Underland. The Dark City.

2353.

50th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Sapphyre.

The blood on her knuckles wasn't hers.

Not yet.

The ring smelled of sweat, smoke, and old metal – iron chains clinking above the pit, torches guttering in sconces cut into damp stone walls. The crowd loomed in shadow, roaring for blood, for fury, for something savage to stir the darkness in them.

Sapphyre gave it to them.

She twisted, ducked, drove her elbow into her opponent's ribs. Bone cracked. He reeled back with a grunt, and she followed – fist, knee, open palm. Precise. Punishing. Primal.

Her body moved like it remembered what her mind was trying to forget.

She didn't care who they paired her with anymore. The moment she stepped into the pit, her mind went silent. All the pain, all the noise, all the images of him in the Silver Chair – eyes blank, mouth silent, his soul leashed to her sister's will – vanished under the weight of fists and flame.

He had looked at her until the very end.

Until her sister's enchantment swallowed him whole.

Her heart had cracked open like glass under a boot.

And so, she fought.

Her magic pulsed beneath her skin, aching to be used, but she kept it in check. Let the violence come from muscle and bone, not power. Not yet.

She caught her opponent's blade between her hands – bare, bleeding – and twisted it free. Slammed the hilt into his temple. He fell, groaning, twitching.

The crowd roared.

Sapphyre didn't raise her arms.

She stood over the fallen body, chest heaving, blood dripping down her wrists, her braid half-unravelled. The torches flickered blue where they should've burned gold.

No one approached her.

Not even the pit masters.

She left the ring without a word, shoulders taut, eyes dark and unseeing. She ignored the offered towel, the whispered congratulations, the coin purses pressed into her palm.

They thought she fought for glory.

But she fought to feel.

To bleed, so she wouldn't shatter.

And to remember who she was before Emerylda's unseen chains, before the Chair had claimed Rilian's mind.

If she kept fighting, she told herself, she wouldn't forget.

She sat on the cold bench. The weight in her chest hadn't lessened.

Acastin appeared silently, kneeling before her with a cloth and a small vial of balm. His face was carved from stone, but his hands were steady, practiced.

He didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

He cleaned the blood away carefully, wrapping her bruised knuckles in linen. Each pass of the cloth stung, but it grounded her.

She had trusted him for years. Since their first days in Underland, when war and rebellion were just whispered possibilities, and Sapphyre had been nothing but a sword in her sister's hand.

Now she was something else.

Still sharp.

But not Emerylda's.

Not anymore.

Were the knights hers? Or her sisters?

"She's sending fewer of us to the surface," Acastin murmured finally, his voice low, just for her. "More dryads were taken."

Sapphyre's eyes snapped up.

"How many?"

"Three more. From the western tunnels." His jaw clenched. "Co-ordinated."

Bandits. No. Not just bandits.

The same ones who took Neve.

She knew it.

Her fists curled, tendons pressing against the fresh bandages. She swallowed down the fury, the rise of blue fire that simmered at her fingertips.

"And the escort duties?" she asked quietly.

"Stripped," he said. "Queensguard only. No more rotations for the knights. No scouts. Just... them."

A shadow fell over the corridor.

Petra and Vasas appeared behind Acastin, both tall, both silent. Their armour was marked with fresh dirt and scratched leather – the look of soldiers who'd seen too much and been ordered to do nothing. The worry on Petra's face was plain, creased into her brow. Vasas stood stiffer, his hand never far from the hilt at his belt.

"They're cutting us out," Petra said. "One inch at a time."

"First the scouts," Vasas added. "Then the tunnel posts. Now the merchant routes. There's no one watching the surface anymore but them."

Sapphyre's throat went dry. She stood, ignoring the ache in her ribs, in her legs.

They were isolating them.

Blinding them.

Emerylda was closing the fist.

Sapphyre looked to the stone ceiling, as if she could see the winding paths of Underland rising above them, the ancient roads of roots and shadow and magic.

The people of Underland. Her people.

They were being left unprotected.

And she knew it in her bones – knew – that the danger from above was no longer the only threat.

Sapphyre looked back down at Acastin, at the worry he tried not to show. At Petra, whose fists trembled at her sides. At Vasas, who stood silent like a blade ready to be drawn.

"I'll handle it," she said softly. "I'll find them."

"And Rilian?" Acastin asked carefully, his voice nearly breaking.

She turned away, just enough that they couldn't see her eyes.

"Emerylda may have the throne," she said. "She may even have his mind."

Her magic sparked, blue fire curling against her skin like a warning.

"But she does not have everything."

Not yet.

Cair Paravel. The Den.

Neve.

She pressed her fingers against the bars of the cage, her breath coming in slow, shallow gasps.

The thirst curled through her, a need that burned just beneath her skin.

She had tried to ignore it, had tried to push through the ache in her bones, the crawling sensation under her skin. But when they came with the drinks, with the glittering gold liquid mixed with that fine black powder, she could not stop herself from reaching for it.

She did not know what it was.

Only that it made the world soft. That it took away the sharp edges of her thoughts, the weight of longing, the cold truth of her captivity.

She needed it.

Neve curled her fingers around the bars, staring out at the dimly lit room.

The cages were lined against the walls, each one barely big enough for a body to stretch out fully. The air smelled of perfume and incense, but beneath it, she could smell the iron tang of chains, the lingering scent of sea-salt from the selkie, the damp earthiness of the dryad.

Nilia was curled on her side, her delicate features slack in uneasy sleep.

Neve had learned her name not long after she had arrived. The dryad had whispered it to her through the bars, her voice no louder than the rustle of leaves. She was from Underland, but Neve did not know her face.

She did not speak of how she had come to be there.

None of them did.

On Neve's other side, Tera – the selkie – sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, staring blankly at the far wall. The bars of the cage kept her landbound.

No water. No ocean. No escape.

Neve had once asked her what it was like, the sea.

Tera had only blinked at her, slow and tired.

"I can't remember," she had murmured.

Neve thought that was the worst of it.

Not the cages. Not the chains.

Forgetting.

Forgetting what it had been like to be free.

She swallowed hard, pressing her forehead to the bars.

She could not forget.

She would not.

She knew Sapphyre would come for her.

And she clung to that thought.

If she forget everything else, she would make sure she remembered that name.

Sapphyre would save her.

Underland. The Dark City.

Sapphyre.

The throne room of Underland was carved from obsidian and onyx, a cathedral of stone and shadow. The Heart pulsed faintly in the chamber behind the dais, its glow muted like a heartbeat underwater.

Sapphyre stepped onto the polished floor, her boots silent against the shimmering surface. Her armour was plain – she wore nothing but her leather armour with muted grey clothing beneath. Her hair was braided simply, away from her face. Her eyes, though, burned bright and unyielding.

She had not asked for her torn cloak to be returned to her.

Emerylda sat the throne as if she never intended to leave it.

And perhaps she didn't.

Crowned in silver and veiled in silk the colour of storm clouds, Emerylda looked every inch the ruler of the underworld. At her side stood Rilian – silent, unmoving, encased in pitch-black armour chased with iridescent markings that shimmered faintly with enchantment.

A helmed knight in a dream.

Or a nightmare.

Sapphyre didn't flinch. Not even when Rilian's gaze flicked to her and held.

His eyes, once full of stars, were empty.

Still. Distant.

She bowed low, then rose without waiting to be dismissed.

"I must leave," she said, voice steady. "I must depart the city. There are matters beyond the Deep Gates I must tend to."

Emerylda tilted her head. "Heartsick, sister?" she said, almost kindly. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

Sapphyre's mouth twitched at the corner. "I'm pragmatic, not fragile."

Emerylda stood then, descending the shallow steps of the dais like smoke flowing downhill. She stepped close – too close – and cupped Sapphyre's cheek as she had before everything.

"Sister," Emerylda said softly, "you always knew the plan."

To enchant Rilian.

Sapphyre didn't flinch. "I knew you would never change your plan. Not even for me."

Emerylda's eyes narrowed. Probing. Searching.

"Duty is not meant to change," she said. "It is meant to be fulfilled. And yours, sweet sister, is clear. You will do what must be done."

Sapphyre met her gaze evenly.

"Yes," she said. "I will."

A pause.

"I always have."

Emerylda searched her for a flicker of rebellion, a crack in the mask.

She found none.

With a faint sigh, Emerylda turned back toward the throne, her silken train whispering behind her like a winding river of shadows. "Then go," she said over her shoulder. "Take your time. Grieve him, if you must."

Sapphyre turned on her heel and walked away. Past the frozen figure of Rilian. Past the guards. Past the echoing doors.

She did not look back.

And in her chest, her heart was not yet ash.

It was flame.

Quiet, patient, and waiting to burn.