Atlantis. The Heartland.
2792.
216th Year of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
They had fled.
The Royal Guard, the sworn protectors of Atlantis, had abandoned their oaths, their honour, their duty.
Sapphyre stood amid the ruin, the taste of dust and blood thick on her tongue. The banners that once flew high over the city walls now lay trampled in the mud, torn and stained.
They had taken their chance, slipping into the night with the last of the royal treasury. Gold. Jewels. Wealth. That was all their loyalty had been worth.
Cowards.
She should have seen it coming. Should have known that loyalty was a fragile thing, easily shattered when survival was at stake.
A deafening crack split the sky as another tower collapsed, the shockwave nearly knocking her to her knees.
Magic, wild and uncontrolled, tore through the city like a living thing. Emerylda and Diamande's battle raged on, their fury given shape in fire and lightning, earth and wind.
They were destroying everything.
Sapphyre turned, breath heaving, as another explosion of power shook the ground beneath her. Across the ruined square, on the shattered steps of the palace, her sister and brother faced each other, their eyes burning with rage, their hands wreathed in magic.
A bolt of emerald light – Emerylda.
A wave of silver fire – Diamande.
They met in a violent clash, the force of their spells shattering what little remained of the once-mighty city. Walls cracked and crumbled. The marble streets were ripped apart. The River of Jewels overflowed its banks, its waters blackened with soot and blood.
Sapphyre wanted to scream.
She had fought for Atlantis. Had bled for it. Had dreamed of something greater than this endless cycle of greed and destruction.
But her people were dead.
Her city was falling.
A gust of wind whipped through the ruins, carrying the cries of the dying.
The world blurred at the edges as Sapphyre stared at the devastation before her.
A tremor ran through her fingers.
She barely noticed at first, too caught in the storm of battle, too blinded by the ruin unfolding before her.
Her magic.
It surged, untamed, unfocused. She clenched her fists, breathing ragged, willing it back – but it would not be contained. It had been caged too long, and in her fury, her grief, it clawed its way free.
Sapphyre staggered, her vision flashing white as heat rippled through her veins. Her pulse pounded, her heartbeat no longer her own but something deeper, something older – something that did not care for control.
The air thickened, pressing heavy against her skin. Dust and debris began to swirl around her, caught in an unseen force, rising higher, faster.
No.
She grit her teeth, forcing down the magic, trying to bury it beneath the weight of her will. But the chaos around her only fed the storm inside. The betrayal of the guard, the death of her knights, the sight of her siblings tearing Atlantis apart, the bodies strewn across the streets – it was too much.
Another tower collapsed in the distance. The screams of the dying rose in a deafening crescendo.
And then – her knees buckled.
The stone beneath her feet cracked wide open.
A pulse of raw, unbridled power lashed out from her core, rippling through the battlefield like a shockwave. The ground shook, stone tearing itself apart in jagged shards. The very air trembled, charged with the weight of something ancient, something meant to remain buried.
Nearby soldiers stumbled, some thrown back as though struck by an invisible force.
She could feel it. The Heart of Atlantis, its presence thrumming beneath the ruins, waking, stirring. Answering her call.
No. No, no, no.
Sapphyre clamped her hands over her ears, but the power roared, deafening, relentless. The stone beneath her fingertips pulsed like a living thing.
She was losing control.
And if she didn't stop—
The city wouldn't just fall.
It would be swallowed whole.
…
Underland. The Dark City
2353.
50th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
The chamber was colder than it should have been.
Not from lack of fire – there was a hearth in the far corner, its embers pulsing faintly like a dying heart – but because of what stood at its center.
The Silver Chair.
Sapphyre stood in the shadows, her arms crossed tight over her chest, as if her own body knew it did not belong here. The stone floor beneath her boots was damp, the air heavy with metallic tang and something different – something wrong. The chains embedded into the chair's frame were polished to a mirror sheen, as if someone had taken care to make them beautiful.
To make the cruelty presentable.
Emerylda had told her she was to stand watch that night. No guards. No witnesses. Just her.
"You were his protector once," the queen had said with a tilt of her head. "Perhaps it's fitting you see what he's become."
What you helped him become.
The words had slithered beneath her skin like snakes.
And now here she was.
Rilian sat slumped in the chair, his arms strapped down, silver clasps around his wrists and ankles. His hair hung loose, damp with sweat, strands clinging to his cheek. The lines of his face were sharper now – sharper than she remembered – and yet there was something boyish still clinging to the curve of his mouth, the angle of his brow.
He looked asleep.
But he wasn't.
Every so often, his limbs would twitch against the bonds. Every so often, his lips would part as if to speak.
Sapphyre kept her distance.
She didn't know if she was more afraid he would wake – or that he wouldn't.
And then—
"...Sapphyre."
Her name.
Spoken like a prayer.
A whisper drawn from the edge of a cliff.
She moved forward before she realized it, boots silent on the stone.
His eyes had opened.
Deep indigo pools.
They were clear. Too clear.
"Sapphyre..."
The sound of his voice nearly undid her.
She moved forward instinctively, reaching out a hand. "I'm here," she whispered, "I'm—"
The moment her fingers brushed the chair, pain lanced through her palm. White-hot and searing, like acid burning into her bones. She gasped, recoiling, her breath catching in her throat.
The burn left no mark.
But it shook her more than she wanted to admit.
Emerylda had corrupted the enchantments. Twisted the protective spells that once laced the Silver Chair into something cruel, something that recoiled from her magic. Something that punished her for trying to reach him.
She clenched her fist, willing away the phantom pain. Her gaze returned to Rilian.
He was watching her.
"Don't… let them…" he began, his voice rough, like stone dragging across stone. "Don't let them win."
Her breath shuddered.
"I won't," she whispered. "I swear it, I won't."
But even as she said it, she felt the weight of helplessness coil tight around her chest.
She couldn't touch him. She couldn't reach him.
She was a guardian, a warrior, a commander – and none of it mattered in that room.
When Emerylda had ordered her to watch over him for the night, she'd thought it was punishment. A reminder of her place. But it was worse than that.
It was torment.
To see him so near – lucid, himself – and to be unable to offer even the comfort of her hand.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Not here. Not where Emerylda might see.
"Rilian," she said softly, crouching beside him. She reached out before stopping herself, her fingers curling in midair.
His gaze found hers. He blinked, slow and heavy, like dragging himself back from a deep place.
"Help me," he whispered. "She's in my mind. She's rewriting me."
Sapphyre's breath caught.
"By Aslan, Sapphyre please," he said, his voice shaking. "End this."
He tensed suddenly, his body arching in the chair. The veins along his neck stood out like cords, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. A sound escaped his throat – half-growl, half-gasp.
And just like that, his eyes glazed over.
He was gone again.
Sapphyre stood rooted to the floor, her hand now resting lightly on the arm of the chair.
Not for comfort.
But because she needed the anchor.
Sapphyre stepped back, her jaw set. Her heart pounded like war drums in her ears.
She didn't know how much time she had before the lucid moments faded forever. She didn't know if Rilian would ever come back from what her sister had done.
But she knew one thing.
She would not be the silent witness to his undoing.
She would be the blade that stopped it.
The door creaked behind her as she turned to leave, every part of her body aching with the strain of holding herself together.
And then—
Rois.
Her sisters 'herbalist'.
He stood in the corridor, arms folded neatly behind his back, long coat immaculate. A satisfied little smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, as if he were a merchant unveiling a fine piece of craftsmanship.
"Well?" he asked. "Marvelous, isn't it? The chair. The way it draws out the dissonance. Emerylda was quite right to have taken it, I should not have doubted her." His eyes flicked toward the chamber behind her. "And he's still lucid, I imagine? For now. Such clarity is fleeting. But useful. For a time."
The rage hit her like a storm tide – sudden, unrelenting, righteous.
Without thinking, she crossed the space between them in two long strides and punched him – her fist connecting with a satisfying crack against his smug mouth. Rois staggered back, one hand flying to his face as he gasped, more in disbelief than pain.
"You fucking monster," she hissed.
He recovered quickly, blood on his lip, his composure already smoothing back into place like a mask. "You shouldn't have done that."
The shadows shifted behind him – and two Queensguard stepped forward, their gold-and-obsidian armour gleaming even in the dim corridor light. Their hands dropped to their hilts with practiced grace.
One drew his blade, the other stepped between her and Rois.
"Lady Sapphyre," the first one said coolly. "You are out of line."
Lady Sapphyre.
Not Commander.
Sapphyre didn't move. Her jaw was clenched so tight it ached.
Rois dabbed at his bleeding mouth with a silk kerchief, eyes flicking toward her with idle amusement. "Out of line? Oh, she's far beyond the line. Perhaps it's time someone reminded her of her station."
"I remember my station," Sapphyre growled, eyes burning. "Do you?"
For a moment, no one moved. The silence stretched taut, like the moment before a bowstring snaps.
Then Sapphyre took a single step back.
Not in fear – but in cold, deliberate defiance.
"I am the Protector of Underland," she said.
The queensguard didn't sheath their blades.
But they didn't strike, either.
And that was enough – for now.
Without another word, Sapphyre turned and walked away, her boots echoing down the corridor.
…
Cair Paravel. The Parlour.
Dustan.
The Parlour door shattered inward beneath the force of his boot.
The iron hinges screamed in protest, splinters flying as the heavy wood slammed against the stone wall. His knights surged in behind him, laughter on their lips, torches in hand, swords belted at their hips. There was no subtlety in them that night – only hunger and the confidence that came with untouchable power.
No one would dare to stop them.
He stalked forward, his cloak brushing the blood-red carpet, wine still on his breath, righteousness burning in his chest. How dare they tell him no.
The room stilled as they entered. The music cut off. Servants froze. A few girls scattered like startled birds—but the dancers, the ones he'd been denied, stood their ground. The selkies. Beautiful, dark-eyed, ethereal. Terrified.
He smirked.
"Where is she?" he barked. "Where is the whore who thinks herself above the King's Champion?"
No one answered, but the silence itself was an answer. His gaze swept the room, catching the way some of the selkies clung to one another, how a few of the more defiant ones lifted their chins. The delicate scent of salt clung to them, a reminder of what they were beneath their silks and veils – things of the sea, shackled to land.
A movement to his left. A woman stepped forward.
Eithne. The owner of the Parlour.
She was no warrior. Just a woman of fine silks and quick words, a keeper of illusions and pleasures. But in that moment, she looked at him with something perilously close to defiance.
"My lord," she said smoothly, though her voice was tight. "There is no need for violence."
He laughed. "Violence? You mistake me, Eithne. I am merely here for what is mine."
"She is not yours."
The knights shifted, their laughter curdling into a sharper kind of amusement. A challenge. Dustan let the weight of his presence settle over the room, taking his time as he reached for the dagger at his belt. He turned it lazily in his fingers, letting the torchlight gleam along its keen edge.
"Are you saying she is yours instead?" he asked, voice smooth as oiled steel. "Do you claim to own her?"
Eithne stiffened. "I claim nothing. But she is no mans to take."
His smirk faded, replaced by something colder. "And yet you sell them," he murmured. "These lovely little creatures. You profit off their bodies, their dances. Do not pretend at nobility, Eithne."
Her lips parted as if to speak, but she hesitated. He saw the truth strike her, saw the pain of it settle in her shoulders. That was the thing about righteousness – it burned, whether it was true or not.
Dustan stepped closer, tipping her chin up with the flat of his dagger. "Now," he said. "Where. Is. She?"
One of the selkies whimpered. A flicker of movement at the far end of the room, someone pressing back into the shadows. Dustan's eyes flicked toward it, and his grin returned.
There.
There she was.
Before Eithne could utter another word, he moved – swift as a striking wolf, stepping past her as his knights surged forward. The hunt had begun.
His eyes locked onto the girl as she darted through the crowd, bare feet skimming across the marble floor. She was quick, but not quick enough. The silver bracelet on her ankle caught the firelight, a gleaming beacon betraying her every movement. Dustan's breath came sharp, exhilaration curling in his gut. It had been too long since he had truly hunted.
"Catch her!" he growled, and his knights scattered to block every possible escape.
She twisted past a reaching hand, slipping through a narrow gap between the tables. A chair toppled in her wake, scattering fruit and goblets, the sharp tang of spilled wine perfuming the air. Dustan was right behind her.
The selkie reached the far doors, fingers grasping for the handle – only to find them wrenched shut by one of his men. She spun on her heel, chest heaving, those dark, drowning eyes scanning for another way out. No door. No window. No escape.
Dustan slowed his steps, savouring the moment. She pressed herself against the wall. His grin widened.
"Now, now," he murmured, closing the distance. "Let's not make this harder than it needs to be."
She tensed. A final act of defiance flashed in her gaze, and then – she lunged.
Dustan barely had time to react before she twisted past him, agile as a shadow. A spark of laughter, wild and desperate, escaped her lips as she bolted for the stairway. He snarled, spinning after her, the thrill of pursuit coursing through his veins.
The hunt was not over.
Not yet.
But then – there was a shift in the air, like the tension before a storm. His steps faltered as a figure emerged from the shadows.
She was tall, cloaked in dark fabrics that clung to her form like night itself. The hood was drawn low, but even so, her crimson eyes shone from beneath it – burning embers, smouldering and alive.
Rubi.
The witch.
The one the Lord Advisor had saved. She was a presence, like a weight that dropped into the room, sending a ripple of unease through his knights.
Why was she there?
Dustan's eyes narrowed. The air grew thick, suffocating, as if the walls themselves were closing in. His pulse quickened, not from the thrill of the chase, but from the raw power emanating from her.
She stepped forward with slow, deliberate grace, fingers twitching, already pulling at the threads of magic. The flames in the sconces flickered, casting jagged shadows across her face. And still, she moved like a wall of flame, blocking his way between him and his prey.
"You won't take her," Rubi said, her voice soft but unyielding, like the crackling of fire in a dead forest.
His lip curled in disdain. "And who will stop me?"
The witch didn't flinch. "I will."
He didn't back down. He had never backed down. The thrill of the hunt was too close. He took a step forward, his own dagger ready, eyes locked on the witch as she stood between him and the selkie.
"I do not fear you," he growled, the challenge clear in his voice.
Her lips curled into a thin smile, and her crimson eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "You should."
He sneered. "Get out of my way, witch. Or I'll see you chained again."
"I would burn before I let you touch them," she whispered—and then the room erupted in fire.
The flames came fast and furious, a wall of blue-white magic that roared to life with a sound like a thousand screaming birds. Dustan barely managed to shield his face before the heat lashed him. One of the knights behind him screamed – his tabard catching light – and another stumbled backward into the hall, swearing.
But Dustan didn't retreat.
He lunged at her, sword drawn – only to be met by a focused arc of fire that slammed into his chest and sent him crashing back into the wall with a howl of pain. His armour smouldered, his skin blistering beneath.
The fire wasn't just flame. It was fury. It was vengeance. And it knew his name.
He groaned, staggering, barely managing to roll away as the tiles beneath his feet cracked from the heat.
Crimson eyes met his once more – and there was no fear in them.
Only loathing.
Her power was no flickering, weak thing any more.
Something had shifted.
"You will never touch another girl here," Rubi said, her voice low and terrible, "not while I draw breath."
He scrambled to his feet, one of his knights dragging him by the arm toward the door as more fire lashed the room behind them.
"Retreat!" someone screamed. "Retreat!"
And Dustan, the King's Champion, fled.
Burning. Wounded.
Beaten.
For now.
