically—but not just for sitting…"

Rilian tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "It's enchanted."

"Very," Ardisia said. "I put the spells in. That's what I do. My magic holds enchantments in objects—keeps them warm, keeps them true. Rubi... she's the fire. The force behind it. Her magic doesn't like to stay still. It's too big. Too volatile. And it doesn't mix well with the magic of Narnia, all her magics go slightly awry without immense focus."

She approached the chair and ran a hand over the armrest, her fingertips glowing faintly as they made contact.

"This is supposed to help with that. Contain it. Expand it. Channel it outward in more controlled ways."

Rilian took a slow step around the chair, examining the carvings. "You're building a focus."

"Yes," Ardisia said, smiling wider. "When Rubi sits in it, she won't just cast spells – she'll become the spell. The chair makes her magic something bigger. Something shared."

Sapphyre's eyes sharpened. "Shared with who?"

Ardisia only tilted her head and gave a small, secret smile. "That depends who's brave enough to sit in it next."

And for just a second, the chair pulsed – faint and warm, like a heartbeat beneath the surface.

The Far West. The Witch-City.

Sapphyre.

It didn't speak – not with words – but the chair exhaled magic like breath, like pressure behind her eyes, like a thought that wasn't hers brushing too close to the edges of her own. And yet… it wasn't threatening. Not exactly.

Just... persistent.

It reminded her of the Heart.

Her arms remained folded, but her feet betrayed her – carrying her one step closer, and then another.

The silver laced through the carved wood shimmered like moonlight caught in a tide, fluid and fixed at once.

Rilian said something low to Ardisia, but Sapphyre didn't hear it.

She reached out – slowly – and rested her fingers on the arm of the chair.

Warm.

Too warm.

It felt like being held by something vast and gentle and impossible to fight.

Before she could stop herself—

She sat.

The world stilled.

For a moment, she felt nothing at all. Not even her heartbeat. Just silence.

Then—

The magic was everywhere.

It pressed against her thoughts, seeking entry. Her mind recoiled instinctively, walls rising fast – trained reflexes, honed defence, the mental discipline of someone who had been hunted before.

No.

She pushed back.

And the chair… smiled.

It didn't break her walls. It melted through them.

It seeped past her defences like mist through cloth, slow and quiet and inescapable. Not cruel – but relentless. Curious. Ancient. It was looking. Not for secrets, but for shape. For who she was beneath all the armour.

And it saw her.

The jagged edges she kept hidden. The griefs that never healed right. The shame she never named. The memory of kisses in the dark and promises she didn't dare keep.

When she gasped, it wasn't from pain.

It was from being seen.

She shoved herself upright, breaking contact, stumbling back from the throne like it had burned her.

It hadn't.

Her hands trembled.

Rilian moved to steady her, but she waved him off, jaw tight, eyes burning.

Ardisia didn't approach. She only tilted her head, watching with that same quiet, impossible calm.

"I told you," she said gently. "It likes you. Maybe you're blessed."

Sapphyre didn't answer.

She couldn't.

The chair had left her open.

And for the first time in a very long time—

Sapphyre felt vulnerable.

Rilian's eyes lingered on the chair – appraising, curious, a little too intrigued. But Rilian wasn't like her.

He wasn't wound tight, always ready for the world to break. He wasn't afraid of being vulnerable. It was one of the things she both admired and feared in him.

"I don't think it's a good idea," she said, her voice low, tight with the remnants of her own unease.

Rilian flashed her that easy smile of his. "Don't worry," he said with a chuckle. "I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks."

Before she could stop him, he stepped forward, settling into the chair with a grace that seemed to fit him, as if it had always been meant for him.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Sapphyre exhaled a shaky breath. Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe the chair really wasn't… that dangerous.

Then—

It was as though the chair reached into him.

He stiffened for a moment, not from pain, but from surprise. A small, almost imperceptible flinch. Sapphyre could see the moment his eyes shifted, widening ever so slightly. The magic hadn't taken root yet. It was only circling.

But she knew better.

"Rilian…" she started, a warning already crawling up her throat, but he didn't hear her. His eyes were distant now—his fingers flexing, his gaze drifting like he was seeing something that wasn't there.

"Rilian—"

He was already leaning forward, his hands gripping the armrests. His brow furrowed as if trying to grasp a fleeting dream, a memory that was just out of reach. But there was something else, too – something in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

It wasn't the easy-going smile now.

His face was clouded with confusion, with recognition. The kind of recognition that came after being forced to remember something buried too deeply.

He was slipping.

And for a moment, it felt like the chair wasn't just pulling his memories back – it was pulling him under.

"Rilian!" she barked, striding forward and placing a hand on his shoulder.

He didn't flinch. Didn't even acknowledge her at first. His gaze seemed faraway – as if he were lost in a place only he could see.

And then—

He blinked, rapidly, as if coming back to himself. His lips parted, breath catching, and his eyes focused again.

"What…?" he said, his voice rough. "What happened? I… I felt something. Something—" He shook his head, looking at her, the confusion clearing slowly, but it didn't fully go away.

Sapphyre wanted to say something – demand an explanation, yell at him for being reckless – but the look on his face held her back.

"I—" He stood suddenly, too quickly, and almost stumbled. "I remembered something. But it's gone. Like a dream. Just… pieces."

Sapphyre's throat tightened. "Rilian," she whispered. "Get away from it."

But he didn't hear her.

His attention was still on the chair.

And then, with a deep, almost imperceptible sigh, he turned toward her. "I'm fine," he said, his voice thick but steady again. "It was just… memories, I guess. It's nothing."

Underland. The Dark City.

Emerylda.

Sapphyre's banner did not fly atop the Dark Castle.

The great hall of Underland, carved from dark stone, shimmered with the faint glow of phosphorescent gems embedded in the walls. Torches hissed with silver flame; casting flickering shadows that danced across the pillars shaped like weeping figures.

But it was the absence that screamed.

The banner of her sister – Atlantean blue, embroidered with outstretched wings – no longer hung beside the throne. Only her own remained, silver and emerald thread rippling in the subterranean draft.

She did not sit. Her voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

"Where is Sapphyre?"

Her sister's second-in-command, stepped forward from where he stood at the base of the dais. His armour caught the firelight, dull with soot and dust. "My queen. She has been gone for days now."

"Days?" Emerylda's voice was silk over steel. She descended the steps with measured grace, each footfall echoing like a tolling bell. "My sister does not vanish into the shadows without my word. Where is she?"