Near Cair Paravel.
2344.
41st Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Emerylda.
They had awoken half-buried beneath a thicket of goldleaf vines, the air thick with spring, the sky humming with blue.
Narnia.
Emerylda had known it the moment her eyes opened. The land had a weight to it. An ancient pulse beneath the soil. She'd been here before, long ago, when their world still burned bright.
Sapphyre rose beside her, brushing petals from her hair. "The rings," she whispered.
Emerylda looked down.
The world-jumping rings – set with glowing shards of Atlantean jewels – crumbled. The stones had disintegrated to dust, leaving only scorched metal behind.
But Emerylda felt it then – rushing through her veins, blooming in her chest like a forgotten sun.
Magic.
Weaker than in Atlantis, yes—but still present. Still alive.
She laughed. A soft, triumphant sound.
Sapphyre didn't share her mirth.
Instead, her sister unwrapped the cloth bundle tied to her belt. "I kept it safe," she said. And revealed the Heart.
The crystal throbbed with blue light – pure Atlantean magic, alive and unyielding.
Emerylda reached out, reverent. But the moment her fingers grazed its surface, pain lanced through her palm. She recoiled, hissing.
It had burned her.
Sapphyre cradled it protectively, eyes unreadable.
They wandered for hours, until they found it – an old tunnel mouth veiled in ivy, its stone rim etched with markings older than memory.
The entrance to Underland.
It welcomed them with a cool breath of earth and dark.
Emerylda stood at its threshold and knew.
There, in the veins of this new world, they would build something greater. A city beneath the surface. A kingdom carved from shadow and ambition.
A New Kingdom.
And the Heart of Atlantis would guide them.
But this time, they would do it right.
This time, they would thrive.
…
Cair Paravel.
2353.
50th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Dustan.
Dustan's vision blurred as he crumpled to the cold stone floor, his body broken and battered, his blood mixing with the dark shadows around him. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest heaving, but there was no escaping the painful reality that had come crashing down on him.
She stood above him, her eyes burning with fury, and he could see the merciless resolve in her gaze. She was relentless.
He had thought her a simple witch. He had miscalculated – he had underestimated her.
There was no escaping her wrath.
The pain of his shattered nose, the deep throb in his wrist, the searing agony in his side where she had wounded him – all of it was nothing compared to the suffocating weight of his failure. He had tried to strike back, tried to regain control, but it had been too late.
She was too fast. Too powerful.
She was going to kill him.
Dustan's thoughts were scattered, but a strange clarity washed over him in his final moments. He wasn't afraid of death – not really. But the woman before him, the sister of the Emerald Queen, had made a mockery of everything he had worked for.
He looked up at her, barely able to keep his eyes open, and in that moment, he saw something that made his chest tighten in fear. It wasn't the killing blow that he feared; it was the cold, unwavering certainty in her eyes. She wasn't just going to end his life – she was going to erase him from existence, as if he had never mattered.
"Go ahead," he rasped. "End it."
She didn't answer. She simply stepped closer, and he could feel her presence suffocating him, overwhelming him.
There was no escape.
But just as she raised her hand, ready to strike the final blow, something inside Dustan snapped.
He couldn't die like that – not with nothing to show for it. Not without at least leaving something behind.
He would show his lady that her sister was a traitor.
In a desperate, final surge of energy, he reached for the dagger at his side, the one he had dropped earlier. His fingers were slick with blood, his grip weak, but the blade was within reach. His mind screamed for him to act, to make this last attempt count.
He had only one chance.
With a strangled cry, he lunged, thrusting the blade toward her midsection in a final, wild attempt to take her down with him. The world slowed around him, his vision going black at the edges, but the dagger seemed to move in slow motion as it neared her.
And then, just as the tip of the blade was about to sink into her, his world tilted.
She moved, faster than he could process, stepping aside with an ease that mocked his desperate struggle. Her hand grabbed his wrist, twisting it with a force that made him cry out in pain. His grip on the dagger faltered, and it slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground.
He staggered back, disoriented, the dizziness and pain clouding his thoughts.
His breath came in short, jagged bursts as he tried to regain his footing, but his body was no longer responding. The fight had left him. The dagger was gone. And Sapphyre was still standing, unwavering, watching him with that same cold, calculating gaze.
His vision went dim as he tried to rise, but his body refused to obey. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat like a countdown.
"I won't die like this," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper.
But even as he thought those words, he knew it was too late. His hands trembled, his limbs weak and useless, and the air around him grew heavy with the weight of finality.
And then, just before everything went black, he heard it – her voice, quiet, but full of deadly certainty.
"You will never be more than this," she said. "A footnote in a story that's already been written."
His blood dripped steadily onto the cold stone, every heartbeat a reminder of how little time he had left. Dustan could barely see – his vision was clouded, the world a blur of shadow and firelight – but he could feel her.
She had bested him in every way.
But she had not killed him.
And that, Dustan realized through the haze of agony and defeat, had been a mistake.
His fingers found the dagger where it had clattered beneath his body. Pain shrieked through his wrist as he closed trembling fingers around the hilt. His strength was nearly gone. His limbs felt hollow. But vengeance – vengeance gave him focus.
As she stepped toward him, poised for the final strike, a voice behind her shouted—hoarse, urgent.
"Look out—" The Lord Advisor. Too late.
With a snarl of effort, Dustan surged upward, a broken, dying man fuelled by spite and the final embers of his rage. The dagger punched forward, his aim true, his will focused on one thing: hurt her.
He felt it – a sickening resistance, then give – as the blade plunged deep into her side.
She gasped.
Her eyes widened – not in pain, but in shock, as if she hadn't believed him capable of anything. Her hands flew to his chest, and for one stunned second they stood close, her breath hot on his cheek, the hilt of the dagger trembling between them.
Dustan's knees buckled.
His strength left him in a single breath.
But he had done it.
He had made her bleed.
As darkness claimed him, he grinned – a crooked, bloody grin that pulled at the broken bones in his face.
"Not… nothing," he rasped, collapsing into the spreading pool of his own blood.
…
Cair Paravel.
Sapphyre.
The world tilted.
For a moment, Sapphyre didn't register what had happened. There had only been the roar of her pulse in her ears, the triumphant certainty of victory, the shout – distant and panicked – of the older man behind her. And then—
Pain.
Sharp. White-hot. Blooming through her side like a sudden firestorm beneath her ribs.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her hands flew instinctively to the source, finding the dagger hilt jutting from beneath the curve of her armour, warm blood already trickling through her fingers. It was deep.
Dustan's final act.
Her knees buckled.
The strength she'd summoned – the fury, the purpose – it all crumbled under the weight of that single, desperate strike. Her legs gave way, and the edges of her vision dimmed.
But she didn't fall.
A pair of steady arms caught her, rough with age but firm with resolve. She felt herself eased to the floor, her cheek brushing the cool stone, the scent of blood and ash thick in her nose. The older man's face came into view – creased with worry, eyes darting over her wounds.
She recognized him now, even through the haze of pain. The merchant. No—not a merchant. The one who'd watched, who had listened. Who had waited.
Rilian's friend.
He pressed his hand to her wound, trying to stem the bleeding, his voice a tight murmur just above her ear.
"Stay with me. Don't you dare give him this."
Her mouth moved, but no words came.
The fire still flickered inside her. Dimmer now, but alive. The ache in her side was monstrous, but it wasn't the end.
Not yet.
Her gaze slid to Dustan's body, sprawled motionless on the stone. His lips still curved in that smug, defiant grin, even in death.
She would remember that smile.
And one day, she would erase every last one like it from the world.
The words barely escaped her lips, soft as a breath, fragile as a falling leaf. "Please, help me find my brother." She drew a pained breath. "Please find Diamande."
The man stilled. His hand remained firm against her side, blood slicking his fingers, but his expression had shifted. The cold, calculating eyes widened just slightly, like something long-buried had clawed its way back into the light.
"Diamande," he repeated, the name slow, reverent, disbelieving. He tasted it like a secret unspoken for too long, and for a moment the storm inside him was plain on his face. "Your brother is Diamande?"
Sapphyre's eyelids fluttered, her strength rapidly slipping through her fingers like grains of sand. Her body was heavy, her side burned with a fire that pulsed in time with her heartbeat, but she held on. Just long enough.
She gave the smallest nod, lips parted, eyes growing distant with the weight of blood loss. But she wasn't done yet.
The man leaned closer, urgency creeping into his voice. "Then you must be…?"
Her answer was barely a whisper, a thread of truth drawn from the edge of unconsciousness.
"Sapphyre," she breathed. "My name is Sapphyre."
He looked at her – not as a wounded woman, not even as a warrior – but as something far more dangerous.
A flare of understanding lit his face.
And beneath that – something else.
Something deeper.
Regret?
Hope?
It was hard to say.
Sapphyre's body sagged against him, her head resting against his shoulder as darkness threatened to claim her.
…
Cair Paravel.
Diamande.
Drinian had found her.
The news had reached Diamande only hours passed, and now he stood in the dimly lit chamber, staring at the broken yet undefeated figure lying upon the bed.
Sapphyre.
His younger sister.
The last time he had seen her, she had been wreathed in blue flames, her magic wild and untamed as the Den burned behind them. She had left him that night, chasing the ones who had fled, and now here she was – battered, bloodied, but still breathing.
Drinian had told him she had fought them. That she had ended them.
But the evidence of that battle was plain to see.
Her face was bruised, one eye swollen nearly shut. Her arms bore fresh gashes, half-healed by whatever magic still ran through her veins. Her lip was split. And though she lay still, her chest rising and falling with even breaths, Diamande could not help but wonder just how close she had come to death.
She had always been reckless.
She had always cared for others more than she cared for herself.
He wanted to speak, to demand answers, to berate her for her foolishness and to praise her all in the same breath.
But nothing came forth.
He could do nothing but stare at her, his throat tight with emotions too tangled to name.
She was there.
She was alive.
Sapphyre stirred, her breaths deepening as consciousness slowly pulled her from sleep. Her lashes fluttered, and when her eyes opened, they landed on him. For a moment, there was nothing but quiet between them. Then, a faint crease formed between her brows as she tried to sit up, only to wince.
"Lie still," Diamande said, his voice rougher than he intended. "You've been through enough."
She huffed softly, a ghost of her usual defiance flashing in her weary gaze. "Where is Neve?"
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Safe. As are the others."
Sapphyre didn't reply, only watching him. The silence stretched, thick with words left unspoken.
So many years.
So much loss.
But they had found each other once more – between time and worlds.
Finally, he spoke.
"I used the rings as well," Diamande murmured, telling himself not to look away from her face. "When the city was lost, when our people screamed as the waters swallowed them whole." He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "The remaining Priestesses told me to run. To take the rings and go, to save something of our world, anything at all."
Sapphyre's face paled; her expression unreadable.
"I stood by the pool in the Wood between the Worlds," he went on. "And I watched. I watched as our great city – our home – sank beneath the waves." He shook his head, his eyes haunted. "And then I was gone. The Wood took me, and from there, I stepped into another world. And then another. I wandered for so long before I came to Narnia."
His voice faltered.
"I lost everything, Sapphyre. We lost everything."
Sapphyre reached up, her hand trembling as she brushed her fingers over his face, tracing the burn scars that marred his cheek. The ones her magic had left behind.
"Di," she whispered, her voice thick. "I will never be able to apologize enough."
He caught her wrist gently, holding her hand against his cheek.
Her brother shook his head. "You were too young, Sapph. I shouldn't have pushed you. I knew the risks."
"What do you mean?"
"Mother wanted you to follow in her footsteps," he sighed. "Because you called the Heart to you as a mere babe, she knew you would have great magical aptitude – you had the potential to be one of the most powerful. She wanted me to test the limits of your magic. She, and I, thought that was the best way." He took her hands in his. "Sapph, you weren't wrong when you said the system was broken."
"Don't try to justify my actions."
Diamande met her gaze, steady and calm despite the emotions stirring within him.
"I'm not," he said. "I'm trying to explain mine."
Sapphyre's hands twitched in his, but she didn't pull away. Her eyes searched his face. She looked older, older than she should have. Not just in body, but in spirit. There was a weariness behind her eyes that hadn't been there in Atlantis – before the fall, before the pain.
"You were a child," he said gently. "I should've stopped Mother. But I didn't. I was too proud. Too blind. You lit the sky with fire, and I thought it meant you were ready."
"It meant I was terrified," Sapphyre murmured. "It meant I couldn't control it. That no one had taught me how."
She had been ten.
"I know." His voice was low, thick with guilt. "You were forced to wield power without understanding its cost. I gave you that burden."
She was quiet for a long time. Her fingers brushed lightly against the scarred skin again. The burns ran along his jaw and down the side of his neck – a memory etched in flesh. From the day her magic had exploded outward, uncontrolled and raw, burning through the very walls of the palace. A training gone wrong.
A test pushed too far.
But there was more he needed to apologise for. "I should not have interrupted the duel; I should not have denied the outcome of the Challenge. I am as much to blame as Emerylda for the war."
Sapphyre froze at his words, her breath catching as she pulled back just slightly to look him in the eye. The flickering firelight made shadows dance across her face, but her expression was unreadable – caught somewhere between pain and understanding.
Diamande drew in a slow breath, his voice quieter now, but no less steady. "I need you to hear it, Sapph. I need to say it all."
She didn't speak, but she didn't stop him either.
"She won, Sapph. You won. You defeated Father's Champion. Fairly. Honourably. You bled for it. They saw the Heart respond to you – it chose you over our parents – I should have said nothing."
Her brow furrowed, her fingers tightening around his.
He continued, bitterly.
"But I was afraid. Afraid of what it meant if Emerylda's Challenge was accepted. Afraid of what it meant if our parents were deposed. I thought I was protecting you. Protecting all of us. But I condemned you instead. And when the first rebellion sparked, when the factions began to form – Emerylda with her followers, Father clinging to power, Mother burning with paranoia – I knew I'd made it worse."
He looked down at their joined hands.
"The war was inevitable after that. We just accelerated it."
She reached up and touched his face, her fingers brushing lightly over the old scars.
There was pain between them – years of it.
But there was something else too.
Hope.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start mending what had been broken.
Drinian coughed politely, though there was little gentleness in it. "As touching as this is… why are you here? And not by your sister's side?"
The words cut through the quiet like a blade, and Sapphyre turned, as if only just realising Drinian stood in the doorway. Her eyes, still rimmed with the bruising shadows of exhaustion and old magic, locked with his.
"Emerylda has Rilian," she said, her voice flat with fury. "She has him bound under her enchantment – completely. He does not recognise me. He does not even know himself when he is under her control."
The King's missing son?
Her hands clenched, and for a heartbeat, the temperature in the room dropped. Her power pulsed just beneath the surface, raw and elemental, held together by sheer will.
"I cannot do this any longer," she continued. "For Emerylda, it was never about uplifting the fallen or fighting the broken system. But it was always about ruling for her. About power. That's all it has ever been. She used me." She paused, her voice softening into something bitter. "And it's taken me this long to see it."
Drinian took a careful step closer, his arms crossed, brow furrowed. "And now what? You walk away?"
Sapphyre lifted her chin, and there was steel in her gaze. "No. I may not be the one who can stop her – perhaps I never was. But I can help. I will help."
Diamande watched her, something unspoken tightening in his chest. She was not the girl he had once known. She stood like a storm barely contained, eyes bright with conviction.
"Are you certain, Sapph?" he asked quietly.
She turned to him, and he almost didn't recognise her – not because of the injuries or the exhaustion, but because of the depth of resolve behind her eyes. The softness was gone. In its place was something sharp.
Something final.
The knight.
"I swear by Aslan."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Absolute.
