Atlantis. The Heartland.
2792.
End of the Reign of Emperor Beril and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
The sky cracked with light.
Magic – wild, raw, furious – collided in a storm of destruction, illuminating the night like an unnatural dawn.
Sapphyre barely had time to move before the shockwave struck. She staggered back, her boots sliding on shattered stone, the force of Emerylda and Diamande's power colliding in the air above. The air hummed, thick with the scent of ozone and smoke, the very ground trembling beneath her.
Then – collapse.
A tower groaned, a great wound splitting down its marble spine before it crumbled into ruin. Screams rang out as men and women were crushed beneath the weight of it, their bodies swallowed by dust and debris.
Sapphyre's breath caught, her fury burning hot and sharp. This was not war. This was annihilation.
A cry rose above the chaos.
"For shield and stone!"
Her knights, their most loyal warriors, roared the words as they charged, their blades meeting the gleaming steel of the Lords' forces. They fought not for conquest, not for greed, but for the city they had sworn to protect. And they fell for it, one by one.
She saw them die.
Saw their blood splash across the cobblestones, heard their final gasps drowned in the deafening clash of steel. Men and women who had stood at her side, who had trained with her, bled with her.
Gone.
A cold, sharp pain lanced through her chest, unlike anything she had ever known. She had fought so hard, had believed so fiercely that this war was worth it. That it would bring freedom.
Watching her city crumble, watching her people fall – she felt the weight of it all pressing down on her, suffocating, crushing.
Magic tore through the battlefield again, an arc of emerald light meeting a blaze of silver fire. Emerylda and Diamande, locked in a battle of wills and wrath, blind to the destruction they were unleashing.
Another building collapsed, a wave of dust and rubble swallowing the streets.
Sapphyre clenched her fists, her magic rising in her veins, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
It had to end.
Her eyes turned to the Tower of the Heart.
…
Unknown.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Rilian.
The journey back to Underland was made in silence. They left shadow of the ruined city behind them, the witch-fires still smouldering in the distance like dying stars.
The landscape shifted as they rode – forests melting into rock, tunnels bleeding into great caverns lit by glowing fungus and the shimmer of hidden lakes. The horses' hooves made no sound on the soft earth, as if even the ground mourned what had happened.
Sapphyre rode in front of him, her body pressed to his chest. He could feel the slow, steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his own, could smell the char and salt of battle still clinging to her hair. She leaned into him without speaking, without acknowledging the closeness.
And yet her mind felt miles away.
Rilian's arms stayed around her, not as a prisoner's guard, but as a tether. A hope. A silent promise.
"I remember," he said at last, his voice low and rough, more breath than sound. "Who I am. What I am."
Sapphyre didn't speak. But he felt the tension in her shoulders, the shift in her breath.
"It started after the Chair," he continued. "It was like something inside me cracked open. I saw my mother's face. My father's voice. I saw the banners of Narnia, flying above Cair Paravel."
He let the words hang between them like smoke.
"I am Prince Rilian. Heir to the throne of Narnia."
Sapphyre didn't flinch. She only nodded, once.
"And you," he whispered, "you were the one who held me captive. But you were also the one who set me free."
Still, no reply. Only the sound of the horse's steady gait, echoing faintly in the cavern air.
He leaned closer, his mouth near her ear. "Why did you do it? Why did you give your magic to the Chair?"
This time she turned her face slightly, just enough for him to glimpse her profile.
"To protect them," she said at last. "To protect you."
Rilian closed his eyes, feeling the weight of everything unsaid press down between them.
He had seen her fire. He had seen her choose mercy, even when it nearly destroyed her. He had seen the pain behind her power.
And still, she stayed silent – wrapped in her own guilt, her own duty.
But he would not let her walk that road alone.
Not anymore.
They made camp in the shadow of the Western Woods. The air stank of ash and magic – old and bitter – and it clung to the skin like oil.
The Silver Chair had been secured.
Emerylda had taken it.
Rilian watched from the edge of the camp as it was carried into a hastily erected warded tent, by the ever-silent members of the queensguard who had followed her. Even without seeing it, he could feel it. A constant pulse in the air, like the breath of something vast and dangerous just below the surface. It whispered of temptation.
Of hunger. Of power.
And Emerylda… there was a gleam in her eyes. Not madness exactly, but something far colder. Purpose sharpened into something unrelenting. She stood tall beside the guarded tent, her long silhouette like a blade in the twilight.
She hadn't looked at her sister once since the flames had died.
Sapphyre sat by the fire, wrapped in a dark cloak, her skin pale against the flickering light. She said nothing, but her fingers worked in silence – polishing the leather of her bracers, adjusting the buckles of her armour, brushing soot and blood from her boots. Her hands were steady. But her eyes… her eyes had retreated somewhere Rilian couldn't follow.
He sat beside her, close enough that their knees touched. The heat of her body, so familiar now, was still there. But distant. Faint.
"Sapphyre," he said quietly.
She looked at him at last.
"I trust you," he said simply. "With my soul."
Her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but something heavier. A weight she carried in silence.
"I saw what it took from you," he continued. "What you gave it."
She glanced away.
"And I saw what it gave to her."
Sapphyre's mouth tightened. "She won't give it up. Not now."
"I know."
They sat in silence again. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the shadows, a horse snorted, restless.
"She thinks she can control it," Sapphyre whispered, her voice hollow. "That it will serve her. But it won't. It has a will of its own. Just like the Heart."
"And you?"
"I thought I could save them," she said. "The witches. I thought I could protect them by giving them a part of my power. But…"
Rilian reached out and took her hand in his.
She didn't pull away.
Their eyes met.
And the world, for a heartbeat, felt still.
But just beyond the firelight, in the shadowed tent where Emerylda sat in quiet vigil beside the throne of twisted silver, something stirred.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
…
Cair Paravel. The Den.
Diamande.
Diamande moved through the Den's back corridors with practiced ease, Rubi at his side like a shadow in velvet and steel. Her sharp eyes missed nothing. The heavy curtain ahead parted, and they stepped into the acquisition chamber.
There was a new girl.
He knew it before he even saw her – there was always a certain… energy when fresh prey was dragged in. Tension. Triumph. The guards smirked and muttered among themselves as they hauled the girl forward in chains.
She was young, maybe seven and ten, perhaps older – it was hard to tell beneath the blood and dirt smeared across her face. Her clothes had been torn in the struggle, and her eyes were fierce and gleaming with rage. They were gold. Wolf-gold.
A shifter.
One of the northern-folk.
She snarled as one of the mercenaries reached for her and snapped forward like lightning, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh of his wrist. He screamed, staggering back. Another moved in and struck her across the face.
"Still wild," someone muttered.
"Not for long," said another. "Hold her still."
Diamande's stomach coiled as he watched. They pinned her to the cold floor, three men barely able to restrain her strength. One of the owners, his robes dark and stinking of scented oils, stepped forward and knelt beside her. From his sash, he withdrew a slender brand – no larger than a finger's length. Its tip glowed blue with suppressed flame.
"No," Rubi breathed beside him, her voice tight.
The girl screamed – not from fear, but defiance. Her voice echoed in the chamber like the howl of her kin.
Then the brand touched her forehead.
Her body arched violently, her eyes rolling back. The scent of scorched flesh filled the room, and when it was done, the sigil glowed faintly in the centre of her brow – black as pitch, a suppression mark. Her trace would now be hidden from any tracking spell, any scrying glass. A ghost to the outside world.
"She'll be ready in a couple weeks," one of the guards grunted, wiping sweat from his brow.
They pried her mouth open, forcing a vial between her teeth. The nightrose. Black and glistening. Diamande didn't look away as they poured it down her throat.
The fire in her eyes dulled. Slowly. Painfully.
Diamande's hands clenched at his sides.
"They say she killed two men before we caught her," the overseer said proudly, turning to him. "But she'll fetch a high price, my lord. Maybe your taste leans more to the exotic, hmm?"
He offered a lazy smile. "Perhaps."
They didn't question. They never did. To them, he was one of their greatest patrons. A lord with deep pockets and a deeper appetite. They had no idea what he truly did with the girls.
They didn't know they were losing them.
One by one.
They left the girl writhing in a haze of induced calm, the brand still smouldering faintly against her skin. The Den's guards dragged her away – she would be locked in the lower cells until her conditioning began.
Diamande and Rubi were escorted back to the main lounge, where velvet curtains and golden lamps attempted to cover the filth with illusion. The air was thick with perfume and something far more acrid beneath. Music drifted from a corner harp, and laughter – hollow and glassy – bubbled from patrons lounging on silken cushions.
Rubi followed him in silence, but the moment they reached a quiet alcove, she turned on him.
"Why did you bring me here tonight?" she asked, her voice low and sharp.
Diamande leaned against the carved marble railing and looked out over the room, his eyes scanning the seated figures below.
"There's someone I needed you to see," he said quietly. "Someone I can't identify without confirmation."
Rubi narrowed her crimson eyes. "And what do you expect me to do? Stare into every patron's soul until something clicks?"
"No," he murmured. "Just one."
And then he walked in.
Sir Dustan.
The illustrious King's Champion.
Broad-shouldered and proud, his armour exchanged for polished silks, a golden lion clasp at his throat. He looked like a man at ease, offering nods and smiles to those who recognized him. A hero of Narnia. A symbol of loyalty.
Diamande didn't speak, didn't gesture. He merely let Rubi's gaze follow the shifting crowd – until it landed on him.
He saw the moment she found him. Her entire body stiffened. Like a bow drawn taut.
Her crimson eyes sharpened, hard as glass in firelight. Her lips parted, breath catching, and her hands clenched tightly at her sides.
"That's him," she said, voice like flint. "The one who chained me and cast me into the lower dungeons."
Diamande exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the music and murmur of the room. He'd suspected. The timing, the secrecy, the Den's increasing confidence – he'd needed proof.
And now he had it.
Sir Dustan.
The King's Champion.
He was Emerylda's ally. Who had known somehow that Rubi needed to be apprehended before she spoke to the king.
Of course, he was more than just a patron of that depraved place. He was part of the web. He had to know.
"He knows something," Diamande said, more to himself than Rubi. "About the operations. About Emerylda."
Rubi's gaze was still fixed on Dustan, her hands trembling now, though she forced them to stillness. Her voice was ragged when she spoke.
"I'll kill him."
"Not yet," Diamande replied, his voice a thread of steel. "We need what he knows. We need every name, every corridor, every tunnel—before we bring the Den to its knees."
He turned, eyes meeting hers. "But when it's done, Rubi… I'll let you be the one to end him."
She didn't answer.
But her silence said enough.
They watched Sir Dustan laugh, oblivious to the eyes burning into his back.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
Emerylda.
Emerylda rode at the head of the column as they descended into the winding stone caverns of Underland. The fire in her blood had not yet cooled, but she was no longer aflame—her fury, though still potent, had been tucked neatly beneath her skin like a dagger in a sheath.
Sapphyre sat before Rilian in the saddle behind her, her body slumped but breathing steadily. Emerylda had allowed it – she had not even considered an objection. Let the prince play nursemaid if he wished. Her sister had returned to her, and that was all that mattered.
The Silver Chair travelled with them, sealed in a cart drawn by silent earthmen. Emerylda felt its hum – like the distant purr of some great beast. It intrigued her, more than she cared to admit. How had it bound Sapphyre, even for a time? How had it drawn forth such overwhelming power from herself, so far from the Heart?
She stared forward, lost in thought, one hand trailing over the carved pommel of her saddle.
"We should destroy it," Rois said from beside her – for he had waited with the earthmen at the tunnels entrance. His tone was quiet, but edged with steel.
Emerylda didn't answer.
He tried again. "Your sister—"
"My sister," she cut in, her voice silk-wrapped iron, "is not your concern."
"She's dangerous," Rois persisted, earning a sharp look. "You saw what happened in the witch-city. You don't control her. Not anymore."
Emerylda only smiled, slow and assured.
"I have never controlled her," she said. "And I've never needed to."
She flicked her eyes toward the trail ahead, the glow of Underland's strange light blooming in the distance. "Sapphyre is loyal. She proved that long ago. She bled for me. Killed for me. Endured exile for me. She would lay down her life for me if I asked."
Rois was silent a long moment.
"You sound certain," he murmured.
Emerylda's smile deepened. "Because I am."
They rode on in silence.
Behind them, the Chair pulsed once – quiet, and waiting.
