Atlantis. The Heartland.

2792.

216th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.

Sapphyre.

Her father's Champion's breath was short, coming in strangled gasps.

He wielded his great-sword just as well as he played the lute, just as well as he wielded barbs and jokes when they had journeyed together.

The ground was splattered with blood, hastily cleaned of the prisoners remains; the metallic scent lingering in the air. But the citizens of the Heartland had gotten far greater spectacle than what they had even anticipated upon waking that morn.

A Challenge.

Steel clashed against steel, ringing through the amphitheatre where she had first proven her worth as a Knight of Atlantis, a Knight of the Heart. Sweat glistened upon Sapphyre's brow as she parried another powerful blow from her opponent. The towering man pressed the advantage, the sword whistling through the air. And Sapphyre danced backwards, light upon her feet, her own blade a blur as she deflecting blow after punishing blow.

Her arms ached, but she gritted her teeth and held her ground. She could not lose.

She would not.

She lunged forward, her sword seeking the gap in his armour where arm met chest – but he twisted away at her last moment, her sword glancing across his arm. Their blades locked at the hilt, their faces mere inches apart.

"Yield," he snarled.

She could not.

Sapphyre exhaled softly, meeting his violet gaze with a strange calm. "Never."

He had been there. Every time. Standing beside her as coins were torn from the hands of the starving. Watching, unflinching, as they passed judgment in the emperor's name – judge, juror, executioner.

She could not afford to lose.

How did they not see what she saw so clearly?

With a sudden burst of strength, she shoved him back, breaking their deadlock. Her opponent stumbled, momentarily off-balance. Seizing the advantage, Sapphyre spun low, her blade singing through the air. The knight roared in pain as her sword sliced across the back of his knee, finding the weak point in his armour.

He dropped to one knee, his own blade wavering. But even wounded, he was far from defeated. As Sapphyre moved in for the finishing blow, he lashed out with surprising speed. The flat of his blade caught her in the ribs, knocking the wind from her lungs.

Gasping, Sapphyre staggered back.

Her vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges.

She could hear the jeers and shouts of the bloodthirsty crowd surrounding them. Her opponent was rising to his feet, favouring his wounded leg but still dangerous. Sapphyre knew she had to end it quickly before her advantage slipped away.

She feinted left, then darted right as the man's great-sword cleaved the air where she had been standing. In one fluid motion, she pivoted and thrust her sword forward. The slender blade found its mark, sliding between the plates of his armour and sinking deep into his side.

The man's eyes widened in shock. His great-sword clattered to the ground as he clutched at the wound. Sapphyre withdrew her blade, slick with crimson.

For a moment, the courtyard was silent save for the ragged breathing of the two combatants.

Then the man toppled backwards, hitting the cobblestones with a resounding crash. A deafening roar erupted from the crowd as Sapphyre stood victorious, levelling her blade at his throat.

The whispers rippled through the spectators, a tide of reverence and awe. The same whispers that had followed her since birth. Since the moment she had called to her the Heart of Atlantis.

Sapphyre exhaled, slow and measured, as she watched the blood drip from the base of his throat. A single crimson bead welled before it trailed down the blade's edge.

Her eyes flicked to his – violet, dark with pain and something else.

Resignation.

Defeat.

His pulse thundered at his throat, each beat betraying the effort it took to remain still, to keep from gasping in air like a drowning man. Sweat gathered at his brow, trickling down his temple.

And then, wordlessly, he reached up and unclasped his Atlantean-blue cloak. The rich fabric slipped from his shoulders, catching the light for the briefest of moments before it fell into the dust. A final surrender.

She had won.

The weight of it settled over her, heavy and irrevocable. She had proven herself. She had seized her place with her own two hands. And yet—

A hand touched her shoulder.

"Sapphyre, it is done."

Emerylda's voice was warm, edged with quiet pride.

Sapphyre did not move, her heart still pounding in the aftermath of battle. The thrill of victory still hummed through her veins, but beneath it, something else lingered. Something sharp and uncertain.

Emerylda stepped beside her, her smile resplendent as she turned to the roaring crowd, lifting a hand in acknowledgment. The people cheered louder, their voices a rising tide, a chorus of devotion.

But Sapphyre barely heard them.

"Sisters, stop this."

Diamande strode toward them, his expression thunderous, his voice sharp as a blade. "That is enough."

Emerylda barely spared him a glance. "Sapphyre won, Diamande. Stand down," she hissed, her emerald eyes gleaming with triumph.

But Diamande did not stand down.

"Knights, arrest them," he snapped, his almost-opal, almost-silver eyes flashing. His scars twisted with the motion of his scowl, but it was not fury that burned behind his gaze. It was something colder. Bitter.

And yet—

The Knights did not move.

No swords were drawn. No shackles clinked.

The silence stretched, thick as storm clouds.

Then, from the stands, the first voice rose. A defiant cry, a spark in the dry kindling of the amphitheatre. And then another. And another.

The crowd roared, a tidal wave of disapproval, of defiance, of something that even Diamande, with all his orders and authority, could not command.

For Sapphyre had won.

The Challenge had been successful.

The thousands watching were calling for Emerylda's crowning. Their voices merged into a deafening chorus, a tide of demand and expectation that could not be ignored.

But then—

A flicker of movement caught Sapphyre's eye. Bright colours shifting against the stone. Instinct honed by years of caution made her turn, though she was not surprised by what she saw.

Her parents.

The Emperor and Empress, their secret guard flanking them, slipping away from the raised dais like shadows retreating from the dawn. Not even a glance toward their daughters. Not even a moment's hesitation as they abandoned the scene.

Cowards.

A snarl curled her lips, rage burning through her like wildfire.

She didn't think – she simply acted.

Her sword left her hand in a blur of silver, propelled by fury, by magic, by the storm thundering inside her. It struck the wall before her father's face, embedding itself near-hilt deep into the stone with a resounding crack.

And only then did the Emperor – Sun of the Sapphire Seas, Great Lord of the Heart – finally look at her.

Even from across the vast amphitheatre, she met his emerald gaze. Cold. Measuring.

She did not doubt he could read her expression well. That he saw the anger blazing in her eyes. The betrayal carved into every sharp edge of her face.

But still – he said nothing.

Without a word, he simply took his wife's hand and followed the guard, disappearing into the shadows.

And her display had drawn the attention of the already raging crowd.

"Look what you've done," Diamande raged, and Sapphyre felt the shift in the air as his magic fluctuated with his anger. "You are no empress, Emerylda."

"No," Sapphyre regarded him coolly. "You did this. You and them, with your complacency." Then she straightened her Atlantean-blue cloak, meeting Emerylda's gaze for a scant moment. "Knights to me!"

And they snapped to attention at her words. Honouring their rightful Empress's Champion.

The new Knight Commander.

The Far West. The Witch-City.

2352.

49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Sapphyre.

The morning crept in slowly, filtered through the pale canvas of the tent in shades of silver and amber. Light gathered in soft pools across the furs, gilding the curve of Rilian's bare shoulder, the quiet rise and fall of his chest.

Sapphyre lay beside him, turned on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting near – but not quite touching – his.

Her heart ached.

He was asleep still. The kind of deep, dreamless sleep that only came after long battles and longer nights. His dark lashes lay soft against his cheeks, his brow smooth for once, free of its usual tension.

She studied him like one might a fragile thing, like the morning might break him.

Last night had changed something between them. The space between them had ceased to exist. His kisses still lingered on her lips, in the hollow of her throat, the ghost of his touch still traced her skin. He had held her like she was precious.

Like she was his.

And for a few brief hours, she had let herself forget who she was.

But morning always came.

With its clarity.

Its quiet judgment.

Her gaze drifted to the opening of the tent, where sunlight danced against the flap, and the breeze teased at the edges of their warmth. She imagined what it would be like to stay there forever. In that moment.

In that silence.

And then the truth pressed in, cruel and cold.

She wanted to tell him everything.

The whole wretched truth of who she was. What she had done. What she had taken from him. The strings that had bound her long before he ever touched her hand or her heart.

She wanted to say his name and whisper everything between kisses, let the truth pour out and cleanse her of it.

But she didn't.

Because she knew what would follow.

His eyes – those burning, indigo eyes – would go cold. Not with betrayal. Not with anger.

With hatred.

And she could not bear to see that. Not from him.

So instead, she lay in silence, watching the light gather across his skin, memorizing him. Committing the shape of his sleeping form to memory, in case this was the last time he looked at her like she was something whole.

She didn't move when he stirred beside her, his hand shifting just enough to brush hers. Even asleep, he reached for her.

And that broke something in her.

Her lips parted, words rising to her throat—

Rilian…

But all that came out was a breath.

She closed her eyes, turning her face into the pillow, and let the morning pass over her like a tide.

Cair Paravel.

Diamande.

The wind carried the scent of salt and pine as Diamande approached the castle.

Cair Paravel rose before him, bathed in the silver glow of the moon, its white stone walls gleaming like a beacon against the dark sea beyond.

He could not go to the knights.

Too many of them had been inside the Den. Too many had paid for particular interests, night after night. If he approached the wrong one, if he so much as hinted at what he intended to do, the entire operation could crumble before he even had a chance to strike.

No – he needed someone with influence.

Someone who could move within the court without drawing attention. Someone with the power to act, but not the corruption that tainted so many within the ranks of the nobility.

He needed Drinian.

The Lord Advisor was not a man easily swayed. He was known for his sharp mind, his unwavering loyalty to the crown.

If there was anyone who would listen, who would believe him—it was Drinian.

The guards at the entrance stood firm, spears crossed in a silent but clear refusal.

No one walked into Cair Paravel unannounced.

Diamande expected as much. The guards were well-trained, unwavering in their duty. If he had arrived wearing the colours of a noble house or with a formal summons, they might have granted him passage. But as he was – cloaked in night, his expression hard, his purpose unknown – they would turn him away.

He did not have time to linger.

With the barest flick of his fingers, he let his magic unfurl, subtle and insidious, whispering along the edges of their minds. Not enough to control them, not enough to force their hand – that would be reckless. But just a nudge. A quiet suggestion. A rearranging of priorities.

Not an enchantment, but a whisper that eased through the barriers around their minds.

The hesitation in their eyes flickered.

Their grips on their spears loosened.

"…State your business," one of them murmured, his voice slower, as if pulling the words through thick fog.

"I need to see Lord Drinian," Diamande said, his voice a low command. "Now."

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, the first guard nodded to his companion.

"Take him in."

The second guard hesitated, then turned sharply on his heel, motioning for Diamande to follow.

He stepped through the grand entrance, the warmth of the castle wrapping around him as the heavy doors shut behind him.

The halls of Cair Paravel stretched before him, bathed in flickering candlelight.

They wound through corridors, past the empty throne room, past tapestries woven with the stories of kings and queens long gone. Finally, they stopped before a heavy oak door, the symbol of the crown carved deep into the wood.

The guard knocked once, then stepped aside.

A voice called from within.

"Enter."

The guard pushed the door open, and Diamande stepped inside.

Lord Drinian stood by the hearth, his sharp, weathered features cast in firelight, his keen eyes settling on Diamande with quiet calculation.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Diamande spoke, his voice level. "There is something rotten in the Cair, and I need your help in bringing it down."