Atlantis. The Heartland.
2792.
The End of the Reign of Emperor Beryl and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
Sapphyre felt it with every trembling breath, with every stone that cracked beneath her boots as she ran. The Heart burned hot in her grasp, pulsing wildly, its once-steady rhythm now erratic and frantic.
The palace behind her had collapsed in on itself, the great domes and towers of Atlantis crumbling into dust. Smoke and fire choked the air, the scent of ruin thick on the wind. And beyond it all—beyond the battle cries and the screams of the dying—the waves were coming.
The sea, once held back by magic and might, was claiming its own.
She reached the banks of the River of Jewels just as the earth beneath her shuddered violently. The once-pristine waters, named for their dazzling clarity, had turned dark with blood and debris.
And there, locked in a deadly dance of power and rage, were her siblings.
Emerylda and Diamande stood in the wreckage, their magic colliding in vicious bursts of light. The air between them crackled, the sheer force of their struggle splitting the earth beneath their feet. Towers had fallen, streets had been swallowed whole, and still, they fought—unrelenting, unyielding.
"Emerylda!" Sapphyre's voice was raw, barely more than a rasp.
Her sister turned, golden eyes wild, her braid half-undone, her hands trembling from the strain of holding Diamande at bay.
Sapphyre didn't stop running. She pushed forward, stumbling over broken stone, reaching for Emerylda as another violent tremor sent shockwaves through the ground.
"We have to go!"
Diamande snarled, his almost-opal eyes flashing as he threw another surge of magic at Emerylda, but Sapphyre was faster.
Sapphyre met his gaze, chest heaving. "This war ends here, Diamande."
The ground beneath them buckled. A deafening crack split the air as the river's banks gave way, the first waves surging forward. In the distance, the sea loomed – taller than any wall, an unstoppable force rolling toward what remained of Atlantis.
The city was lost.
Emerylda seized her arm. "Sapphyre—"
There was no more time.
With shaking fingers, Sapphyre reached into the folds of her tattered cloak, pulling free the golden ring she had sworn she would never use. Emerylda did the same, slipping her own ring onto her finger as the wind howled around them.
Sapphyre took one last look at the ruins of her home.
Then, without another word, they turned the rings.
The world twisted, and Atlantis was gone.
…
Cair Paravel.
2353.
50th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Sapphyre.
She awoke from dreams of fire and smoke to a reality of pain.
Her body felt heavy, every inch of her ached as if the weight of the world had settled on her chest. She winced at the sharp, searing pain that shot through her torso as she tried to sit up. It was as though her body had been twisted by some unseen force.
The scent of dampness lingered in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. She could barely make sense of the surroundings at first – her head was spinning, and the remnants of a haze still clung to her mind like cobwebs.
She blinked and tried to focus, her vision blurry.
Shapes wavered in the dimness. Cold stone pressed against her back, its chill sinking into her bones. The air was thick, oppressive, the dampness curling around her like a living thing.
Sapphyre exhaled shakily, forcing herself to breathe through the pain. Her ribs protested with each inhale, and the dull throbbing in her skull made her stomach churn. She reached up, fingers brushing against a crusted wound at her temple. Blood. Dried. How long had she been unconscious?
She pushed against the bed beneath her, trying to sit upright, but the pain intensified, forcing her to suck in a sharp breath. The injuries were not from mere flesh wounds; they had been inflicted with precision. Whoever had done this knew how to strike.
The room around her was unfamiliar, dimly lit with candles and the low hum of an old fire crackling in the corner.
Captured.
The word echoed in her thoughts as her memory began to snap back into place. She had been tracking the fleeing knights and mercenaries from the Den, pushing through the streets in the darkness of the night, only to be ambushed. She hadn't seen them coming—the attackers had been swift and silent, and before she could react, something had hit her hard.
She shuddered as the memory of the blow returned.
No. I must stay sharp.
Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the crude furnishings: a single, flickering candle on a wooden table, shadows dancing across the walls. The space was small, grimy, and without any signs of comfort. It had the unmistakable feel of a place designed to hold prisoners, not one meant for guests.
Her stomach churned at the thought.
A door creaked open behind her, and she tensed, her body instinctively straining against her restraints. She forced herself to breathe slowly, not wanting to give away any sign of fear.
A voice, smooth and cold, sliced through the silence. "Well, well. It seems we've caught ourselves quite the little fire-starter."
Sapphyre twisted her head slightly to catch a glimpse of her captor. The figure that emerged from the shadows was tall, with sharp features and an almost predatory grace to his movements. His clothes were dark, and the faint gleam of metal at his side suggested weapons hidden beneath his cloak.
She recognized him immediately.
The King's Champion.
Narnia's Greatest Knight.
Sir Dustan.
He paced in front of her, his boots clicking on the stone floor, his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke with a confident swagger. His voice was rich with the self-satisfaction of someone who believed they were untouchable.
"I must admit," he started, pausing to look down at her with an air of mock pity, "I had hoped for a bit more of a challenge. But it seems I've underestimated the strength of your resolve. It will be amusing to watch you break." He chuckled to himself, the sound grating on her nerves.
Sapphyre remained motionless, the cold stone of the floor pressing against her skin as Dustan paced before her, his confident stride echoing in the silence. There was no magic clouding his mind, no enchantment in his eyes. They were clear, sharp, calculating. And that, more than anything, sent a shiver through her.
His power was not conjured or forced upon him – it was something far more dangerous: ambition, self-interest, and a ruthless cunning that knew no boundaries.
Dustan's words dripped with malice as he circled around her, his hazel-green eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction. "My, my," he continued, his tone mocking, "the Green Lady will be very happy when I deliver you to her door. You look just like her, you know. I'm sure she'll be very pleased to have the culprit behind the vile attack on her establishment."
"You've been a thorn in my side, fire-starter," Dustan's voice was smooth, almost casual, as though the idea of torturing her or watching her suffer entertained him rather than enraged him. "But, you see, I'm not like them. I don't need to rely on tricks or spells to get what I want."
He stopped in front of her, his gaze dark and smug. "It was me who organized the bandits to collect the extra nightrose, to capture the northern denizens," he continued, his words dripping with pride.
Sapphyre's blood ran cold, her fists clenched behind her back as he spoke, but she said nothing, waiting for him to reveal more.
Dustan's smile twisted further. "You think I'm just some lackey, some puppet? No." He leaned in, his voice lowering to a soft murmur, as though sharing a secret. "I've been keeping my own path clear, making sure I'm positioned perfectly when things fall apart." He raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "In case my queen fails to enchant Rilian, I'll simply dispose of the prince. No matter. I'll marry her after Caspian is dead. I'll have what I deserve, and the crown will be mine."
His queen.
Emerylda.
Sapphyre's stomach churned at the revelation; his twisted ambitions laid bare before her. He was no fool, not even a madman. He had calculated everything, all his moves leading toward the throne.
"And you?" He sneered, stepping back, looking at her as though she were a mere insect beneath his boot. "You think you've disrupted anything. The Den? A small setback, easily dealt with."
Sapphyre snorted, her gaze fixed on Dustan as his words echoed through the dim, cold room. "She's spent the past seven years trying to enchant him; do you think she would give up on him so swiftly? For you?" Her voice was sharp, laced with the bite of disbelief. She could see the way his arrogance bloomed further with every passing second, as if he believed his scheme to be infallible.
Dustan didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped closer, his confidence unwavering. "You think I don't know that? But that's exactly why we need to act swiftly." His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. "One of the naiads told me of a prophecy. Of a Son of Adam and a Daughter of Eve, appearing here, in Narnia. If they arrive, they'll bring about the end of the witch. And if that happens, we lose everything."
Sapphyre's brow furrowed. She had heard whispers of prophecy before – ancient, cryptic things that had sent people scrambling for their own version of the future. And as she had learned, prophecies could be easily misinterpreted.
Dustan's smile widened, almost as though he were savouring the moment. "So, we have to take over before the interlopers arrived," he said, his voice low and cruel. "We can't afford to wait for the precious prophecy to come true."
There was something in his tone, something too self-assured, too confident in its victory. Her mind raced, trying to piece together his plan, but it was too late.
He took a slow step forward, eyes gleaming. "And don't worry, I'm not the one who will deal with you, as much as I would love to peel back those leathers and see what's underneath," he continued, his words casual, but carrying an edge that made her blood run cold. " I'm just delivering the goods."
Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the small pouch in his hand, the familiar shimmer of powder spilling from it.
Before she could move, before she could even think of using her magic to defend herself, he blew the powder directly into her face. It was as if the world itself shifted, the scent of nightrose overwhelming her senses in an instant.
The sweet, intoxicating aroma filled her lungs, and the warmth of it spread through her body like fire – except the fire was lethargic, dragging her limbs into the depths of darkness.
"No," she whispered hoarsely, but it was useless.
The nightrose did its work too quickly, pulling at the edges of her consciousness, blurring everything. Her vision darkened as her legs gave way beneath her. The world tilted, and her knees hit the floor with a dull thud.
Dustan's voice was the last thing she heard before everything slipped away. "Goodbye, fire-starter. Enjoy the ride."
Then there was nothing but the overwhelming grip of unconsciousness.
…
Cair Paravel.
Drinian.
Drinian moved swiftly through the dimly lit corridors, his jaw tight with frustration.
He reached the heavy wooden door of Dustan's chambers and pushed it open without hesitation. The room was dark, save for the dying embers in the hearth. The scent of leather, steel, and something faintly spiced lingered in the air. A desk stood to one side, papers neatly stacked, as if their owner had left in no hurry.
But the room was empty.
Drinian exhaled sharply, scanning the space. He knew better than to trust appearances. Dustan has always been three steps ahead. If he wasn't here, then where—
His gaze caught on the tapestry hanging along the back wall. Aslan, woven in gold and crimson thread, stood regal amid a field of stars. Something about it was… wrong.
He stepped closer.
The fabric swayed ever so slightly, as if disturbed by a passing breeze.
Drinian narrowed his eyes, reaching out. When he pulled the tapestry aside, cold air rushed over him. Behind it, barely visible in the flickering firelight, was an opening – a hidden passage, its entrance cleverly set into the stone.
The stone steps beneath his boots felt slick with moisture, cold creeping through the leather of his soles as he entered the secret passage-way. Drinian's heart thudded in his chest, a rhythmic drumbeat of anticipation, rage, and the bitter taste of unfinished business.
The Den had burned.
The captives had been freed.
His boots thudded softly against the cold stone floor. The further he descended, the thicker the air became, laden with an oppressive, damp chill. The scent of something foul mixed with the musty decay of old stone. Drinian's nostrils flared, his stomach turning as he recognized the bitter, cloying trace of nightrose – the drug that had been used to render a person compliant, their will stolen.
Rage bloomed in his chest, hot and sharp.
Torchlight flickered ahead. A faint glow, the barest suggestion of movement.
Drinian halted at the bottom of the stone stairwell, his breath quickening. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the familiar weight grounding him in the quiet, charged air. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
The room before him was dim, lit only by a flickering candle that barely illuminated the far corners. The shadows were thick, clinging to every surface like a tangible presence, suffocating the space.
Drinian edged forward and peered into the chamber beyond. It was small, a crude space carved from the earth, barely large enough for the narrow bed tucked against the far wall. Dustan stood at the bedside, his back to the entrance, standing before a figure propped up against the pillows.
A woman.
Even in the dim light, Drinian could see she was barely conscious. Her head lolled slightly, red hair tumbling over her shoulder in a wild, unkempt cascade. Drugged. The sluggish rise and fall of her chest was the only sign of awareness.
Drinian froze. His breath hitched.
He had seen her before.
Once.
A witch, he was sure. Why had Dustan taken her captive?
The woman lay motionless on the bed, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her face was pale, her body slack and unresponsive. But it was her eyes – wild and unfocused – that caught his attention.
Her pupils were dilated, too wide.
Her lips trembled slightly as if caught between waking and slumber, but her body remained unmoving. Even in her drugged state, there was something about her – a strength, a fierce will that refused to fade.
"I've been looking for you," Drinian's voice was low, barely more than a whisper. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, muscles tensing, but he held himself still.
Dustan's head snapped up at the sound of his voice. A smirk spread across his face, twisted with mockery. "Ah, Lord Advisor," he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. "How quaint to see you here. I would have thought you far too noble to enter my chambers without permission."
Drinian took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "What have you done to her?"
He gestured toward the bed, though he didn't take his eyes off Dustan. He could see the woman trying to move, her body fighting against the drug. Her breath was uneven, shallow, but there was no sign of complete surrender. Her spirit was still there, flickering in the depths of her drugged haze.
Dustan chuckled darkly, shaking the vial in his hand. "She's merely sitting here, Lord Advisor. Resting... recovering."
Drinian's gaze turned back to the woman, his heart tightening as he watched her struggle to break free from the fog in her mind.
The traitor was still speaking, still mocking, but Drinian didn't hear him. All he could hear was the rising thrum of his own fury, the sense of justice that demanded action. He wasn't going to let it pass.
Not again.
Drinian did not draw his blade. He wasn't a fool – he knew he was no match for the King's Champion in a fair fight, and it was hardly the place to test his luck – who knew what traps and tricks that Dustan had hidden. Instead, he stepped further into the room, arms loose at his sides, posture controlled.
"Not how it was meant to happen, was it?" he echoed, his voice steady despite the tension winding through him. "I'd have thought you'd planned for every possibility, Champion."
The knight stiffened but didn't turn. His shoulders squared, muscles coiled beneath his dark cloak like a predator deciding whether to attack. "You're wasting your time, Drinian," he said flatly. "Walk away now and I let you live."
Drinian didn't move.
His gaze flickered past Dustan to the woman propped against the bed. She was shifting, her fingers twitching against the sheets, her head tilting slightly as if she were trying to place herself. The sluggish rise and fall of her chest was no longer so deep.
Good.
He had to keep Dustan talking.
"Strange thing," Drinian mused, stepping closer but keeping his hands visible. "You run the moment the Den burns, slip into the shadows before anyone can catch you, and now I find you here, hiding. Perhaps you were never the mastermind behind this plot—" His head tilted slightly.
Dustan's jaw tightened, facing Drinian with blazing eyes. "You don't understand."
"Enlighten me."
A sharp exhale, but no answer.
Behind Dustan, the woman's fingers clenched into the sheets. Her breathing deepened. The haze in her eyes was thinning.
Drinian took another measured step. "Who is she, Dustan? What have you done?"
Something in the knight's stance shifted – not anger, not defensiveness. Something else.
Something like hesitation.
He'd been watching Dustan, but his gaze flicked back to the woman, really looking at her. The sharpness of her features, the high arch of her cheekbones, the proud set of her mouth. Her deep blue eyes, burning with cold fire.
A realization struck him like a hammer.
He had seen her face before.
And he had seen another very much like it.
"Well," Drinian murmured, tilting his head. "Now that I see her properly, I understand why you're so desperate to keep her hidden."
Dustan's expression flickered – just for a breath – but it was enough.
Drinian took a slow step forward, keeping his hands loose, as if he weren't standing on the edge of something dangerous. "She looks an awful lot like your mistress, doesn't she?" His voice was mild, almost thoughtful. For he would never forget the face of that woman. "The Lady of the Green Kirtle. Same bone structure. Same cold, sharp gaze. Same—" He let his eyes flick meaningfully to her fiery red hair. "—unmistakable presence."
Silence.
Dustan took a step back. Not out of fear – no, not quite. Out of shock. Out of something deeper, something raw.
Drinian saw the exact moment the realization struck him.
It was in the way his breath hitched, in the way his hand loosened around the hilt of his dagger. The way his sharp, calculating mind seemed to falter, caught in a thought he had never once allowed himself to consider.
He hadn't seen it before.
Hadn't realized.
Dustan, for all his skill, for all his reputation as the King's Champion, had been too blinded by his own vengeance, his own carefully plotted plans, to recognize what was right in front of him.
Drinian watched the woman, watched the way her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.
And then she spoke.
"My sister will not be pleased," she murmured.
That smile – it was wild, edged with something just a little unhinged, like she was teetering on the line between amusement and something darker.
Dustan flinched.
It was slight, barely there, but Drinian caught it.
The great Sir Dustan, the most exalted knight in Narnia, flinching at a few simple words.
Drinian exhaled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, now that," he said lightly, "is very interesting."
The King's Champion had taken prisoner the sister of his great lady.
Dustan's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.
But the woman – she only laughed. A low, delighted sound, like she was enjoying every moment of this.
And for the first time, Drinian found himself wondering – who, exactly, had Dustan been keeping prisoner?
And perhaps the better question – who had truly been playing whom?
…
Cair Paravel.
Sapphyre.
The nightrose still whispered through her veins, disjointing her thoughts, clouding her senses. But in that moment, everything sharpened, as though the drug in her blood only honed her focus. She had known she'd strike when the time was right, but the fact that Dustan had turned his back on her was almost too perfect.
She didn't give him the mercy of a warning.
Her body moved of its own accord – fluid, predatory, every muscle honed by years of discipline.
The first sign of her movement was a shadow – a quick blur of motion that made Dustan's head snap to the side, his eyes wide with confusion. But it was already too late. Sapphyre's fist was already in motion, the knuckles slamming into the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch that echoed in the small room.
Dustan let out a strangled grunt, staggering back as the pain erupted across his face, his hands instinctively flying to his nose, blood spilling between his fingers. His features twisted in a mix of shock and rage. He hadn't expected it – a woman barely conscious, a prisoner moments ago, to be the one who brought him to his knees.
But Sapphyre didn't stop there.
It wasn't about her. She wasn't angry that Dustan had captured her. She hadn't been frightened, hadn't felt weak or helpless.
No.
She was angry for the others.
For Neve, for Nilia, for the countless lives that had been stolen, twisted, and broken behind cold iron bars. For the desperate, empty eyes of those who had looked at her, pleading without a sound, trapped in a nightrose-induced nightmare.
Her heart pounded in her chest, a rhythmic thrum that matched the fury burning through her. The nightrose in her blood only seemed to fuel the fire, making her feel alive in a way she hadn't in a long time. She wasn't merely fighting for herself.
For she was a knight.
And she fought for the injustice Dustan had perpetuated, for the suffering he had caused, and for every soul still behind bars, whether they knew they were there or not.
She moved like a predator closing in on her prey, the shift in her posture as smooth and deadly as a strike from a serpent. Dustan, still reeling from the blow to his nose, hadn't fully realized what had triggered her anger – he had thought her a simple witch who had burned his Den to the ground. He hadn't seen that spark ignite in her eyes, hadn't understood that she wasn't a victim. She wasn't a prisoner.
She was the reckoning.
With a swift step, she closed the distance between them.
The not-merchant stayed silent, watching.
"Do you feel it?" she demanded, her voice low and burning with a dangerous intensity. "The weight of every single soul you've crushed beneath your boot?"
Dustan snarled, his bloodied face twitching with fury, but he hadn't yet fully recovered. His hands were shaking as he reached for his dagger, still desperate, still fighting to regain control. He tried to lunge at her, but Sapphyre moved faster, her foot kicking out and sending him staggering back, crashing into the stone wall with a sickening thud.
He didn't even have time to recover before she was on him again, her fingers digging into the fabric of his cloak, twisting, pulling him back to his feet.
Dustan's face twisted in agony, his breath ragged and sharp as he clutched at his bloodied nose. His disbelief was palpable, his arrogance faltering under the weight of Sapphyre's fury. "You—" he started, but his words dissolved in the air, crushed by the venom in her voice.
She didn't give him the chance to finish.
"You are no knight," Sapphyre snarled, her voice low and guttural, as though every word was a blade cutting through the falsehoods of his existence. Her gaze was a seething storm, an embodiment of everything he had done wrong. "A knight serves the truth, the people, and honour. You serve only your own greed. Your own corruption."
Her hand shot out, fingers curling into a fist, and the air around them seemed to crackle with her magic. Dustan flinched at the power in her touch, the air thickening as if it were ready to snap.
She slammed him against the wall once more, the sound of his back hitting the stone reverberating through the room. His breath was ragged, his nose still gushing blood, but his eyes were wild—frantic.
He struggled to break free, but Sapphyre held him firmly, her grip unyielding.
"You are a monster," she hissed, her face inches from his. "And no amount of precious titles will save you now."
Dustan's eyes flicked to the door, to the older man who stood silently, watching the scene unfold. His gaze darted between them, as though weighing his options, but he remained rooted, silent. Sapphyre's gaze flickered toward him only briefly, then back to Dustan.
"No one is coming to save you," she added.
Her eyes burned into him, the fury in them raw, consuming. She wasn't even thinking anymore, the rage surging through her like a flood. She could feel her power – her magic – rising in her chest, aching to be released.
She could end it all.
End him, with a flick of her wrist.
But something held her back.
She let out a sharp breath, feeling the wave of her magic recede, if only for a moment. "You want to kill me?" she taunted, her voice dripping with disdain.
The words hung in the air, taunting him, daring him. She was done with him – done with his threats, his posturing, his pathetic attempts to hold power. She was done with those who used wielding and flaunted their power through harming others.
Sapphyre stepped back, releasing him.
There was a part of her that wanted to end him right then – one swift motion, a release of the fury that had been building for so long. But something held her back. She wasn't like him. She wouldn't kill without reason.
She took a step back, letting her magic recede, her breathing slowing, her voice steady as she spoke.
"You have a chance to make this right. Kneel before your king. Confess your crimes. Be a man worthy of your shield."
Dustan's eyes darted between her and the older man. His body trembled, whether from fear or the pain of his injuries, Sapphyre couldn't tell. But the hesitation didn't last long. His pride, his arrogance – everything that had made him believe he was untouchable – rose in him once more.
His lips curled into a twisted sneer, and in a flash, he was moving. His hand shot out toward the old man, his dagger flashing in the dim light.
A lunge.
It was a desperate attempt, a last-ditch effort to reclaim some semblance of control.
But Sapphyre was faster.
Without thinking, her body moved on its own. She intercepted the strike, her hands wrapping around Dustan's wrist in a grip like iron, twisting his arm so fast and with such force that the dagger fell to the ground with a metallic clink.
The older man stepped back, eyes wide, watching the sudden shift in the fight with something between surprise and wariness, but Sapphyre was too focused on Dustan to notice him.
Dustan growled, trying to twist free from her grasp, but Sapphyre wasn't about to let him go. Her elbow shot up, catching him in the jaw with a sharp crack, sending him stumbling back, dazed, disoriented.
He recovered quickly, rage and desperation bubbling beneath the surface. He wasn't done.
He charged again, this time aiming for her with wild, erratic movements, his fists swinging as though he'd completely forgotten the dagger had been taken from him.
Sapphyre moved effortlessly, weaving around his blows, her body flowing like water, a dance of destruction. Her knee caught him in the ribs, her hand snapping out to grab his wrist again and twist it, forcing him down to his knees.
But Dustan wasn't finished. Not yet.
With a vicious snarl, he used his other hand to grab a stray chair and swung it toward her, the legs of it scraping the stone as it flew through the air. Sapphyre sidestepped just in time, feeling the wind from the chair rush past her, but it was enough to make her pause for the briefest of moments.
Dustan used the distraction to push himself back onto his feet, his eyes wide with panic, the heat of his anger blinding him.
"You think you can stop me?" he spat, his voice trembling with rage and disbelief. "You think your little games will make a difference?"
Sapphyre didn't answer him right away. Instead, she let her eyes flick to the older man, assessing him quickly, seeing the way he was standing back, his posture one of silent contemplation. She could feel him watching her, but she didn't trust him.
Not yet.
Dustan, seeing the brief flicker of attention, lunged again, a furious, uncoordinated strike aimed at her face. But Sapphyre was ready. She caught his wrist again, this time with both hands, twisting with a force that made him cry out. The sound of a bone snapping filled the room as he collapsed to the floor, his body crumpling in agony.
"Don't make me finish this," she warned, her voice low, cold. "Not like this."
Dustan, gasping for breath, his broken wrist cradled against his chest, looked up at her with a mixture of fury and fear in his eyes. "You… you'll regret this. You don't know who I am—"
"I know exactly who you are," she cut him off. "You are nothing."
