Atlantis. The Heartland.
2792.
216th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
Excitement was on the wind, the very air heady with it as the first 'warrior' fell, blood splattering upon the hard-packed dirt of the arena – bright as any ruby and just as precious. The crowd roared with approval, gold and silver passing from hand to hand as wagers were made upon the lives of those who fought with weapon and limb.
The sky was stunning above the amphitheatre, streaked with silver clouds, the Heart shining brightly from the tower, a second sun in the sky as if to mirror the two moons.
And Sapphyre sat stiffly with her family upon the dais that overlooked it all; the royal family a spectacle just as much as the fighting below. Dripping with jewels and gold and silk, her parents' headdresses gleamed in the sunlight, their goblets no less golden than the headdresses for the mediocrity of their purpose – they gleamed in the hands of the many-ringed rulers, each ring shining with a different coloured jewel.
Her mother watched with lazy interest, idly turning a ring upon her finger, while her father's lips twisted into a faint smirk as a particularly brutal strike sent another combatant to the ground, his blood staining the dirt black in the sun's glare.
Sapphyre's own goblet sat untouched in her lap, her fingers curled around the stem like a vice. She had been raised in blood and spectacle, schooled in the knowledge that power was measured in strength and ruthlessness. But there was something in the air, something different. The energy of the crowd felt fevered, hungry – more than mere entertainment, more than sport. It was something deeper, something primal.
She could not look at the brutal bloodbath in the arena.
A spectacle to honour their first Emperor – the great Apollyon, the Uniter, the first Sun of Atlantis. The bloodbath was nothing but entertainment, a precursor to the tournament of lords and knights. A fight to the death for the prisoners who wished to fight for their freedom—nothing but a sport to put a fire in the blood of the spectators who cheered and whooped for their favourites.
Her gaze flickered to her sister beside her, Emerylda watching with a carefully controlled expression. There was always calculation in her eyes, a weighing of moments and consequences. Sapphyre had seen the way she had leaned forward just slightly at the first kill, the barest ghost of satisfaction in the set of her mouth.
The herald was speaking, talking to the masses, but Sapphyre did not hear.
Sapphyre swallowed, shifting her gaze back to the arena just as the next match was called. A new fighter stepped into the pit, tall and lean, their face obscured by the glint of a bronze helm.
The crowd screamed for blood, but Sapphyre only gripped her goblet tighter, the air around her feeling suddenly too thick, too close.
A splatter of red sauce had flung onto the petals of the white roses that decorated the table. One of the lords was apologising profusely, the jewels on his fingers catching the sunlight as he waved his hands around like some street harlot trying to gain attention.
So many words that just meant nothing.
A petal fell.
She could not look upon the festivities without seeing the blood that had paid for that gold, for those jewels.
She'd had enough.
Her rage simmered, a slow burn beneath her ribs. She forced herself still, biting back the impulse to shatter her goblet against the table. Her parents sat on their thrones of gilded gold, in opulent gowns of silks and jewels, their crowns reaching towards the sky.
"All praise Our Great Lord Beril, Emperor of Atlantis, Sun of the Sapphire Seas and Great Lord of the Heart," the herald was speaking again. A formality, welcoming the Emperor. "We humbly ask if any do challenge his rule, upon this glorious day, blessed by the Heart."
An honorary tradition, as the First Emperor had begun every feast thusly. It was how he had won over the cities, how he had united Atlantis under the Heart.
Sapphyre's nails pressed into her palm as silence stretched over the arena
"I challenge the rule of Emperor Beril."
Emerylda stood, ethereal and serene in her gown the colour of forest leaves, and the calm serenity in her face stilled Sapphyre's thundering heart. At her words, the amphitheatre fell silent.
Nothing was heard save for the clashing of weapons and the dying screams of those below.
Emperor Beril chuckled, not even lowering the ruby-studded goblet as he took another draft of the wine. "Sit down, daughter, it is no time for jest."
He shared a smile with his wife, their mother, as if they were bonding over a misbehaving child.
Sapphyre's fists clenched, her pulse hammering against her skin. Emerylda did not heed his words. Instead, she turned to the crowd, arms akimbo, her voice ringing clear and commanding.
"Who will fight for me? Who will stand as my Champion?"
Silence.
Thousands upon thousands of eyes fixated upon the royal family, raised on their pretty little dais. A spectacle. A moment stretched taut as a drawn bowstring.
"Emerylda. Sit. Down."
Their father had lowered his goblet, his green eyes boring into Emerylda's own. The smirk was gone, replaced by something darker, something dangerous.
The crowd murmured, rippling like a restless tide. Some faces looked away, unwilling to be caught in the gaze of their Emperor. Others – others leaned forward, a different kind of hunger flickering in their expressions.
Sapphyre felt it, too. The shift. The moment between order and chaos, where fate could turn on the sharpest of blades.
And then Sapphyre stood, her arm across her chest, her back rod-straight.
But it was not to the emperor she saluted.
"I will fight for you."
And Sapphyre's eyes did not leave her father's as he realised then in that moment, that it was no jest.
…
City Ruinous.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Emerylda.
The wind howled through the broken ribs of the old city like a dirge.
Emerylda stood still, her cloak snapping behind her as she surveyed the jagged skyline of the City Ruinous – what little remained of the ancient stronghold of the giants. Towering stone bones jutted from the ground like the carcass of some forgotten god, their edges softened by moss and centuries. This place reeked of abandonment... and ambush.
She barely moved as Sir Petra dismounted beside her, the frost of travel clinging to her pauldrons. One of Sapphyre's most loyal knights – young, silent, and sharp-eyed.
"She came this way," Petra said, scanning the perimeter. "I found the trail. It ends here."
Emerylda didn't speak. She already saw it – half-buried under loose gravel and dust, at the edge of a collapsed wall.
Sapphyre's cloak.
The deep blue cloth was torn, one clasp missing. Emerylda bent and lifted it with careful fingers, brushing the dirt away. The fabric was still warm with magic – Sapphyre's distinct magic – but laced with something else. Fainter. Foreign. A magic she didn't recognize.
Petra waited, tense, as if unsure whether to speak.
Emerylda rose slowly, her gloved hand curling around the cloak like a snare.
"She didn't leave this behind by accident," she said at last
"You think she was—?"
"She was taken," Emerylda cut in. Her eyes narrowed.
Petra's mouth tightened. "And Rilian?"
"There is no sign of his body," Emerylda replied coolly. "Which means either he was taken with her—or he's dead."
The wind hissed between the stones again.
"We track them," Emerylda ordered, turning sharply. "Quietly. I want no word of this reaching Underland until I say so."
"And if we find them?"
Emerylda's gaze was sharp as a blade. "Then I remind the world why the daughters of Atlantis are to be feared."
She turned away from the ruins, the cloak still clenched in her hand, her pace brisk, decisive.
The giants' city had failed to bury its secrets.
And Emerylda would dig them out – one bloodstained stone at a time.
…
The Far West. The Witch-City.
Sapphyre.
The firelight flickered in waves of gold and crimson across the ruined walls of the Witch-City, casting strange shadows that danced like spirits on the broken stone. Music rose from a cluster of witches gathered near the largest fire, their instruments rough and ancient – bone flutes and skin-drums that throbbed like the pulse of something long buried.
Sapphyre lingered at the edge of it all, arms crossed loosely, her gaze flicking between the revellers and the stars barely visible above the tattered canopy of clouds. She hadn't asked for a celebration. None of them had.
And yet here it was, conjured out of thin air by Ardisia's silver-tongued persuasion and Rilian's quietly commanding presence.
She felt his eyes on her before she saw him approach.
When she turned, he was already holding his hand out to her.
He looked impossibly handsome in the firelight – his bruises faded, his dark hair curling at the collar of his shirt, his gaze unwavering and soft.
The flames flickered behind him, casting his features in a shifting play of warmth and dark. He wore no jewels, no sigils, no pretence – just a shirt left open at the throat and a quiet look in his eyes that cut through the noise and smoke and found her, only her.
"For you," he said simply.
Sapphyre blinked. "What?"
"This." He nodded toward the fire, the dancers, the laughter. "All of it. I did it for you."
Her heart caught in her throat.
He had remembered her words from what felt like an age ago.
That she wanted to dance again.
"I want to see you happy," he added, the corner of his mouth tilting just slightly.
A beat passed.
Then she took his hand.
His fingers closed around hers with surprising gentleness, and he drew her into the circle of warmth and movement. The dance wasn't formal – more a spinning, winding rhythm that shifted with the mood of the players – but Rilian moved as though the music lived in his bones.
He didn't look away from her, not once.
He pulled her into the glow, into the pulse of drumbeats that echoed with the rhythm of her heart. The others stepped aside, sensing perhaps that this dance was not one for them.
He moved with ease, with confidence. His hands found her waist, and her body responded before her mind could catch up. His palm rested at the small of her back, warm, grounding. The way he looked at her – it was as if he saw her not as she was, but as she could be. What she could have been.
Untethered. Unburdened.
"You're always in control," he whispered near her ear, his breath sending shivers across her neck. "Even when it's tearing you apart."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her hands had found his shoulders, steadying herself. Or maybe clinging.
"You don't have to hold the world up tonight."
He spun her, catching her again, closer. The heat between them surged. The scent of smoke, salt, and him filled her senses. Her body betrayed her. Leaning in. Breathing him in. Matching his every step.
And yet, inside, she warred with herself.
She had duties. Secrets. Lies she had told to protect him – lies that hung between them like invisible chains.
"I want this," he said lowly, his forehead pressed to hers now. "Not just tonight. Not just the dance."
"Rilian…"
His fingers slipped up, cradling her jaw. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. "Tell me you don't feel it."
She couldn't.
His lips were on hers before she could speak – soft at first, reverent. Then deeper, hungrier. She felt the fire crackling through her blood, her heart pounding against his. Her hands fisted in his shirt as he pulled her against him, as if he could erase the distance that had never been physical.
He kissed like a man starved of something he'd only just learned he needed.
When they broke apart, breathless, he didn't let her go.
"I see you, Sapphyre," he said hoarsely. "Even when you hide."
Her heart thundered. Her lips still tingled. She wanted to lose herself in him, to forget the thrones and politics and the blood. So much blood.
Her hands slid up his chest, gripping the loose collar of his tunic, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush. She didn't care that people were watching. She didn't care what it meant.
All she knew was that when he kissed her, the cold echo of the Silver Chair faded into silence.
She was warm. She was wanted. She was not alone.
They parted only when breath demanded it, their foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air, the same heat.
"I am simply Rilian," he said, voice rough. "And you are simply Sapphyre. There is nothing else."
It would have been so easy—so very easy—to say yes, to fall into him, to surrender.
But as his fingers trailed along her jaw, and his breath warmed the hollow of her throat, she stepped back.
"There are things I haven't told you," she said, voice barely audible.
"I don't care," he said.
And for one aching moment, she believed it.
But belief was not freedom. Not yet.
She stepped away from him, her lips still tingling, her heart in her throat.
And though he let her go, his gaze stayed with her—fierce, longing, unyielding.
And she knew: the Silver Chair had left a wound inside her, invisible and deep. It had left her vulnerable in ways she had not thought.
…
Cair Paravel.
Drinian.
The courtyard was filled with murmuring nobles and soldiers, all gathered for the trial.
He dismounted swiftly, barely pausing to throw his reins to a stable boy before striding into the grand hall. The air was thick with the scent of burning torches and the tension of an audience eager for blood.
At the centre of it all, bound in chains, was the accused.
The so-called witch.
Drinian nearly halted at the sight of her.
She was smaller than he expected, though that could have been the weight of suffering pressing upon her shoulders. Her copper hair was hacked unevenly, the short curls damp with sweat, clinging to her forehead. The tattered remnants of a once-fine cloak draped over her shoulders, but it did little to hide how thin she was, how the shadows beneath her eyes carved deep into her sharp features.
But her eyes—
Her eyes burned.
Like molten rubies set into her face, they gleamed with an unnatural fire, undimmed despite her exhaustion.
She did not cower before the court. She did not plead.
She stood, her wrists shackled before her, her shoulders squared.
Drinian's gut twisted.
"Enough!" His voice rang across the courtyard.
The murmuring crowd stilled.
Sir Dustan, standing in his usual position of arrogance at the foot of the throne's dais, turned with an irritated sneer.
Drinian strode forward, sweeping his gaze across the gathered lords and warriors. "What is this?"
Dustan crossed his arms. "The trial of a dangerous witch, Advisor."
"And on whose authority is this trial being held?" Drinian demanded.
Dustan smirked. "The King is away, and so I act in his stead. As is my right as his Champion."
Drinian's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. Dustan had always been a brute, but this? This was madness.
It went against everything that Narnia stood for.
Narnia, land of wonder and wild magic, where the trees whispered secrets to the wind and the rivers sang as they ran to the sea. A kingdom where justice was not bent to the will of the strong, but tempered by wisdom, where mercy was not weakness, but the very breath of its nobility. It was a land where the humblest creature had a voice, where fauns danced beneath silver moons, and where the name of Aslan was not just a word, but a promise of truth, of right, of the deep magic that bound all things.
To see it sullied by fear and tyranny was an affront to all who called it home.
He turned to the woman before him.
"What is your name?" he asked, his voice steady.
She lifted her chin, those burning eyes locking onto his. "Rubi." Her voice was hoarse, likely from lack of water or screaming – though he suspected she would have done little of the latter.
"Rubi," he repeated, leveling a hard look at Dustan. "Tell me, what is her crime?"
Dustan rolled his eyes. "She came to Cair Paravel spouting nonsense about shapeshifting women and danger to the throne. We have no reason to trust her. She could be a spy, a traitor, or worse."
"And yet, we try her without the King's judgment?" Drinian's tone was like steel. "Is this how Narnia rules now?"
Dustan scoffed. "Are you so easily swayed by a pretty face, Captain?"
Drinian ignored him, looking back at Rubi. There was fire in her, that much was clear, but there was something else in her eyes – something deeper than rage.
Something close to desperation.
Drinian exhaled sharply, turning back to the gathered court. "This trial is over. She will be placed under my watch until the King returns."
Dustan stepped forward. "You cannot—"
"I can," Drinian cut in, stepping up until they were nearly nose to nose. "Unless you wish to challenge the King's authority?"
For a long, tense moment, Dustan held his ground. Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, he stepped back, lifting his hands in mock surrender.
Drinian turned to the guards. "Unchain her."
There was hesitation, but eventually, the iron cuffs clattered to the stone.
Rubi did not thank him.
She simply met his gaze, her crimson eyes unblinking, unreadable.
Drinian inclined his head. "Come."
And with that, he led her out of the courtyard, leaving behind the hushed murmurs of a court that had been robbed of its spectacle.
