Cair Paravel.
2353.
50th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
The clang of hammer on steel rang out like a heartbeat through the narrow alley. Smoke coiled into the air, thick and pungent, mingling with the scent of oil and scorched iron. The blacksmith's forge sat tucked between a crumbling apothecary and a shuttered spice shop – unassuming, but not hidden.
Sapphyre stepped inside, the leather-bound hilt of the dagger tight in her grip. Her cloak was pulled low, shadows pooling around her features. She didn't announce herself. She didn't need to.
The blacksmith looked up at once – grizzled, thick-armed, his eyes narrowing. "We're closed."
She stepped forward, her voice low and sharp. "You made this."
She set the dagger on his worktable with deliberate care. Its blade gleamed faintly in the forge-light, the curved etchings along its spine catching firelight like a serpent's scales.
The man stared at it. Said nothing.
Sapphyre's patience was a thread stretched taut. "Where did the commission come from?"
"I don't keep records of buyers," he said, trying to sound indifferent. But his hand twitched.
"You carved a sigil into the hilt," she said, her voice a quiet threat. "It's your mark. I traced it back through three different traders. This was no random blade, and you know it."
The blacksmith's jaw tightened.
Still, silence.
Sapphyre leaned in slightly, her presence ice over flame. "I don't have time for evasions."
A long pause. Then, finally, he muttered, "The order came from someone with coin. A lot of it."
"Name."
He hesitated. Then: "They said the funds came from… the Emerald Queen."
The name made her stomach turn.
Sapphyre's face didn't move. She locked down the surge of emotion, pushing it behind iron doors. She could feel her magic stirring under her skin like a caged thing, ready to strike. But she would not lose control.
She nodded once. "Do you still have the original order?"
"No." He shook his head quickly. "The messenger burned the parchment after I accepted it."
"Describe the messenger."
He hesitated again, then shrugged helplessly. "Hooded, black armour. Wore a silver clasp shaped like a serpent. Didn't speak much. Paid in full."
Sapphyre studied him, reading the tremor behind his words, the guilt behind his eyes. She picked up the dagger and slid it back into its sheath.
"If you remember anything else – anything at all – you'll find a way to get word to me."
The blacksmith gave a reluctant nod.
As she stepped back into the street, the light was beginning to fade. A coastal wind swept through the city, tugging at her cloak.
She didn't look back.
The Emerald Queen.
She knew exactly who that meant.
And it only confirmed what she had already begun to fear.
As Sapphyre stepped back into the salt-tinged wind of Cair Paravel, the chill of the sea air did little to cool the fire that raged in her chest. She walked fast, needing the movement to burn through the helplessness. Her palm still tingled where the Silver Chair had burned her – like the ghost of a wound her skin refused to show.
She hated that it hadn't surprised her. Not really. Not the enchantments. Not the twisted glint in Rois's eye. Not even the monstrous way Emerylda had weaponized the very thing that was meant to protect.
The blacksmith's forge still smoked behind her, the dagger heavy in its sheath at her side. The man's words echoed louder than the clamour of the square around her.
No wonder her sister had been so quick to dissuade her from chasing Neve's trail. No wonder there had been silence in the court whenever she brought up the strange disappearances in the upper tunnels. It hadn't been just hesitation.
She turned a corner and leaned against the worn stone wall of an old fishmonger's shop, breathing deeply.
It wasn't just about Neve anymore. Or Nilia. Or the others lost in the dark.
It was about her sister.
About power twisted into control.
About truth buried beneath layers of emerald silk and smiling lies.
And Sapphyre was done.
…
Underland. The Dark City.
Rilian.
The pain washed over him in waves – sharp, rhythmic pulses that set his bones alight and stole the breath from his lungs. He'd long since lost track of how many days, how many nights. Time had unravelled in the darkness.
But that moment – that burning clarity – was clear.
He remembered.
Everything.
The Silver Chair burned beneath him. It was like sitting in a throne of flame wrapped in steel. The enchantments gnawed at the edges of his mind, whispering false memories, rewiring truths. But somewhere deep within, the real Rilian fought to hold on.
Sapphyre.
The memory of her steadied him – fierce and brilliant and heartbreakingly real. He clung to the sound of her voice, the ghost of her laugh, the sharp weight of her disapproval when he'd done something reckless. He'd take the pain, the chains, the fire in his skull – anything – if it meant remembering her.
He had seen her. She had been here. He hadn't imagined it.
She had reached for him.
The scream he hadn't been able to make then built inside him now, clawing its way up his throat, strangled before it could escape. Because he had seen her flinch. He had seen her pain when the chair burned her.
They had twisted the enchantments. Turned protection into punishment. Turned her love into a liability.
He gritted his teeth, breath ragged.
The enchantments shuddered in response, reacting to even that small resistance.
His body jerked in the chair, tendons straining. He bit down hard on the pain. He would not cry out.
He thought of Sapphyre's eyes – how they burned when she was angry. How they softened when she looked at him.
That would carry him through.
Not the magic. Not the chair. Not Emerylda's grip.
Her.
Her smile. That small, crooked grin when she was trying to hide her amusement. The glint in her eyes when she challenged him, when she dared him to step closer. The flash of her sword – the way it moved with her, as if forged for her hand alone.
He remembered the first time he had bested her in training. Her lips had twisted in mock-annoyance, and then in something else entirely.
And he remembered her laugh, soft and husky in the early morning. The warmth of her body beneath his. The way her eyes searched his face like she was memorizing him.
He remembered their first night. The hesitant touch turned confident. The breathless gasps against his throat. Her hands anchoring him to the world.
He remembered the feel of her curls splayed across his chest, the weight of her body pressed to his, the heat of her mouth and the softness of her sighs.
That memory – that love – was a tether.
It grounded him.
He would survive this.
Not for vengeance. Not for justice.
For her.
Because he would see her again, free from the enchantments. Because the world would burn if it meant she could be free.
He let the pain rise again, let it curl through him like smoke.
And still, in the center of it, he whispered her name.
"Sapphyre…"
