Atlantis. The Heartland.
2792.
End of the Reign of Emperor Beril and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
The realm was tearing itself apart.
The Lords and their warriors had sworn fealty to the Emperor and Empress, desperate to hold onto their land, their jewels, their gold. The Knights and the commonfolk stood with Emerylda and Sapphyre, fighting not just for a new reign, but for a future beyond the greed of old men.
But this was not how it was meant to be.
Brother against brother. Countryman against countryman. The streets, once bustling with trade and laughter, were now slick with blood, lined with the broken bodies of those who had once shared meals and dreams.
The Lords called the Challenge outdated; a relic unfit to decide the fate of Atlantis. But Sapphyre saw the truth in their desperate clinging to power – they feared what her sister would take from them.
Their land.
Their wealth.
Their rule.
And then, the Emperor and Empress fell.
It should have meant an end.
Instead, it was only the beginning.
Sapphyre had not seen it happen, but the news spread like wildfire, carried on the breath of the dying. The great marble pillars of the palace had crumbled beneath the siege, and in their collapse, Emperor Beril and Empress Opallyne had been crushed beneath the weight of their own empire.
They had died together, hands still clasped as they had tried to flee their attackers. But their crowns and rings had been stolen before the dust had even settled.
The city wept crimson.
The battle did not stop.
And in the chaos, Diamande stepped forward, seizing what remained of their shattered rule.
The Lords gathered behind him like carrion birds, their fine robes smeared with dust, their once-jewelled hands stained red. They had not fought. They had not bled. They had only waited – waited for the dust to settle, for the old rule to crumble, for the pieces to be laid at their feet. And now, they circled him, their whispers slithering through the smoke-choked air.
Sapphyre watched from the walls, her heart a drumbeat of fury against her ribs.
It was not what she had wanted.
She had fought for their people, for the ones who had been crushed beneath the weight of the Lords' greed. For the starving children in the alleyways, for the labourers breaking their backs for coin that would never be enough. She had wanted to break the chains that bound them.
Not forge new ones from their bones.
The streets were red.
Their city, once the most glorious in the world, was drowning in its own lifeblood. The River of Jewels ran dark with silt and ash, its once-pristine waters tainted by the bodies that had fallen into its depths. The market district was still burning, flames licking hungrily at the remnants of homes and stalls.
They had fought for freedom. For change. But all they had given Atlantis was war.
Sapphyre clenched her fists so tightly her nails bit into her palms, her magic thrumming at the edges of her skin. She had never known anger like this, a fury so deep it threatened to swallow her whole.
Diamande had not fought for the people. He had fought for power. And now he stood, unscathed, untouched by the ruin they had wrought, daring to claim what was left.
He had always watched her and Emerylda with that unreadable, almost-opal gaze, but now there was something else in his eyes. A challenge. A promise. A warning.
The storm was not over.
And so it was that Emerylda and Diamande came to stand face to face upon the banks of the River of Jewels, their armies at their backs, the fate of Atlantis hanging between them like a blade poised to fall.
Sapphyre stood at her sister's side, her breath coming fast, her vision sharp with rage.
She had thought the worst had come and gone.
But the war was only just beginning.
And still the Heart of Atlantis shone.
…
The Far West.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Emerylda.
The trail was faint – like moonlight on black water – but Emerylda could still feel it. Threads of her sister's magic lingered in the air, subtle and half-buried, but unmistakable to her senses.
Sapphyre's essence always carried a curious blend of heat and restraint. Fire banked beneath control. And now it laced the wind like a whisper begging to be followed.
Emerylda pressed her hand to the darkened soil, eyes closing as she reached for the threads again.
There.
Still warm.
Still calling.
She mounted her steed, a snow-white charger with glinting eyes, and urged it forward, galloping westward across lands no map dared mark. The air grew colder, stranger. The sky took on a sickly cast, as if bruised by magic long left to rot.
She passed through ravines carved by ancient hands, across plains where even birds dared not fly. Time slowed, twisted.
She did not fear the dead.
She feared only failure.
At last, the land opened up before her, and her breath caught – not in awe, but fury.
The tent city sprawled across the valley like a wound in the earth. Colourful, shifting canvas domes rose like ghostly mushrooms in a field of ruin. Firelight flickered between them, casting long shadows that danced and vanished. Sorcery wove through the air like smoke, thick and cold and humming with ancient power.
Her jaw clenched.
Witches.
She dismounted and strode forward alone. Let them try to stop her. Let them try to lie.
Magic coiled around her ankles as she passed the outer boundary, testing her, tasting her. But it recoiled with a hiss, unwilling to touch her flame.
She walked deeper into the maze of tents, eyes sharp, senses flared open.
And there – near the heart of the encampment – she felt it.
Her sister.
They had taken Sapphyre there.
And she had not gone quietly.
Her sister's magic was lashing out against something.
Emerylda stood in the center of the camp, arms spread, head tilted slightly as she let her own magic unfold, slow and deliberate like a knife unsheathed.
The witches began to emerge from the tents, sharp-eyed and silent.
"Where is she?" Emerylda said, voice cold as the frost she once used to command.
No one answered.
The sky darkened.
Her fingers began to glow.
A sudden shift in the air. A pull so sharp it made Emerylda still mid-step.
She turned.
There – at the center of the encampment – a structure unlike the others. And in its center, beneath a canopy of woven bone and silver thread, stood a single object.
A chair.
Tall-backed. Elegantly cruel. Carved from a single branch of moon-silver wood, veined with twisting lines that pulsed faintly with enchantment. It shimmered faintly with sorcery so ancient and so layered it seemed to breathe. The arms were inlaid with symbols even Emerylda could not decipher.
And in it sat her sister.
Sapphyre.
Bound by cords of woven shadow and starlight, her head slumped forward, her hair falling like flame across her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, lips parted slightly, as if murmuring to something only she could hear.
Emerylda's magic snapped in her chest like a blade unsheathed.
"No," she breathed, crossing the threshold with fury trembling in her limbs.
The witches who dared to block her path turned to stone before they could scream.
Lightning crackled along her fingertips as she stepped into the stone circle. The air shimmered and warped, resisting her. She pressed forward through it – through the layered illusions and silence spells – and dropped to her knees before the Silver Chair.
"Sapphyre," she whispered.
Her sister stirred faintly, lids fluttering, but her gaze was unfocused. Rilian knelt by her, holding her hand and murmuring over and over, as if he were trying to tether her to the world.
Rage, molten and righteous, erupted through Emerylda.
The witches would burn.
But first—
She touched Sapphyre's cheek, let a spark of her own magic seep through skin and bone.
"I've found you," she whispered. "And the Heart help anyone who thought they could take you from me."
Behind her, the wind began to howl.
The tent city would not stand.
Her hand still rested on Sapphyre's cheek when it happened.
A surge.
Not a flicker, not a pulse – an eruption.
Magic unlike anything Emerylda had ever felt tore through her bones like wildfire, dragged from the deepest reaches of her soul and pulled upward, outward, through her fingertips and into the air around them. The Silver Chair shimmered violently, runes glowing brighter, and the space itself warped in waves of blinding light.
It wasn't just the chair that held her sister – it was feeding her. Amplifying her. And it had begun feeding Emerylda too.
The ancient wood groaned beneath her palm, as if aware of her power and afraid of it.
Her breath hitched.
She had never felt so strong. Not since Atlantis. Not since the waters had risen to drown their enemies in the final days of their world.
Fire leapt from her shoulders, feathered wings of emerald flame sparking to life. The ground beneath her cracked, vines of molten light searing through stone. The very sky above the tent city twisted, clouds boiling into unnatural swirls, lit from within by silver and green.
Witches began to scream.
They staggered back from their tents, from the ruins, from the blazing sun that Emerylda had become.
"Do you feel that?" she hissed through her teeth, her voice not her own, layered with power and wrath and a terrible stillness beneath. "That is mine. That is me."
The Silver Chair amplified it again, and this time, the power surged so high the world turned silent.
No birds. No wind. No breath.
And then—release.
A ring of destruction exploded outward from where she knelt, magic tearing through the encampment like a hurricane of light and heat and sound. Tents were ripped apart, witches flung screaming into the air or incinerated where they stood. Stone shattered. Earth heaved. The city ruins trembled as if caught in the grip of a god.
And Emerylda stood, deep jade eyes burning, flames licking her gown, her hair a wild crown of fire and fury.
She had become the storm.
Was this how Sapphyre's magic felt?
And through the smoke and ruin, she whispered, "You should not have taken her from me."
The Silver Chair pulsed softly beneath her hand. Willing. Wanting.
Amplifying.
And Emerylda smiled.
It was time they remembered what fear was.
