Cair Paravel.

2353.

50th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.

Sapphyre.

She watched the blacksmith for near two weeks.

From the cover of rooftops, from alley shadows, from behind market carts and steaming chimneys—she watched. Morning to night, dusk to dawn, she became part of the city's skin. Just another stray. Another set of unseen eyes.

And finally, her patience bore fruit.

They came at twilight, just as the city lanterns were lit – three of them, wrapped in hoods despite the warmth, their gait familiar. Too familiar.

Sapphyre's breath caught in her throat.

She knew them.

The bandits who had taken Neve.

They approached the blacksmith's back entrance like old friends. No need for subtlety here. The blacksmith opened the door himself, wiping soot from his hands, and gestured them inside with a nod.

She shifted into her bird-form – her leathers melting into feathers, as she drifted close enough to the open window to hear.

"—blade commissions fulfilled. The Queen's gold is good, and she wants more by next moon."

"We've got more," one bandit replied, his voice low and gruff. "A rare one, this time. Dryad. Hair like lilies, skin like dew."

Sapphyre's heart turned to stone.

They'd taken another. And they were selling her.

She followed them, gliding from rooftop to rooftop as they left the smith's and made their way toward the outskirts of the city. She dropped low, keeping to shadows, watching as they slipped into a side alley and into the woods where no one watched.

There, hidden beneath bramble and mist, was their camp.

Crude tents. Snares. Cages.

Her breath caught again as she saw the girl – no, the child – no more than five and ten. Slender as sapling, pale skin streaked with mud and bruises, but her hair… Her hair bloomed with white lilies, trailing down her back like a curtain of petals.

The dryad sat silent in the cage, her eyes hollow with shock.

Sapphyre's hands curled into fists.

She could end it there.

She could raise the forest floor, strangle them where they stood. Let blood stain bark. Let justice come swift.

But—

No. Not yet.

She needed the whole nest. The rot didn't end with those before her. It wound deep. Past them. Past the blacksmith.

She waited.

She followed.

The Den wasn't loud.

It was worse than that.

It was quiet in the way rot was quiet – slow and insidious. Built into the sunken bowels of the city, hidden behind a falsified storefront and two guarded doors, it was a brothel for those who didn't want to ask questions.

And it was where the trail had ended.

Sapphyre perched on the weather-worn lip of a gutter, feathers slick with mist, her avian heart hammering beneath her ribs. The form of a bird cloaked her in shadows, her mind sharp despite the shape she wore.

She'd circled twice before slipping through the narrow grate near the rooftop and into the rafters. From there, she could see everything.

The main chamber was low-lit and choked with perfumed smoke – clove and a scent she couldn't quite place. Velvet drapes hung like gauze over open doorways. Men moved through the corridors, faces hidden by shadow and choice. The guards stood at attention near the stairwell, their expressions hollow and unmoved.

And the women – by the Heart.

Some lay draped across divans, glassy-eyed and silent. Others leaned into patrons with dead smiles, laughter too brittle to be real. And in the corner, near a half-curtained room, was the young dryad. It was not Neve. But someone broken. Someone taken.

Still breathing. Still alive.

Sapphyre dug her talons into the beam, the wood creaking under the strain of her anger.

She would tear the place down.

She watched from above as they dragged the dryad girl into another room and presented her to the man there like she was nothing more than a parcel.

The girl didn't cry. She didn't scream.

She just… shrank.

Folded in on herself like a leaf withering in drought.

From her perch in the rafters, Sapphyre narrowed her eyes as the Den's doors shut behind the bandits. The man in charge sat behind a carved desk in the rear of the hall, its surface cluttered with parchment and ledgers. He wore a coat richer than the rest – green velvet lined in gold thread, the colour of moss after rain – and his fingers were stained with ink and oil.

She watched him flip through papers with the practiced ease of someone who had done it for years. Too many years.

One of his thugs murmured something in his ear. He didn't look up, just signed a sheet and passed it off to one of the bandits with a purse of gold.

"The Queen'll be pleased," one of them muttered as he pocketed the coin. "Gold's been better since that noble started buying direct."

"Clearly, he has good taste," the other bandit sneered, glancing toward the private rooms. "Paid triple for the selkie. Called her exquisite."

The man at the desk chuckled, low and cold. "Nobles always do. They want the rare ones. The untouched ones. We give them that."

Sapphyre's stomach twisted.

It was one thing to hear of the operation. Another to see it. The money. The trade. The pride in their voices.

She gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Her nails dug crescents into her palms.

Every word confirmed what she feared.

Not just a trafficking ring. But one endorsed. Protected.

Funded by her sister.

She wouldn't allow it.

Her wings itched to spread again. Her blade itched to sing. But still, she watched. Still, she waited. Because when she struck, it would be final.

And there would be no mistaking where her loyalties lay.

Cair Paravel. The Parlour.

Diamande.

The Parlour was dark.

Diamande approached cautiously, Tera clinging to the back of his coat like a child afraid to let go. Her bare feet barely made a sound on the stone path, and her grip trembled with every step.

But the door – he saw it before they reached it – was hanging crooked on its hinges, the wood splintered and cracked as though it had been struck with force. His grip on his staff tightened, senses sharpening. The scent of incense still lingered in the air, faint and sweet, but beneath it was something fouler. Fear. Burned silk. Blood.

"Tera," he murmured, casting a protective glance over his shoulder. She didn't answer, only tightened her grip.

He stepped inside, staff ready, light gathering faintly at its tip.

The once-warm main room was cold, deserted. Cushions scattered, curtains torn. Candles had melted down to stubs, long extinguished. The silence was unnatural. Too still.

"Eithne?" he called softly.

A sob cracked the air like lightning.

She appeared from the far corridor, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, one arm bandaged and stained with blood. Her face was streaked with ash and tears, but when her eyes fell upon Tera, her body moved before her mind caught up.

"Tera," she breathed, crossing the ruined room in a rush.

Tera let go of Diamande's coat just as Eithne collapsed to her knees and wrapped the girl in her arms, holding her tight against her chest. Her shoulders shook as she wept—great, gasping sobs that sounded like grief and relief and rage all at once.

"I thought—I thought I'd lost you," she whispered, rocking the silent selkie gently.

Tera didn't speak, but her hands clutched at Eithne's dress, and that was answer enough.

Diamande stood a few paces away, heart heavy as he surveyed the broken room – the place that had once been a sanctuary, now desecrated. Silk cushions shredded, lanterns overturned, a faint smear of blood across the floorboards.

It reeked of violation.

"Who did this?" he asked, voice low, dangerously calm.

Footsteps echoed from the corridor, light but sure. Rubi stepped into view, her crimson eyes sharp as blades. Whatever remnants of her former captivity remained, none of it showed now. She moved like fire incarnate, fury simmering just beneath the surface.

In some distance thought, he reminded her of Sapphyre.

"Sir Dustan and his knights," she said flatly, venom in every word.

Diamande's jaw clenched. He didn't speak, couldn't. The fury that sparked within him was cold, measured – but it burned no less brightly.

"If Rubi hadn't been here…" Eithne's voice faltered, the raw emotion catching in her throat. "I... I wouldn't have made it in time."

Her gaze lifted from Tera, meeting Diamande's with a fiery determination that felt like a storm on the horizon. Her eyes weren't soft with gratitude – they were resolute, a fire burning deep beneath the weight of her grief.

"I'm done with the Cair," Eithne said, her voice steady now, unwavering despite the storm swirling inside her. "I'm taking my pod and leaving. There has to be somewhere safe. Somewhere untouched by their filth. We'll find it."

Diamande's heart sank.

The weight of her words pressed down on him, settling like stone in his chest. The Cair had been a refuge, a home to so many, but now it was tainted beyond repair. Eithne's decision felt like the final loss of a once-sacred place, a place that was no longer worth the blood it cost to keep it standing.

He nodded slowly, the gravity of her words sinking into the bones of his being. There was no going back for her. No going back for any of them. The Cair had lost its innocence, and now they were all just trying to survive it.

Rubi, standing at the edge of the room, shifted her weight, her presence suddenly more pronounced than before. The magic around her crackled with an unmistakable energy, like the warning of a storm on the horizon. She turned to Diamande then, her gaze cutting through him like a blade.

"Enough waiting, Diamande," Rubi's voice was sharp, her tone final. "We end this now. No more delays. Every moment we delay, someone else gets hurt." Her words were like a drumbeat, calling him to action, and there was no denying the truth in them.

Diamande's hand dropped instinctively to the staff at his side, the cool, worn wood familiar beneath his fingers. His grip tightened around it, the steady pulse of magic from the staff grounding him, anchoring him to the reality of the decision before him. They could no longer wait. The longer they hesitated, the more the Cair would bleed, and the more innocents would fall to the whims of those who thought themselves untouchable.

He met Rubi's gaze, their shared understanding sparking between them like a fire ready to ignite.

"Then we begin," he said, his voice low, steady. The weight of those words felt heavy with finality.

Eithne looked up at him, eyes hardening, her resolve visible in each and every line of her face. She had made her choice. She was ready to leave the Cair behind, ready to find a place untouched by the rot that had poisoned her home.

And Diamande? He was ready to burn the roots of that rot from the inside out. There was no more waiting, no more hesitation.

The time had come to make a stand.

"Gather the pod," Diamande said, his voice steady with the quiet promise of what was to come. "We move swiftly. We'll find the safe place you're looking for. But we do this together."

Eithne nodded, her resolve unwavering. She didn't need to say anything more.

Rubi, too, was already moving, her movements sharp, purposeful. The fire in her eyes hadn't faded; it had only grown brighter, a burning need for justice that matched Diamande's own. She was right—they couldn't waste any more time. There were lives to save, and there was a war to fight.

Diamande turned toward the door, his staff glowing brighter as his magic hummed in the air around him, a vibration that filled the space with a feeling of imminent action.

They would end it.

Now.

Underland. The Dark City.

Rilian.

He did not know of sunlit fields or summer rains.

He knew only Her.

Emerylda.

The Queen of his heart. His sovereign. His reason.

She had told him of his place, of the enemies who sought to take him from her, of the traitors who called themselves kin.

He believed her. He had no reason not to.

Even as the chair he stood from pulsed with magic, even as something deep within him clawed against the fog, he believed.

She was his world.

And so when the child entered – small, messy-haired, bright-eyed – he frowned.

"Play?" the child asked, holding up a wooden sword.

Rilian blinked at him. Disdain curling in his chest.

"Play?" he repeated, voice low, cold. "Do I look like a child?"

The boy blinked, confused. Hurt.

Rilian's gaze drifted back to the door.

To the memory of her voice.

Your enemies will disguise themselves. They'll try to confuse you. Distract you.

He would not be distracted.

Not even by innocent eyes.

Not even by the echo of something lost.

He sat back against the chair's curve, the leather biting into his arms.

And waited for her to return.

His Queen.

His truth.