Cair Paravel.

1010.

The Tenth Year of the Golden Age.

Arianna.

Arianna did not smile as Cair Paravel rose like a beacon in the distance. And though its spires were enough to inspire awe in many, always reaching towards the heaven, it put nothing but a bad taste in Arianna's mouth. For how could they live in such opulence when there were so many who struggled to get by? Her face, hidden by the delicate mask, was schooled into an expression of perfect indifference. Only those who knew her best would be able to glean even a hint of her thoughts by the tiny curl on her lips.

"Keep your head about you, my Lady." It was a warning he had given her many times before, and she suspected he would for years to come. And he was one of the few that would dare to counsel her, to almost scold her; for he had read that distaste upon her face. He had been one of the few who had actually voiced their concern at performing the task before them herself.

He had wanted to her send the naiads.

But she had belayed his fears somewhat; for King Edmund the Just, the only real threat to their plan, would not be in attendance that night. His distaste for all things frivolous was well-known and her scouts had informed her that he had been seen going south, to inspect the mountains that bordered with Archenland, and that he would not return for many weeks.

Their further compromise had been that he would be the one to accompany her. And the wolf did not take his eyes from her, watching her as closely as he would his prey. Those amber-yellow eyes glinted at her in the light of the moon.

But she was not prey.

Not to the werewolf who had trained her to use the daggers she had strapped inside the corset. The werewolf who had once been a General in the White Witch's Army.

He said nothing more and she urged the mare forward, a pretty thing the colour of seafoam, its steps steady and even. A constant in the magical land that was called Narnia.

She did not smile as they approached the gates of Cair Paravel, but she schooled her eyes into merry emeralds, shining like the stones they so perfectly mimicked, crinkling at the corners the way a perfect lady of the Court would.

She took out the invitation which she had folded carefully into the bodice of her gown; the lady it belonged to laying in a shallow grave many leagues away, bleeding from where Arianna had dragged her dagger across the slender neck.

…

Edmund.

Edmund sat in his chambers, a scowl upon his face, glaring at the mask that Susan had sat upon his dresser. Another formality, another useless display of wealth. Another opportunity for the useless air-heads that called themselves women to throw themselves at him.

Damn Susan and her love for parties.

To call him from his mission for this.

To call him north once more with a missive that deemed it urgent. Why had Peter allowed it?

He groaned, running his fingers through his already-tousled hair.

The mask itself was lovely; onyx and diamond embedded in the delicate metal lattice-work. But it was not him, no matter how well it matched his penchant for black clothing. The Just King let out another frustrated growl, tugging at his dark locks. At twenty years old, he was already sick of women and everything they represented. No, that was unfair of him. It was a specific kind of women he resented.

And unfortunately, the ballroom would be full of them.

"Ed," Peter's voice had grown deeper over the years, much to the delight of the women he surrounded himself with; but in that moment it was resigned. And Edmund looked up at his brother, at those summer blue eyes that watched him from behind the intricate lion mask. The perfect complement to his scarlet and gold tunic; on anyone else it would have been presumptuous to wear the image of Aslan himself, but not for the King. Peter the Magnificent. "Your thoughts show in your eyes."

Edmund shook his head, biting back the snide words as he tied the mask around his head, strapping to his belt the sword he never left behind.

For that night he would endure the endless chatter and mindless pleasantries. He would attempt to forget the whispers of attacks on their northern-most villages, where he had planned to go next. He would attempt to forget the naiads who had been leaving their springs unattended for months at a time.

For Susan.

He would attend the blasted party.

Though he would make no attempt to enjoy it.

Through the hallways he walked with Peter, though no words were spoken between them. His brother knew him well enough not to make any comments about the plain way he was dressed, the silver-black coat the only embellishment that spoke of any wealth.

Before the side-door they paused, Peter giving him a decidedly pointed look.

Don't upset Susan.

He did not need to speak the words for Edmund to understand. And Edmund pushed the small door open himself, their entrance unannounced. He would go unnoticed for as long as he could.

At the sight of the hall, he had to admit that Susan had outdone herself.

The hall was shimmering with a multitude of torches, hung from strands of silver that were strung across the pillars. Upon closer inspection he could see that they were crystal balls, with flames flickering inside them – had she found a friendly witch to cast a magical spell upon them?

Creatures of all manner flitted smoothly around the small round tables that had been set up near the walls of the hall, piled with a selection of fruits. The tinkling sound of the waterfalls underlapped everything, giving the hall a peaceful atmosphere; one that almost put Edmund at ease. The musicians played a light tune, the flutes and string instruments wound a delightful melody that floated about the room.

Entering with Peter had been a daft idea and he chided himself for his miscalculation.

And he turned to the approaching swarm of 'ladies' with a scowl upon his face. He could not even appreciate the bravery of those who actually stepped forward to speak with him, fluttering their eyelashes in a way they hoped would tempt him.

He did not glance at the pretty blonde who was chattering away to his right, leaning forward n such a way that he would have an ample view of her bosom if he chose to look.

Did the insipid fool not realise that his brother would enjoy such attention far more?

In fact, Peter was laughing boisterously amidst a cluster of females who giggled in return. He seemed to enjoy those fluttering lashes.

Edmund could not let himself relax, even after he downed the goblet of wine that Lucy had offered him with a small grimace. He could not relax while their villages were attacked, while more and more people were entering Cair Paravel seeking safety. Not when he did not know the name nor the face of their enemy.

The tactics were not any they had encountered before.

He felt the female with the fluttering lashes move away, onto a more willing partner he assumed, as he scanned the hall once more. Invitation only, Susan had said, to celebrate another year of peace under their rule.

A farce, he thought.

For though their subjects called it the 'Golden Age', it did not mean they had been idle in such a peace. Threats arose every few months. And so he had doubled the patrol for the night; if he were the one raiding their villages, a ball where they celebrated the peace would be the perfect place to make a statement.

And as such he could not dispel the feeling of unease that grew within him.

Perhaps he should dance, to give the impression that nothing was amiss; perhaps he would dance with one of the dryads who flittered through the throng of waltzing couples in twirling circles. Or with one of the wives of the nobles who would not presume his dancing was an interest in them.

No, he never danced.

Dancing, then, would let everyone know that something was wrong.

And so he scanned the hall once more, checking for anything his many guards could have missed.

It was barely a glimpse – startling eyes the colour of fresh spring leaves met his from across the hall, hidden behind a golden mask inlaid with emeralds and diamonds, as she wound her way through the crowds. Towards the dais upon which their thrones and Peter sat. He did not recognise her, yet at the same time she was eerily familiar.

Something flickered through those pretty eyes. Something akin to recognition. And fear; and her hands – he imagined – were clenched in her voluminous emerald skirts. She turned to her companion – a tall man with tawny eyes – nary a word was said between them. And then she was gone, disappearing in the throng of dancing couples, her companion in the other direction, his gait awkward and lumbering.

He had met women before who would turn their heads and pretend they weren't interested, in the hopes that it would interest him. But his unease flared and he knew, he knew, that it was not what she was doing. Those hands could have been hiding a weapon in those skirts.

And she had been moving very determinedly towards Peter.

And she had panicked upon seeing him.

It was that, and nothing else, that caused him to move away from the wall he was leaning against and seek her out.

That and nothing else.

It had nothing to do with the tempting curl of her lips as they had parted slightly, or the shimmering silk curtain of her hair, or the soft golden hue of her skin. Those things he had noted as he would anyone else, categorising her appearance to be analysed at a later time.

And she was fast disappearing from his sight.

She was fast.

Almost too fast.

Faster than any Daughter of Eve.

Which is what he was sure she was, for even at a distance and half-hidden by the mask, he had made note of the small dusting of freckles across her delicate nose.

He did not draw his sword.

And he would not, not within the hall with their guests.

He moved swiftly.

He would catch her outside.

…

Arianna.

Arianna wove through the revelries, through the open doors that lead to the balcony and the sweeping stairs that descended into the picturesque gardens. She hoped Maccon had found his way out of the hall, he had already been uncomfortable in wat he called his man-suit.

Her lungs were tight in her chest, her breath escaping in audible pants.

She could feel him following, though his footsteps were soft. She could feel him close behind her as she took turn after turn through those tranquil paths, lined with lovely blossoms.

Flames flickered along the pathway, in tall torches that cast small patches of warm colour over the moon-bleached flowers.

Dread stole through her as he followed her like a shadow in the dead of night.

He was meant to be in the south.

He was not meant to be there.

She'd not expected one so young, or so handsome. She'd seen sketches of him – dark and regal. And his stern expression had always given her the impression that he was more than a few years older than her.

He was not meant to be there.

She cursed herself for her foolishness, her heart pounding.

Her knives, tucked into her bodice, burnt like cold fire. Like the chill kiss of winter it sent icy shivers through her body.

A warm hand encircled her wrist.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage.

And he pulled her backwards, losing her footing, he slammed her against the nearest tree, pinning her hands behind her, the rough bark digging into her stomach and her cheek.

Fear gripped her.

Her attacker did not speak, but she knew it was him.

She could feel his warm breath blossoming over her cheek, over her neck.

She could feel his large hand sliding across her waist, across her shoulders and arms, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Chasing away the coldness within.

Everything within her screamed at him to stop.

But she could do nothing, helpless in his grasp.

Plink.

Plink.

Plink.

One by one the daggers fell to the ground, and though she could not see they she was quite familiar with the way they would be shimmering in the moonlight, like glass.

And then he spun her around, his face so much closer than she thought it would be. The mask discarded, she could see every plane of his face, those dark dark eyes boring into her own. The sketches her scouts had given her did him no justice. Unbidden a shiver ran through her. She could see why Jadis had wanted him.

That tousled hair looked heavenly to the touch, his skin soft, his hands rough.

Oh, how she would love to severe those hands from his arms for touching her.

"Who sent you?" That low, deadly growl sent shocks straight through her.

…

Edmund.

She did not respond immediately, and he took that moment to observe her as he had not been able to when he'd been chasing her. Then he had noted the length of her stride, the lithe muscles in her arms. The way her outfit could have been hiding any number of small, concealable weapons.

And he'd found them.

Daggers.

A thief's weapon.

She would have been Peter's type, with those wide eyes and small heart-shaped face; a classical kind of beauty. Those lips, parted to let her soft breath fan over his face, looked plump and oh so tempting, something painted over them so make them shine tantalisingly. The silken hair that cascaded about her, unbound in the style that Susan had made fashionable. But he could see past that, he could see the wry strength in those lithe limbs, the concealed tension, hidden by voluminous sleeves and lace.

She moved with the ease of a fighter.

The glittering daggers winked at him, made of a material akin to glass and eerily familiar, in the same way she felt familiar. He had never seen those blades before though, that he was certain of. Was she an assassin?

She was no true guest. No Narnian would dare to bring a weapon inside the home of their host, let alone the home of their Kings and Queens.

"So, Knight of Narnia, what are you going to do with me?" Her voice was soft and melodious, her expression demure. His every instinct screamed at him to protect her.

But his instincts had been wrong before.

"Who sent you?" His patience was wearing thin. He felt her shift slightly and he knew the moment he ease up his grip on her wrists she would flee, disappearing into the night like a wraith. "You weren't on the guest list."

"I should have been."

What?

"Perhaps my invitation went astray, I do live quite far away." Her voice was aloof, haughty, and sent a shudder of cold straight to her heart. No…

He glanced back at those daggers, glittering like ice in the dark grass. The design…the intricate patterns swirling across the blade and hilt. Like the wand he had broken ten years ago… "Jadis."

Her eyes looked up at his, a smirk playing upon her lips. Those dark emerald eyes seemed to be telling him something, whispering to him a secret that only he could know. One he should know. "Not quite, King Edmund." She said his name like a purr, a soft caress. So different from the woman who had fled from him in fear. She said his name like… "Arianna of Charn, at your service, my King."

Charn.

"Impossible," the word was a breath that escaped him.

The colouring was all wrong, all gold and dark colours instead of white.

But those eyes.

That same impossible green.

The haughty expression, the posture.

The White Witch.