Cair Paravel.

2353.

50th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Sapphyre.

The Market Square of Cair Paravel buzzed with life, awash in golden morning light. Stalls lined the cobbled streets, crowded with merchants hawking silk and spices, glass baubles and carved bone charms. Laughter echoed through the air, the scent of honey cakes and roasting chestnuts mixing with sea-salt and the tang of metal from the blacksmith's forge.

Sapphyre stood still in the tide of movement.

She had tracked the bandits' trail all the way there – up through the winding tunnels beneath Underland, through the bone-strewn valleys of the Ettinsmoor where the wind keened like a ghost, over moss-choked steps that led through the forgotten ruins of a kingdom lost to time. She had crossed the Shuddering Wood beneath a star-streaked sky, and forded the River Rush while wolves howled from its banks.

And now – Cair Paravel.

The place where Rilian should have reigned. The city where his name was still spoken in reverence. In mourning.

She moved through the square like a shadow, her hood drawn low, her boots soft against the stones. No one looked at her twice.

But she was watching.

Listening.

Searching.

But the danger had not.

She could not stay above ground for long. The safety of her people – those who still remained in Underland – demanded her return. If Emerylda moved against them, they would need her there. They would need her strong.

But she had not given up.

She would find Neve. The curious little Lore-keeper with eyes too wide and wonder-filled for a world like this.

She would find Nilia, with her sharp tongue and gentler soul, whose laughter had once echoed in the training yards.

And she would find the others – the ones who had vanished in the silence between patrols, between watch shifts, taken by the men who had pretended to be simple bandits.

They were not simple.

Nothing about it was, that much was for certain.

Sapphyre stepped into a narrow alley behind a weaver's stall. Her hand brushed the hilt of her blade – not to draw, but to remind herself it was still there. Still ready.

Just as she was.

Her breath fogged briefly in the shade, and for a moment, she closed her eyes.

"I will find you," she whispered, not to Aslan, or to the Heart – but to the missing.

To those she had failed.

"I swear it."

And then she slipped back into the crowd. A knight. A shadow.

A flame.

Underland. The Dark City.

Acastin.

The inn was warm, filled with the smell of mead and roasted meat, laughter crackling like firewood around them – but none of it touched him.

Acastin sat hunched at the corner table, a half-full tankard cradled between his gloved hands. The iron ring on his thumb tapped absently against the cup, a steady beat that didn't quite match the rhythm of the music or the pulse of the room. Petra lounged beside him, boots kicked up on an overturned crate, and Vasas leaned forward across the table, twirling a dagger between scarred fingers. Gwyneira said nothing – she rarely did – but she sat with them, silent and still, her white locks catching the hearth-light like a thread of moonlight.

They'd sat at that table a hundred times before. After patrols. After victories. After nights when the underworld had nearly swallowed them whole.

But that night felt different.

No one said it aloud. But it hung there, between the low rafters and the remembered songs, between the clink of tankards and the sound of a lute in the corner.

They were no longer the Knights of Underland.

Not officially. Not anymore.

The Queen's decree had come down like a sword. The queensguard would handle all patrols. No more independent missions. No more long treks through forgotten caverns and haunted forests. Their maps, their strategies, their careful networks – replaced. Dismissed.

They'd been told they were no longer needed.

His sword hung by his side, but it felt heavier than before. Not from the weight of steel – but from the absence of purpose.

"They think we'll scatter," Petra muttered, her voice low, her eyes fierce. "That we'll find work guarding merchant caravans or throwing ourselves into arena pits for coin."

"They think we'll fall in line," Vasas said, not bothering to hide the bitterness. "Smile and nod and hand over the tunnels."

Gwyneira's pale gaze flicked to the window. Silent. Watching.

Acastin took another drink. It tasted like ash.

"She's not coming back, is she?" Petra asked, softer now.

He didn't answer. Couldn't.

Sapphyre had gone above. Chasing ghosts. Bandits. Names on half-burned scrolls.

Maybe she would come back.

Maybe she wouldn't.

What they were without her, he didn't know.

But that night – the inn, his comrades – it all felt like the end of something. The closing of a chapter no one had asked to finish. Like the last ember before the dark.

They had seen what the queen had done to Rilian. What she had tried to do from the start. Acastin had seen the man's vacant gaze beneath the helm, had watched the brutal efficiency of his sword-strokes when he trained with the queensguard – too perfect, too detached. That was not the man they had known. That was not the man who had laughed with them by firelight or crossed blades with Sapphyre over and over.

Perhaps that was why she had left.

For all of them had seen the lingering glances. The quiet, charged silences between their Commander and the Dark Knight who had once been their prisoner – and then, something far more complicated.

Acastin exhaled and looked around the table.

They were all still here. Still loyal.

Even if there was no one left to command them.

They drank.

They remembered.

Because even if they weren't knights anymore, they had been. And no Queen's decree could take that from them.

The inn hadn't changed. Not really. The lanterns still cast warm golden light against old wood. The hearth still crackled. The scent of stewed meat, warm bread, and brewed spice lingered in the air like a memory that would never fade.

But they had changed.

Everything else had changed.

The door creaked open.

A sudden gust of chill air curled through the room, catching the flames in the sconces and drawing every eye toward the entrance.

And there she stood.

Sapphyre.

She lingered in the threshold for a moment, her cloak clinging to her like shadow, her wild red hair swept back by the wind. Her gaze swept the room, and for a heartbeat – just one – her eyes widened in surprise. As if the sight of them there, unchanged and waiting, hit her harder than she'd expected.

None of them moved.

Petra was the first to rise.

"Commander," she said quietly, half in greeting, half in question.

Sapphyre stepped forward, and the door closed behind her.

Sapphyre pulled out a chair and sat, her movements quiet but deliberate. The table remained silent as she scanned their faces – one by one, like she was counting souls in a battlefield. Finally, she spoke.

Sapphyre didn't speak for a long moment. The fire crackled in the hearth behind her.

She stared at the table as if it might offer her a solution – then lifted her chin. With slow deliberation, she straightened, meeting the eyes of her knights one by one. The steel of her presence returned with each breath.

There was no hesitation.

Something swelled in Acastin.

"We are no longer pawns in Emerylda's game," she said, her voice cold as drawn steel. "Her vision is not mine. And I will not follow it."

The silence that followed was thick and electric. Petra's eyes flickered with something fierce. Vasas inhaled, the weight of purpose rediscovered. Gwyneira blinked once and nodded – just once – but it was enough.

Acastin leaned forward, his voice quiet and sure. "What's the plan, Commander?"

And just like that—the fire in them rekindled.

She pulled out a chair and sat, her movements precise and without ceremony. No one spoke. The weight of her presence did not invite idle talk.

"Tell me everything," she said.

"The queensguard took over our patrols," Acastin began, voice steady, but tight. "Said our presence was no longer necessary. That we were a relic of a past command." The bitterness in his tone was a blade, sharp and unflinching.

Petra leaned forward, her voice low. "They've reassigned us to menial tasks. Scouting shipments. Counting bolts of cloth. We haven't been near the upper tunnels in weeks."

Vasas stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest, the worry carved into his brow. "It started after you left. Orders came down fast. Quiet. No chance to protest."

If they chose to follow her instead of their sworn Queen.

But Acastin had made that decision many years passed.

Her voice broke the silence like a whip. "The queensguard may have taken our positions. But they have not taken our honour. We will act as we see fit. We will follow our own path."

Acastin leaned forward. "And what path is that?"

Sapphyre didn't look at him. She didn't need to.

"The path of those who still remember what it means to stand for something. Not just for themselves, but for those who need it. Those who deserve it."

She rose from the chair, slowly, letting the silence stretch between her and her knights. The weight of command slid over her shoulders like armour.

She stood taller.

The flicker of the fire caught in her eyes, turning the storm of them into molten steel.

"I will find those taken. Neve. Nilia. Every soul lost to Emerylda's schemes. I will not allow her to twist what we built into something hollow."

No one spoke for a moment, but something shifted. A quiet, resolute energy passed between them like a vow.

"We're with you," Petra said, rising fully to her feet.

Vasas gave a single nod, his hand resting on the pommel of his blade. Gwyneira's eyes never left Sapphyre's face, but her silence was full of meaning.

And Acastin, his voice low but sure: "To the end."

Sapphyre finally turned to them all. Her people. Her knights.

Not relics.

Not forgotten.

Not yet.

Vasas stood up, his gaze hardening beneath the flicker of firelight. "You think we can take on the queensguard, Commander? They're everywhere now. And we've been cast aside."

Sapphyre didn't flinch. She turned to him, her eyes bright with that cold fire none of them had forgotten. "We will uncover what Emerylda has hidden," she said, her voice like steel drawn from a sheath. "She thinks she can manipulate the threads of power like a puppeteer. We'll show her that some strings can snap."

Petra's brow furrowed, her hands tightening at her sides. "What if we do find something?" she asked, her voice hushed, laced with something fragile. "What if we can expose her for what she truly is?"

Sapphyre nodded sharply. "Then we will make sure the truth is known. We will make sure everyone is safe."

They were quiet then. All of them. The air stretched taut with what her words meant. The risk. The promise. The shift in their bones.

Acastin felt it settle deep in his chest. They had waited. All of them. Holding their breath in the ruins of what had been, hoping someone would light a fire in the dark.

And now, here she was.

Not Emerylda.

Not the Heart.

Her.

He stepped forward, past Petra, past Vasas. His boots creaked against the floorboards. When he stopped in front of her, his voice came low, but certain.

"Commander Sapphyre," he said, "I would die for you."

Then he dropped to one knee.

The gesture was old, older than the city above them. A pledge made not in ceremony, but in truth. It felt like something holy.

For a moment, he thought she might speak. But her breath hitched – just slightly – and she said nothing.

Petra followed without hesitation. She stepped to Acastin's side and knelt. "I would die for you," she said, her voice soft but unshaken.

Vasas next. "I would die for you," he murmured, his usual grin nowhere to be seen, replaced by quiet resolve.

And then the others. One by one. Gwyneira, last of all, knelt in silence. But her eyes met Sapphyre's – and there was no doubt in them.

The room felt still.

Full.

Their voices echoed in the timbers like the memory of something sacred.

Sapphyre took a step forward, her hands outstretched – not to command, but to connect.

"Fellow knights," she said, her voice soft but unwavering, "I do not want you to die for me."

The words fell like a blade, slicing through the tension.

"I want you to live," she said. "I want us to live. Together, we will shape our future – not by dying in some noble, pointless sacrifice, but by standing together. By fighting not for the sake of a queen, but for the sake of what is right. For the future our people deserve."

She met their eyes, one by one, like a litany.

A vow returned.

"Your loyalty is an honour I will never take lightly. But if you are to follow me, follow me for the life we can create – not the death we might face."

She paused, the firelight dancing across the lines of weariness and strength etched into her face.

"I will not lead you into a death you don't deserve. You are all worth more than that."

Acastin rose, slow and sure. He felt the familiar weight of sword and duty settle back into his bones like it belonged there.

"We are not dead yet, Commander," he said, voice rough but sure. A flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips. "And we will follow you, wherever that path leads."

The others echoed their assent – not with words, but with the steady, silent promise of warriors ready to rise again.

And for the first time in a long while, Acastin felt like a knight again.

Cair Paravel. The Parlour.

Dustan.

The weight of the silver mantle across his shoulders felt like triumph. Everywhere he walked in Cair Paravel, people turned to look. They whispered his name with reverence, bowed their heads in respect, and raised their glasses in celebration.

Sir Dustan, the King's Champion.

He'd clawed his way here with blood and steel and charm – earned every drop of glory through a smile that could cut and a sword that cut deeper. The nobles saw the polished veneer, the gleaming armour, the gallant smirk.

They didn't see the blade in his boot.

Or the bodies he discarded into the waterways of the Cair, to be swept out to sea and feasted on by the sea creatures.

The wine had flowed freely in the great hall that evening, laughter ringing like music as the court celebrated some minor victory. Dustan didn't care what for. He was already half a bottle in, flushed and triumphant, basking in the warmth of adoration and alcohol.

He laughed too loudly at a joke made by one of his fellow knights, throwing an arm around a young squire who looked up at him with wide, eager eyes. Power. That's what it was. That's what he lived for. The way they all looked at him – like he was untouchable.

"Parlour?" one of the knights suggested with a slurred grin. A few others groaned or chuckled knowingly.

Dustan licked his teeth and smirked. "Why not?"

He needed something to burn off the high – needed to taste something real under all the ceremony and silks. The Parlour was a favourite of the upper echelons, though the Den was his true favourite. There were no expectations there, no pretence of civility. No polished armour. No speeches. Just warm flesh, willing mouths, and the chance to lose himself in vice.

He walked with swagger, even as the alcohol made his steps heavier. The guards at the Parlour barely acknowledged him, did not try to bar his entry – they knew who he was.

"Let's see what the Parlour has for me tonight," he muttered under his breath as he stepped inside.

He wanted something new.

Something wild.

A little thing to break.

The darkness of the Parlour swallowed him, velvet curtains parting like breathless sighs.

He was the King's Champion.

And he could have whatever he wanted.

Dustan sank into the velvet-backed lounge, legs spread with the sprawl of a man who believed the world owed him pleasure.

"Wine," he barked at one of the blue-coated attendants who swept silently across the floor. "Your best."

The servant bowed, wordless, and vanished behind the curtain.

His gaze slid to the center of the Parlour floor, where the music began to swell – low and haunting. A melody that clung to the skin like smoke. From the shadows emerged the dancers, dark-eyed and ethereal. Their bare feet whispered against the marbled stone, their bodies moving in perfect unison like water flowing through cracks. There was a strange reverence in the room as they danced, all watching with the same mix of hunger and awe.

But Dustan didn't see art.

He saw possession.

So in-sync, so trained. Their motions were too flawless to be natural. No Daughter of Eve moved like that. No freeborn soul had eyes that dark.

His fingers drummed against the carved armrest of his chair as he watched them twirl, his mind already choosing. One of them, a slip of a thing with hair like black silk and eyes like shadowed fire, spun too close to the edge of the circle.

He smirked. That one.

The servant returned and poured the deep red wine into his goblet. Dustan barely looked at him. "Tell the Mistress I want her. The little one with the silver anklet."

The servant inclined his head. "She is not quite ready, my lord. Perhaps one of the others?"

He narrowed his eyes. "She."

The servant hesitated for a fraction too long. A flicker of something passed behind his gaze before he bowed again and retreated. Dustan's smirk returned, a little sharper this time. He was used to getting what he wanted. And if they thought him too drunk or too stupid to notice the reluctance in their tone – they were sorely mistaken.

He took a long sip of the wine and let it burn down his throat, never taking his eyes off the dancer.

He would have her.

He didn't have to wait long.

Eithne, the lady of the Parlour, appeared as if conjured by the shadows themselves—her presence quiet, controlled, and cold as winter rain. She moved through the Parlour with the grace of someone born to it. Her dark silk gown shimmered with the sheen of obsidian, and when she reached his table, she didn't bow.

"Sir Dustan," she said smoothly. "I've been told of your request."

He leaned back lazily in his chair, swirling his wine. "Request is too soft a word. I'd call it a command."

Eithne's expression didn't so much as twitch. "Be that as it may, I am here to inform you that the girl you asked for is not available. That entire group of dancers is off-limits."

Dustan arched a brow. "Off-limits?" He scoffed, the drunken boldness sharpening his voice. "Do you know who I am?"

Her gaze darkened like the sea before a storm. "I know exactly who you are, sir knight," she replied, her voice like velvet over steel. "But the answer remains the same."

The room seemed to quiet around them. Even the music had softened. Dustan's fingers curled around the goblet. His smile lost all humour.

"You forget yourself," he said lowly, leaning forward. "I am the Champion of Narnia."

"And you forget yourself," Eithne replied calmly, unbothered by his proximity. "You may be the King's dog, but this is my home, and you are not entitled to anyone here."

He stared at her, wine-slowed thoughts grinding against the heat of rejection, pride flaring to life like dry tinder. Her poise, her lack of fear – it enraged him.

He slammed the goblet down on the table hard enough that wine sloshed over the rim. "Then I'll take her myself."

Eithne's lips barely curved, a smile that wasn't one at all. "Try," she said softly. "And see what happens to those who bite the hand that feeds them."

For a breath, they stared at one another. Predator to predator.

Then she turned and walked away, leaving Dustan simmering in the wreckage of his pride.

But his thoughts did not calm.

He would have her. One way or another.

No one said no to him.